My first ever day of school in kindergarten, my grandmother forgot to fetch me.  My mama had to go to her own class and my papa was in Riyadh.  

In my new uniform, I sat by the school gate for what seemed like hours until it was just Mr. M– (our school’s security guard) and I who were left.  I didn’t panic, however.  Or feel that I was abandoned.  In my 6-year old mind, I had somehow known that I would be forgotten.  

And so before the sun set, and before Mr. M– and other school personnel became even more worried, I stood up from my corner and asked the school janitor, Mang… Roderick (I think, his name was), if he could accompany me home.  I knew exactly where our house was though not its address (up the street near the town market a ‘haunted house’ stood and on that street, a passageway led to the compound where home was.)

Before my lola could finish cooking dinner, there I was sitting by the dining table, asking for merienda.  Ay! my lola cried.  But, no crying, no fuss from me.  I simply asked for a glass of water and some soup.  Ok, perhaps for a doughnut, too.  And everything was just as it was and as it should be.

More than 20 years later and I’m wishing I’m still that 6 year old kid.  

Forgotten?  

I’d stand up from the corner where I waited, dust myself off, and head for home, where someone who surely loved me awaited for my return.  Then, as in dreams, there’d be no crying, and hardly any fuss.  Ok, perhaps a lot of fuss.  But only the good kind.