No, you CAN’T Have my Number

I’m sitting on a hard wooden bench next to the wall. It’s sweltering hot inside this building. I don’t know why we don’t just have church outside under the trees, it would be so nice to be able to have a breeze.

            My throat itches. I let out a couple of quiet coughs, hoping to relieve the persistent tickle. It doesn’t work. I desperately need to get outside where I won’t be disturbing everyone with my coughing. I slip off the bench and make my way outside. I decide to stand outside the window where I can still hear the sermon fairly well, but where I am free to cough in peace.

            After standing outside for a few minutes, a one-armed boy comes out the door. He walks over to me and greets me. I talk with him for a few minutes. He tells me that he wants to go to America and go to school to be a doctor. I’m good at talking to people, although it’s a little bit difficult because his English is not the best and my French is nonexistent. All is fine and dandy, then out of the blue: “Can I have your number?”

            Oh great… here we go. I was hoping to avoid this. “Ummm…. well actually, I don’t know my number.” I know this sounds like a pathetic excuse, but it’s actually true this time. I haven’t taken the time to memorize my new number. I tell him, “I could give you my number for America, but it wouldn’t do you much good.”

            He looks a little confused. “You have a phone right?”

            “Yes, I do. But I don’t have it with me and I don’t know my number.”

            A few minutes later I excuse myself to go to the SM hut and make some food for potluck. I ask Masha if she knows who the one-armed boy is. She says she’s not sure, but Charis might know. I ask Charis later, and she tells me that it’s probably the boy who came to her asking for help with his school tuition because his father wouldn’t pay it. I’m a little bit sad because of that, but she goes on to explain that his father won’t pay because the boy spends his own money at bars. I don’t feel too bad for him now.

            Fast forward two days. I’m walking across the hospital compound with a bottle of gasoline to go and clean up some paint that I spilled. I hear behind me “Sister! Sister!” I turn to see one of the nurses waving at me, and beside the nurse a man who looks fairly young, but the grey in his hair betrays his age. I smile and exchange the polite greetings required. The nurse tells me in English that this man is visiting the hospital from N’djamena and she is giving him a tour. I’m not sure how this has absolutely anything to do with me, but since they’re walking in the same direction as I am I can’t just leave.

            The man starts talking to me in English. Evidently he is a pharmacist from N’djamena. I never did figure out what he was doing here, but he was here nonetheless. He asks me what I’m working on, and I tell him I’ve been painting. We get to where I spilled the paint, and since they don’t seem to be interested in going on, I show them the benches that I painted for maternity. Then the nurse leaves, and the guy asks me if he can talk to me.

            Now, I’m thinking, “Yeah, it’s a free country, I can’t really stop you from talking to me if you want to.” But then I realize I’m in Tchad, which probably has different rules. I tell him it’s fine if he wants to talk, thinking he might just want to practice English. Well, for a while that was all it appeared to be. But then he asked me for my number. And once again I was thankful that I didn’t know it. I told him no. So he gave me his business card and told me to call him. Then he asked how long I was staying in Tchad. I told him I was here until May. And he wanted to know if I’d come to N’djamena to visit him! I was like “Ummm…no. I don’t like big cities.” So he asked if he could visit me here. I was like “Well…I can’t really stop you from coming down here. But I do have work to do, so I’ll probably be busy.” Somehow the conversation starts to die (I’m thinking thank goodness!) and he has the nerve to say something along the lines of “So this is it?” And I’m thinking, “WHAT? Of course this is it! I mean seriously, I don’t know you from Adam. What is “it” anyway?” Granted, I don’t know if he knows exactly how that line sounded in my ears, but I was still irritated. I told him goodbye and he left.

            So, next day. I’m sitting in the SM hut, working. And Mohammed, the guard, comes to the door and calls me. He says there’s somebody asking for me at the gate. I waltz out, without thinking, and come face to face with Mr. Pharmacist dude from N’djamena. I wanted to melt into the ground. I wasn’t really expecting him to show up again. I was nice though, said hi, how are you, etc. Then he asked for my e-mail and I told him no. He said he was going to N’djamena that day and I was thinking, “Thank heavens for that! I hope you don’t come back!”, but I told him to have a good trip. Then I stood there for a couple of awkward seconds, because I didn’t know what to say, and he wasn’t saying anything. So I smiled cheerfully, said “Au revoir!” and disappeared back into the SM hut.