Just over the wall at the far end of my compound sits a red and yellow color-block building. The doors are held shut with silver padlocks, but the windows blow open with the slightest breeze. I don’t know who they aim to keep out of the concrete walls of the three large rooms and one smaller which smells strongly of the black mold which peeks out of the falling down ceiling.  This small room is filled with books and papers, marking the years past in some sort of organizational system that my eyes fail to follow if ever I am to step inside the office. This is the schoolhouse. Its steps have crumbled and the aluminum sheets which make up the slanted roof let the sun shine through leaving the concrete floor freckled as well as dimpled. Three wires and a tall pole bring electricity to each of the classrooms where sockets hang empty from the ceilings without bulbs to brighten the days when the storm clouds hide the sun.

This building is where I spend most of my days.

During the week I sit at the small wooden table in the shade of the branching Nim tree watching the students park their bicycles in rows before squeezing themselves into desks which they outnumber 4:1. On these days the school house lives and breathes, it’s heart beating in time to the sound of the cowbell-like instrument the one boy with a watch beats to signal the start and end of classes. It is hopeful and vibrant and though I don’t speak the language these children let flow easily from their tongues, we sit content in our confusion trying to figure each other out.

On the weekends however, this same building seems to let out a sigh it has been holding in all week long. Its doors are shut leaving only the windows to get in or out. The bugs and birds use this option more often than not. The goats and sheep sleep soundly on the small verandas which they will soil over the course of the two days where there are no students to shoo them away and clean up their mess. These are my favorite days in some ways.

There is a small spot on the back corner of the school, where the aluminum roof has peeled away letting the rain wash the concrete underneath whenever the clouds open and soak the town. It is here I like to sit. In the morning the shade from what remains of the roof covers where my bag and my body take up space. From this vantage point I can see out over the fields of groundnuts, through the scattered trees, and to the horizon line that cuts the green from the blue.

It is a quiet place. Sometimes made noisy by a passing herd of cattle with sagging skin and giant horns, the small boys who lead them onwards following closely behind them. Some days these boys will sit with me, speaking no words, listening to the soft sounds that flow from the phone which sits atop my small bag. Other days they break out their makeshift soccer ball, a lopsided creation made of materials I cannot decipher. Drawing lines in the sand and moving rocks to mark goalposts they play while the herds of great beasts they control stand just off the dirt schoolyard in the thick green, a silent and uninterested audience. I watch them out of the corner of my eye, slowly turning the pages of the book which sits in my lap. Someday I may help them even out their teams, fumbling my footwork, trying to dance the dance they seem to be born knowing.

The hours I spend sitting on and around this building, constantly shifting to escape the sun which turns my darkened arms to red far outnumber the hours I have spent anywhere else. It is the hub of my time here, the nucleus my purpose revolves slowly around. Four rooms of concrete walls with concrete floors, dimpled with holes wider than the desks the students squeeze themselves into everyday after they sing together while marching in place, waiting for their class’ turn to jump up the broken stairs into their classrooms.

It’s not much.

But also, it’s everything.