The stories one by one.
Cynthia's Story : "Cynthia?," I would ask as she ran around the house on all fours mopping the concrete floor, "how was school today?" Looking up with her dark brown bottomless eyes, she would flash her giganitc mischevious smile, giggle, and weave away backwards with her mop rag. After school and house chores and before cooking ugali and sukuma the night's dinner, Cynthia and several other girls would roll up their play dresses tucking them into their underwear to play dodge ball. You can't properly dive out of the ways of a whizzing plastic bag ball without your dress wodded up into your underwear! Leaning up against the white concrete church wall, 35 mm camera perched on my knee, I tried to capture the long legged leaps and soring lace. Laughter, shreiks and frequent "who is out and who is safe" quarrels filled my Kenyan afternoons. Now if only that moment could be frozen forever, soaked color by color onto a piece of watercolor paper. Then