Sunday morning at around 6 am, I was sitting wrapped in a capulana and drinking coffee when I heard a knock at my door. Outside on my front porch were Etelvina, the director of the school and the pedagogical director, similarly clad for the early morning. “Sit down,” they said. “We want to talk to you.” I couldn’t imagine what could be going on that they would all come to my house on a Sunday morning so casually—any school-related problem (which I also couldn’t imagine) would be addressed more formally, and during the week.
My director looked anxiously at Etelvina to start. “So when you went to Chimoio last weekend, did you talk with your parents?” she asked. “How are they?” I said they were great, thanks. My director whipped out a letter. “We received this yesterday,” he said. “We thought something bad might have happened.”
Apparently they were concerned that the pictures of crosses and “Jesus loves you” that my dad had dutifully scrawled on the enveloped indicate that it bore bad news. I assured them that, in fact, it only was an attempt to move the letter through the mail system, which apparently had worked. We all laughed, relieved that all was well—I think they had been really worried that some tragedy had occurred and weren’t sure what to do. I felt so bad that they had been so concerned, but it’s nice to know they cared and felt responsible.