American letters and Dagomba charm

Inside the day seems too hot, sun baked like concrete courtyard. Outside is cool and undemanding. Azara and Drissa come over for alphabet lessons. Drissa wasn’t initially included, but his big love-me eyes and boney elbows tug my heart, and so I pass him a pen. He is behind his sister already. He can sing the alphabet-he loves the tune and I’ve caught him humming it while milking cows. But he can’t write the letters like she can, pen moving, fearlessly crooked Cs sweeping across her page; the lines are ignored. I let them. I remember the lines once feeling confining. He combines the letters he remembers, forming something like a complicated 8. I hold his small hand and trace, over and over, the shapes that I want to give him, the power of language I want him to feel. When I think of the letters left to teach them I am overwhelmed. I want nothing more than to give up. But when I trace an F on Azara’s hand, a reminder of the letter for after I’ve left, she impatiently takes the pen and, flawlessly, quickly, she draws it on the paper. Then I know I can’t stop yet. I grab her shoulders, squeal and babble pride at her, all Dagbani and American ebullience, and she smiles at me shyly, American letters and Dagomba charm.