My Best Friend is a 3-year old

I am not ashamed that my best friend is a 3 year-old. But then again Didi is no ordinary 3 year-old. She could convince a monotheist of reincarnation and her size defies natural growth charts.

I first met Didi, the granddaughter of my Maman, in January. She was dressed in a yellow silk dress with two ties that started at the waist and pulled back to form a oversized bow in the back. A dress made for wearing to church on Sundays. When Maman arrived with Didi we were all inside watching the television, guarded from the cool night air, a blessing of the harmattan season in Benin.

Maman had just arrived back from Cotonou. She set down giant cement sacks filled with bonnes choses from the south; pineapples, oranges, carrots and cabbage, and as she adjusted her pagne, behind her peered Didi.

I did not like Didi that first week. She cried. A lot. She might as well have been a dog in Pavlov's conditioning experiments, except instead of associating saliva with the reward of food, an object of desire, Didi inserted crying as prerequsite to get what she wanted, usually cookies.

One day I came home from school to her throwing an epic fit. I don't know what had caused her crying and I don't think she knew either. It was one of those episodes of sobbing that goes on so long you forget the real reason you started crying and everything becomes a reason to cry.

Unable to bare the crying I carried her to her room, and like my pre-kindergarten teacher once did to me, told Didi she could not leave until she stopped crying. I didn't like when my pre-k teacher said that to me when I was five and Didi didn't like it when I said that to her either. I only sent her into a larger rage, made worse as the other children peered into the window bursting into fits of laughter at her misery. After thirty minutes, in which she reached the minimum of heaving sobs, Sophie arrived.

A note about childrearing. A good strike goes a long way.

Sophie picked up a small stick like one might collect for kindling a fireplace, and she hit Didi, who stopped crying out of fear of being struck again.

After this episode I was under the illusion Didi would not like me, especially after my strange punishment. But it was like this; When I was in high school I worked as a teacher's assistant one summer and there was this girl, who was just bad. I always was on her and refused to accept or dismiss her behavior. When the last day came she gave me a nice thank you note. I figured she would have hated me, but something beyond her years made her appreciate someone who cared enough to not give up.

I would like to say Didi had this sort of appreciation, but it was really about candy. She loved candy and once she realized I was a source she'd come to my door, "Jamie? Donne-moi bon bon."

One morning, I am not sure how she knew I was up or heard me, but I was in my bathroom area, when I heard her strong, yet child-like voice, "Jamie!" she said. "Oui Didi?" "Tu-fais quoi?" What are you doing? I said nothing--I was in the bathroom. She pressed are you pooping? She said, I laughed and said no. She paused are you peeing? I laughed some more and said no. Probably less than satisfied she bounced away, inevitably dodging her morning bath, which normally sends her to, well of course, tears.

Didi doesn't like bathing and I am not sure why. The only time it is fun, if she gets to come over to my house to shower. I have a regular shower and the first time Didi saw this, her eyes immediately filled with fear, and I knew tears were quickly following. I quickly told her, we'd fill up the bucket and she'd have her normal shower. I try to distract her during bathing, because I know she doesn't like it. I will ask her about different things, and this is how our lessons in English started.

It is amazing the information small children can absorb into their brains. Didi speaks French extremely well for a three year old, and since living in Matéri she has picked up Biali, the local language. I am working on English.

Didi can say: How are you? I'm fine, What is your name?, My name is Didi (she normally skips the 'is' part), along with various body parts. One afternoon, a Wednesday when the primary schools don't have class, Didi and a band of little kids were outside. They sprawled over the benches under the giant tree outside my concession, where normally my aunt sells tchuke. A little ways off from the children I tried to drift in and out of a nap on my mat. I could hear Didi teaching them all the English phrases she knew. Over and over again, "How are you?" and "I'm fine." She laughed with glee.

Didi can run. She runs everywhere if she can. One day she spent an hour marching and running, singing a song about exercise being good for your health. All while wearing an athletic band around her head that she had taken from Petra, my Maman's youngest. In an endless circle she marched, never growing tired of the song. Finally she lay down and past out within seconds, as is common for her to do.

Recently Didi went away for a week to see her mother, while my Maman was at an information session away from village. Didi loves my Maman, and when she isn't there, well Didi cries more than usual and is just in general more difficult to deal with. After a week, my Maman came back, and Didi again was wearing a dress made for church Sundays. As I went to greet Didi her eyes filled with tears and she just started crying and fleeing from me. I couldn't understand it. What was going on? My Maman explains, oh it's her emotions, she is too excited to see you and so she is crying. This went on for 15 minutes, at which point Didi made her way over to my house to see girls drawing on t-shirts, which she immediately wanted to also do. I handed her my shirt and we were best friends again.

Frequently Didi breaks friendship ties with me, but within the hour she is back to loving me again. She makes up wild tales and is so animated about everything that happens to her. The other day she told me her father was going to buy her a car, and then after five minutes decided a bike was better. She loves dancing and even though she runs when I try to tickle her, it is definitely a fake run. She consistently insists on eating what I eat, which includes what is now called sauce de Jamie. Sometimes when I steal away to my house it is only a matter of time before her figure appears at the screen door with her nose pressed to it, demanding, "Jamie! Tu-fais quoi."