His name is Yitbarek. He’s seven years old. His mother had seen the commotion on the way home from church, children drawing pictures on desks in the middle of the streets and grownups selling children’s books to adults. So she walked him over and asked a member of the organization to hand her son paper and some colors.
It’s a nice sunny morning. Music was playing and there were posters of his favorite Tv character everywhere. Morning light slick, beautiful and yellow falling on the garden guarded by concrete in the rising city. The grass had been trimmed nice and green all the yellowing of the Bega season gone.
The clouds have started to come in lately but this Sunday morning they looked just happy.
Yitbarek’s mother had fallen into conversation with one of the grownups. She wouldn’t want to leave soon. So Yitbarek looks back at the garden and is caught by the yellow of the sun having fallen on a flower. It looked to him like the petals had opened to wave to him, like it was smiling.
He put his pencil colors to half the A4 paper the woman had set in front of him and he drew the happy yellow flower, he drew the green grass too and the happy clouds in the blue Sunday morning sky.
His mother finally remembering her son comes over to his desk. “Have you finished?” she asks him.
Yitbarek moves his hands from the paper to show her his work and looks up into her face.
The mother looks around at what the other kids had done. The boys were drawing cars and houses. The girls were drawing strange flowers. She smiles at her son. “Well let’s go. Sign your name.”