I watched last evening from the high perch of the tenant house as a handful of kids returned from the citrus grove with oranges tucked in their clothing. We sat on a mat and they filled the void between the fiery sun and the shadows. One by one each kid peeled an orange. The orange (which was green) was hard skinned and required peeling and then cutting, then sucking and a great deal of seed spitting. The part I found woefully painful was the waiting. There was only one machete, but each child waited and there was no frenzy, nor need to distribute pieces fairly. The little ones watched until their time came. By then the old boss kids (10 years as opposed to 4) would help. I was touched by the lack of demanding it took and scared watching these babies with a giant machete navigate a tiny round orange. In the end it 
was no big deal.
It has been weeks here in Tanzania and I’m just getting the hang of how to eat the oranges. These days, with 40 or so citrus trees at our fingertips, I am less then motivated because they are pithy, full of seeds and sour. I lend out my knife often, and do relish the fluids, yet nothing to get too excited about.
Luckily we have the gardener- turned- watchman to assist with gathering. On most nights Mr. Afunday (well that is how it sounds) sits poised with a borrowed flashlight (darkness finds us at 7) reading his bible. He speaks about praying, God and going to church. This man is our orange hook up as well. He finds us oranges in the cover of darkness, so I never really can figure which direction to walk in for potentially superior oranges. He somehow climbs the tree, and later peels a few oranges for our enjoyment, while we are busying ourselves for the evening.
It is such a simple gesture and a welcome choice for an after ugali and mchicha meal.
