It Takes a Village (...To Inflate a Soccer Ball)

My Aunt Connie recently sent a package with some of the most delicious Christmas cookies I’ve ever tasted and a deflated soccer ball I foolishly assumed we’d have no problem bringing back to life.

I knew our next-door neighbor, a teacher at Jessica’s school, made a habit of employing a bicycle pump and a handful of learners to fill the tires of his beat up four-door most Saturday mornings. Him being a friendly guy, and this being Africa, I knew he’d be more than happy to share.

So yesterday afternoon when Jessica stopped by to borrow a CD of Namibian tunes to take home to America, she asked if I might be able to use the bike pump for a couple of minutes to inflate my ball. I planned to take it to the orphanage this week, and knew a flat ball was a bit like a remote control car with no batteries—not a lot of fun.

I stood in the doorway waiting for his reply and heard, “They’ll be coming now!” from his window.

I figured my soccer ball would go from flat to fun in no time. But nothing’s ever so simple this side of the Atlantic.

It seems I hadn’t paid close enough attention on those weekend mornings when young boys lined up to take turns pumping the pogo stick-like tube of our neighbor’s bike pump, because when eight little faces showed up at my door, tool in hand, I saw one major problem.

There was no pin in their pump.

“It’s no problem,” said our neighbor, who was standing bare-chested and in boxers. “He’ll fix it for you now,” he added, gesturing towards one of the boys. Immediately his sister's son took off for the trash pile, and a couple of minutes later he returned, metal wire in hand, with a smile on his face.

The older boy grabbed the wire, doubled it over, and instructed another one of the children to find the barrel of a pen. A few minutes later the young one returned bearing a brand new pen, which the others worked with their teeth to dismantle. The oldest one looked up with a smile and inserted the barrel of the pen into the tube of the pump, clamped it on, shoved the metal into the barrel and inserted the metal into the ball’s hole.

It was so complicated it had to work.

But it didn’t.

One boy furiously worked the pump while the other secured the contraption in the ball with his hands. But still, air escaped on all sides.

“Celo tape!” one yelled. And moments later, another girl—one I hadn’t seen previously—appeared with tape in her hand. And so, as one child held the pen, another wrapped the tape. But when the pushing and pumping started again, air, sadly, continued to escape.

“It’s okay,” said our neighbor. “They will come now. Our power is too weak. They will take it to town.”

And out of nowhere, two men appeared—with a car, no less—grabbed the ball, and headed to town. “They will bring it for you,” he said.

About an hour later, the two men returned and our neighbor’s son, a small boy who speaks no English but has a huge smile, marched into our flat, airless ball in hand. It seemed even the petrol station pump was without a pin.

Sure the ball was deflated (still), but our neighbors weren’t defeated. They searched for other means of filling the ball, and even found a friend with a pump just up the road. (Sadly, his was also without a pin.) But after several hours and a few more failed attempts, we realized it probably wasn’t going to happen. At least not today.

But knowing our neighbors, and knowing this place, I’m sure we’ll still find a way.