Shiny Shoes

Itchy feet brought me to Botswana where I see children sing songs in perfect harmony as they walk home from school in dusty leather shoes that shined brightly just that morning. Shiny patent leather shoes on dusty dirt paths—Perhaps not patent, but shined so lovely they’ve turned that way. That is Botswana, akin to the silent pride of old southerners (the lost pride my Grandparents brood about) old black southerners who didn’t have much more than their pride—old clothes but never dirty, worn shoes immaculately shined—always dressed nice and neat. I’m often outdressed. Personal presentation means something here and I’m something of the new school frumpy American my grandparents shake their heads at. Even the dirt poor are neatly dressed and tidy for school in their government issued school uniforms. Shoe polish comes with their government assistance food baskets—the Botswana equivalent to welfare. Song. Dust. Shoes that retain a faint blink, just beneath the thin layer of a day’s dust. As they sing, they toss candy wrappers on the ground to keep the empty beer cans and hollowed chibuku containers company. I’ve neither got shiny shoes nor the cajones to walk on footpaths because a snake may be waiting there, waiting for dingy American feet. I’ve developed a somewhat irrational fear of a snake (or tick) biting my feet. I don’t want my itch to end that way.