There is no hunger during the mango season. But a month of abundance is trumped by eleven of paucity.
In a land where death comes as frequent as the market van, people turn to Allah and his predecessor, nature, for answers. A cup of boiled teak leaves is swallowed. What remains in the kettle produces a hot bath, for aspirin is scarce and expensive. My back hurts. We have labored hard this year; we shall have plenty to eat.
The sacred forest plays its role. The sky scraping fromagers have witnessed two thousand years of mask dances and sacrifices. Purity brings good health and chance.
The devil is guilty for strong winds that blew grass roofs off mud huts. Sou ba and Basi ti (sorcerer and medicine man) are commissioned to curse thieves and heal the ill.
The pulsation of the djembe resonates through the village storming up thoughts of ancient battles. Diligent farmer is persuaded by her pentameter measure, passing endless hours breaking the soft earth with the blacksmith’s daba. The rains have arrived. Allah ka bo.
Blisters become calluses. Work is simplified, yet testing.
The land is life and Allah is one, so both are turned to for survival. And as the rains come each year, we loose countless parents along the way and we stay humble and thank God for the food we have and family that supports us.
Time is not an enemy. Neighbors are our friends and we take time to sip tea and argue over who’s the best football club. “Puyol est un fou,” Moussa yells to me as he worships the Spanish gladiator that entertains the masses.
I take a sip of pump water attempting to dilute the caffeine and sugar that the attaya injected into my system.
Meandering paths wind in between mud dwellings like a serpent. No one in sight, for the sun is at its highest and morning prayer calls have exhausted both the village elder and farmer. The few souls that have not found refuge under shielding mango trees are returning from the bush with bundles of wood and segments of broken termite nests, which anxious chickens wait to snack on.
Mother and daughter, pestle in hand, produce music with each blow as they pound manioc to powder. Fatim’s plastic beaded gris-gris sits above her hips as the passing imam gives her daily benedictions. She will be protected from sickness and evil, her mother’s worries are eased.
The mo ba (village elders) gather under the baobab tree reminiscing on ages before cigarettes and motorcycles, which have come to consume today’s youth.
The rains arrived early this year sending women to the gold mines. Madame Camara finds two grams, exchanging it for fifty mil. The rest find nothing, but hopes are brewing as the evening sky turns gray and wind knock the last mango into the hands of anxiously waiting children. Wrestling matches develop as larger boys noticed the fallen fruit.
The twelve moons pass and another rain comes. The young boys are old enough to herd cattle and the young men take on responsibility au champ. Another baby passes away as three more are born, but one of those won’t see their third moon. Tears are shed, but it is God’s will. An answer is given, life and death are simple.
In a land where death comes as frequent as the market van, people turn to Allah and his predecessor, nature, for answers. A cup of boiled teak leaves is swallowed. What remains in the kettle produces a hot bath, for aspirin is scarce and expensive. My back hurts. We have labored hard this year; we shall have plenty to eat.
The sacred forest plays its role. The sky scraping fromagers have witnessed two thousand years of mask dances and sacrifices. Purity brings good health and chance.
The devil is guilty for strong winds that blew grass roofs off mud huts. Sou ba and Basi ti (sorcerer and medicine man) are commissioned to curse thieves and heal the ill.
The pulsation of the djembe resonates through the village storming up thoughts of ancient battles. Diligent farmer is persuaded by her pentameter measure, passing endless hours breaking the soft earth with the blacksmith’s daba. The rains have arrived. Allah ka bo.
Blisters become calluses. Work is simplified, yet testing.
The land is life and Allah is one, so both are turned to for survival. And as the rains come each year, we loose countless parents along the way and we stay humble and thank God for the food we have and family that supports us.
Time is not an enemy. Neighbors are our friends and we take time to sip tea and argue over who’s the best football club. “Puyol est un fou,” Moussa yells to me as he worships the Spanish gladiator that entertains the masses.
I take a sip of pump water attempting to dilute the caffeine and sugar that the attaya injected into my system.
Meandering paths wind in between mud dwellings like a serpent. No one in sight, for the sun is at its highest and morning prayer calls have exhausted both the village elder and farmer. The few souls that have not found refuge under shielding mango trees are returning from the bush with bundles of wood and segments of broken termite nests, which anxious chickens wait to snack on.
Mother and daughter, pestle in hand, produce music with each blow as they pound manioc to powder. Fatim’s plastic beaded gris-gris sits above her hips as the passing imam gives her daily benedictions. She will be protected from sickness and evil, her mother’s worries are eased.
The mo ba (village elders) gather under the baobab tree reminiscing on ages before cigarettes and motorcycles, which have come to consume today’s youth.
The rains arrived early this year sending women to the gold mines. Madame Camara finds two grams, exchanging it for fifty mil. The rest find nothing, but hopes are brewing as the evening sky turns gray and wind knock the last mango into the hands of anxiously waiting children. Wrestling matches develop as larger boys noticed the fallen fruit.
The twelve moons pass and another rain comes. The young boys are old enough to herd cattle and the young men take on responsibility au champ. Another baby passes away as three more are born, but one of those won’t see their third moon. Tears are shed, but it is God’s will. An answer is given, life and death are simple.
1 comment:
AJ...my friend, I continue to be amazed with your unique sense of perspective and your ability to really understand the point of view of others. this is a great post...thank you!
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