The Power of many - even when it's not always roses

I am not an only child. I am one of many children. On Sunday, we visited my brother-in-law. His wife, my cousin, passed away close to a year ago. My parents are keen on visits like this. My sister is the chief planner for many things like this. I have no idea how things would get done without her. So there we are, me sitting next to my mom, my brother, and my other sister. A cousin of mine is missing. I know she was around here somewhere. I go looking and find her at the back of the house sitting on the floor scrolling through her phone. "We are not the kids who hide from visitors and people anymore. We need to go sit and participate in the conversations," I say. She looks at me with an expression I recognise. My very own when I am crafting my defiance statement. One side of the mouth drops, eyes half roll, head slightly tilts to the right, eyes squinting now, just a little, and then... "But why don't you leave me alone? I am here, am I not? I came through, did I not?" "Alright, fair point, you're here. But since you are, come, let's go sit with the others." "No!" I back off, walk back, and sit with the group, where I am drawn into a conversation on how to grow shea in Katakwi and how coffee and cocoa were discouraged there for such a long time, and yet there is potential. Someone had mentioned that I am now a farmer and, in fact, I know much about the climate and what works where. I do not have the heart to say I am still just a learner at all this and I do better at asking questions, so I take the opportunity to launch into interventions I am now familiar with. I am speaking and listening to myself at the same time because I am judging my every sentence. I am also recognising that I have truly changed. I am comfortable to sit among the elders, hear them, chip in every so often, and laugh along. I notice my cousin has now moved to the balcony at the front of the house. I walk to her. She looks at me suspiciously and says, "Where is your boy?" She is asking about my son. "He is away, visiting his aunt," I say. "When do you plan to have another child?" A question to be expected. I am at the age where, for this key message, I am always the target audience. I mumble some randomness, and she looks at me with the most pained expression I ever saw. "You should have another child. You have no idea what it is like for me. Please have another child. This world can be pretty lonely." I am surprised at the pain in that statement. I cannot make light of her pain. I change the subject; she tells me she is itching to leave. I discourage her and move back into the house a few minutes later. I go back to my position on the floor, next to my brother and sister. As soon as I sit down, it hits me what I think she meant.

Let's see if I can explain what I realised. As soon as I got here, I sat next to my mom. As soon as my brother got here, he sat next to my mom and, therefore, next to me. As soon as my sisters walked in, they greeted everyone and found the nearest seats to us. Before long, we were whispering and checking things with each other. My dad's glass of something has run out; one of us whispers to the other to fix that. My aunt is fidgeting with her phone; my brother nudges me to figure it out. My mom needs the bathroom; one of us is up to fix that. We are unintentionally fixing and figuring out things together. I would be lost entering a room without these siblings. I am socially awkward, and I struggle with all the small talk and so on unless I have the buffer - these people who now know to look at me and save me. And I think about my cousin, and I get it. I truly get it.