Death and Delight

"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair." - Kahlil Gibran

The red-tinted dove must be the most dim-witted bird alive. I wonder how it has not gone extinct. I'm not sure whether a new pair of birds has taken over the nest on the windowsill or whether the same unlucky parents are throwing caution to the wind again. My mother suggested that we knock the nest down but it's in a very awkward and hard to reach position so we just watch the drama unfold... a mother bird has now laid an egg that has managed to roll out of the nest and onto the track of the windowsill. I doubt the mother will be able to keep the egg warm because the edge of the nest and the window itself prevent her from actually sitting on it. I wonder what will happen...

Andrew said he saw an accident on the way to work. A man took a spill on his moto and everyone went around him or just watched him struggle to get up from underneath the motorcycle. He had been about to get on a Sotrama to go to work and he stopped. While others tried to urge him onto the bus he went over and helped the man up. And then since the motorcycle was heavy he called others to help move it. He said he was astounded that he was the only one who went to help the man and that even the man appeared surprised and wary of the helping hand extended to him.

Rodney said one of his coworkers spent the weekend in jail. He had been driving down a street at a normal pace when a 3 year old, watched only by a 6 year old, dashed out into the street in front of his vehicle. Having grown up on Hollywood films, I want there to be a happy ending or a miracle resolution, but there isn't in this case. The child died and the driver is in jail, although he is not at fault. Anytime someone dies, someone has to go to jail until everything is sorted out.

Saturday afternoon I was sitting inside Constance's store, drinking a Fanta Fiesta, shelling and eating peanuts, and alternately playing Say-Say-Oh-Playmate with Sophie, when we heard a huge racket outside shouting and blowing horns. We all jumped up and watched as a parade of vehicles streamed by...motorcycles whose passengers waved elections posters of a candidate, cars whose bumpers and side windows were pasted with the same posters, and huge buses whose front and rear doors were open to reveal a tumble of passengers leaning out cheering and waving the posters. They shouted and pointed to the posters as they passed, though I can't be sure of what they said or of who the candidate was since no one had thought to enlarge the candidate's name and face for distance purposes. And then somewhere in the middle of the pack, a white SUV rolled by with its own calm. A man in the front seat wearing a button-down shirt casually waved. I recognized the wave of a politician instinctively and had it confirmed for me when Constance leaned in and said That's him! The caravan continued for what seemed like forever and finally the street was quiet again. Those of us who had stopped what we were doing to come out and watch, looked at each other, and then turned and went back to what we had been doing.

I asked Constance about the issues in this election. She told me that commune representatives for Congress were being elected. All the neighborhoods in Bamako belong to one of 6 communes. People are encouraged to pay dues to their communes but I'm not quite sure for what. Is there anything that distinguishes one candidate from the other, I asked. Judging from the posters they all seem to be promising justice and solidarity. Constance shrugged.

Later she told me we were going to visit her big sister who didn't live far away. She strapped Jean to her back and Sophie walked along side us as we set out. It turns out it was a little further than Constance wanted to walk and so when a cab passed us she hailed it and we hopped in. When the taxi stopped and we got out, the front door swung open and a little boy held the door as we walked into the courtyard. A huge dirt-packed courtyard, walled off from the street, with several large trees, a pen for sheep off to the side, and a cookhouse so that whoever cooked could enjoy a nice cool breeze while they did so.

We took a few steps into the courtyard and a girl I judged to be about ten ran up to me, all shy smile, dimples and adult teeth still coming in. Are you Fanta Sy, she asked almost breathlessly. Yes, that's me, I replied astonished, what's your name. Obviously either Sophie or Constance or both had been talking about me. Awa she said smiling shyly again. When I caught her stealing a few glances at me later I smiled at her and then looked away so she could look her fill. It makes me wonder what was said about me and why she seemed to idolize me in a reverential way that Sophie didn't. Jean seemed to particularly enjoy his older male cousin who picked kept burrowing his head in Jean's stomach to make him laugh. The cousin must have only been 4 or 5 years older and I imagine that when Jean grows a little more, the two of them will have a lot of fun together.

Constance's mother was also there visiting from Kita. I went through the Bambera greetings with her and she asked how long I had been in Mali in French. When I told her I had just made one month she pronounced that I was awfully clever for having learned that much Bambera in such a short time. We sat out in the courtyard in those ubiquitous restrung lawn chairs and talked until darkness fell. Here dusk is only a fleeting thought. It starts to get dark, and then it is. Constance said we should start back.

Her brother-in-law and sister walked us down the street a ways, and then her sister continued with us for a while longer. and then it was just us. Constance pointed to some graffiti on a nearby wall and said she didn't understand why people did that. I looked and then began laughing. Here in the middle of an unpaved dirt road in Bamako, someone had spray-painted the NY Yankees symbol. And that is to say nothing of all the Roc-a-Fella, G-Unit, and 50 Cent graffiti Rodney says he saw in Timbuktu. Sad and funny at the same time. I explained to Constance why I was laughing. And she nodded and said a lot of Malians live in New York for a time and then come back.

With one-quarter of the way left to go, Sophie complained that she was tired. I stopped to lean down to give her a piggy back ride. She's too old for that, Constance said, and she's too big, you'll make yourself sick. It's fine I said. She should really get down, Constance said, the road is rocky you both might fall. Plus she's the one who wanted to see her grandmother and she knows how far it is. Hmm, I said, I'll be careful, hating to think that at 7 one might be too big for piggyback rides. And finally around the corner from the store I lowered Sophie back to her own feet.

I just finished a book Rodney lent me: Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga and I highly recommend it. Tambu, an adolescent living in colonial Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) of the '60s, seizes the opportunity to leave her rural community to study at a missionary school run by her wealthy, British-educated uncle. She slowly reaches some painful conclusions--about her family, her proscribed role as a woman, and the inherent evils of colonization.