The first time I witnessed outer and inner beauty being equally radiant and striking as humble and unknowing, was when I met Ouattara's family. 

Their lack of awareness of their own beauty was enchantingly powerful. 
As a Peace Corps volunteer, my responsibility was to help educate villagers about family planning and AIDS/HIV prevention. When I first arrived in West Africa’s Ivory Coast, I was in disbelief and in awe of Ouattara’s family: Ouattara, his four wives and eighteen living children. There would be more; six children had been lost to the randomly savage winds of unforgiving Africa. 

After spending intimate months with them, essentially becoming the nineteenth child, I can’t fathom the idea of there not being all eighteen children. Each one is beautiful and significant. They work, live and move in a graceful, fluid symphony, each one an important instrument that creates harmonious family music. If one instrument was missing or sick, the harmony would be lost. 

The thought of telling Ouattara he has too many children, so many that he
can only afford to put one through school, is not in my capacity. 
Every day, I am awe of their physical appearance; long limbs that move with the grace of an exotic feline, muscles defined not for vanity, but as a result of working in the fields, preparing meals, and caring for each others' basic needs; skin as smooth as silk and flawless, not from expensive beauty products, but from simple soap and oil from local plants. The only sign of enduring labour is battered, calloused feet, which have borne the brunt of harsh African elements.

Their selflessness is inspiring yet frustrating. I wonder when the generosity and
hospitality will fade and when I will truly become one of them. Regardless, every day like clockwork, they bring me cooked meals, wash my clothes, and put water from the well in my cup. They never expect anything in return. I have an ongoing mental battle over how to repay them, how to show my gratitude. But they don't care much for ‘things’. I feel peculiar giving them such, as though I'm paying them for their work, which they don't consider to be work but, rather, simply caring for a family member. It's more insult to ‘pay’ them than to do nothing. 

I show gratitude by spending the evenings in the courtyard and going to the fields with the women. Returning in the late afternoon there's always a million activities going on at once: preparation of dinner, cleaning of kids, breast-feeding babies, sorting the days produce from the fields. I love watching all the chaos around me, hypnotizing me. But I'm given chores: helping kids get dressed, holding babies, confiscating machetes or burning charcoal from childrens’ hands. 

Whenever I'm with them, every emotion is evoked: joy and pleasure, admiration and respect, wonder and disbelief; but also sadness and frustration knowing what their futures already hold. I deny that they're a lost cause, but for once the statistics do not lie: 95% won't receive any education, most will marry young and have their own children young. 
What's so painful is knowing how intelligent they are, how funny, witty, sharp, strong, hard working, and powerful they are. If only they had the opportunity to go to school, oh the paths they'd blaze! With luck, we hope at least four of Ouattara’s young children will begin school next year - one child from each wife (you can't show favouritism!). 

I have taken many photos of the family, but the camera (or photographer) can never seem to capture their true beauty - the beauty and strength I see everyday. Part of me resents that and wants to capture those thousand words in a lens so I can carry a piece of them with me forever. 
But maybe their beauty isn't supposed to be caught and held on a piece of glossy paper. The camera is not advanced enough and this family is too powerful. It's like they're angels, ghosts, sweeping me off my feet and carrying me through this dream. Can anyone else can see them, see what I see? Will anyone ever believe me?