My other job- Playdoh supervisor

Some Christian group came with cartons of Christmas packages for the kids in 1st-6th grade. It was such a mystery as to what was in them, for they were not to be opened until the American patron came. It would have been interesting to meet these guys, reportedly from North Carolina, but I was careful to keep my distance from the commotion. A while back a World Vision truck came giving someones unwanted dress shirts and dozens of Breast Cancer Awareness visors, probably left over from some unsuccessful event. I barely entered the scene, scored a visor from the insistence of the Malians, and for weeks afterwords, paid the repercussions.
“Aminata! Aminata!” I’d hear passing on my bike, “I didn’t get a hat!” “Where’s my teeshirt?” Ahh! I have no part in this! What would give you the idea that those boxes of unwanted clothes were my doing? Oh yeah, I’m white.
Needless to say, I made sure I had no part in the Christmas boxes. But I would be called into duty. Kids came home with pretty sweet boxes, filled with little toys, candy, soap, toothbrushes, even princess underwear that the boys constantly poked fun at Madu for receiving. Yet some things were just plain confusing. I had to stop Sali at the pharmacy for completely opening the chemicals in an instant handwarmer packet, school girls were rubbing glue sticks on their lips, people were approaching me for explanations of smelly candles, tree ornaments, glow sticks and lufas. But the most mysterious item of them all was first brought to attention by the middle school math teacher. “Aminata. We’re all wondering. What is ‘plaaeydoh?’”
Playdoh was a frequently found treasure in the packages, but misinterpreted as soap, cooking oil, chewing gum, or candy. All throughout the village, people young and old were trying to wash themselves with Playdoh or make it into an afternoon snack. It was getting too much.
“Dusu,” I said to my college at the CSCOM one day after vaccinations, “You want to come help me do a health animation at the school?” We went together, but not to talk about sanitation or malaria, but to explain to each class: This is playdoh. It’s a toy. Do not eat it!
“People are going to kill themselves!” Shaka exclaimed hanging out with the boys under my hanger. “They have no idea what any of this stuff is! If you weren’t here Aminata, we’d have some big problems. These gifts are crap!”
“They’re not crap,” I said, but couldn’t help agreeing with Shaka when he commented that they will all just turn into piles of trash in the next few months. That money should have gone to help fix the road, he decided. When did he get so insightful?
Nevertheless, kids are excited about the toys. They’ve never gotten anything like this before, so its special and exciting. I’m even a little jealous. It looks like packages I’d get from home, all of the M&Ms and life savers and such. Sweet, sweet America. Complete with a “Jesus loves you” blessing. I know even Shaka appreciated it, at least for the aspect of his favorite subject, cultural exchange. “When I become a big patron, I’m going to send boxes of Malian stuff to American school kids.”
“What would you send them?”
He had to think about that for a while. “Bicycles.”
These programs have a place in what we’re doing, as a simple act of kindness. Kindness can go a long way, but is not the only answer to these deep rooted problems. I’ll spare you another lament on the controversies of charity and development work, and leave you with the true moral of the story: Think twice before you send playdoh to Africa.