by Aaron Barlow
My work in the village improved dramatically as my rediscovered optimism provided a fresh outlook on my experiences. Different languages don’t preclude communication; they only make it more challenging. Criticism for poor language skills is evidence that someone wants to talk, and maybe they’re even offering to be a tutor. I became less hung up on my frustrations and failures, and more cognizant of my successes. I began to develop friendships with co-workers at the health clinic as well as with the villagers around me. A little imani changed my life in Basma.
A year into my service, the experience had completely turned around. I was integrated into my village. I had friends, and even an adoptive family. Though fluency in Mooré still eluded me, I had achieved a strong proficiency. There were still plenty of difficulties and challenges, but even on my worst days, knowing that Imani was at home waiting for me always brought a smile to my face.
One weekend in November 2002, I went to the capital to e-mail my parents. I came home several days later, and sensed immediately that something was amiss. Imani was gone. I searched all around my hut, and all around the village, but she was nowhere to be found. I was crushed, but consoled myself with the knowledge that dogs often run away. Perhaps she felt that I had abandoned her. Perhaps she had run off somewhere and gotten lost. I could not shake the fear, however, that I had done something to make her leave. I asked around, and sensed a strangeness in people’s responses, but assumed it was because nobody quite knew how to deal with such a distraught American.
Then my adoptive brother told me. I thought at first that maybe I hadn’t understood what he’d said: “Bamb da rime fo baaga,” he repeated, “They ate your dog.”
My stomach heaved; I was overcome with vertigo. I was crushed, unable to respond. I felt that I had bridged so many cultural divides, but this was one I did not want to cross. Had Imani run away, I likely would have deluded myself into believing that she was alive and well, just waiting for the right time to come back after some carousing in neighboring villages. Had she died, I could at least view it as part of the life cycle. But knowing that she had been killed by my villagers for a night’s supper was harder to deal with. I lost all faith in those around me when I lost Imani.
I’m not sure if there is a “normal” mourning period for an eaten dog. It took me several weeks before I could look at anyone without wondering if they had partaken. I found myself reverting back to my pre-Imani routine: I spent most of my time in my hut, passed hours each day reading, and cut myself off from human contact.
After a time of this self-imposed seclusion, however, I forced myself to come to terms with my loss. Imani had meant so much—she had opened up the village to me, and she had helped restore my faith in myself. But she was gone, and no amount of self-pity or grief would bring her back. More importantly, I still had a job to do, and I was not about to quit. Serving out my time in misery would be to no one’s benefit—least of all my own.
So, I got myself back to the place I’d been when Imani was in my life. I attacked my work with vigor, and achieved some of the greatest successes of my Peace Corps service. Though I thought often of Imani, all that she had shown me did not leave with her. My friends and family in the village were still the same wonderful people they had always been, regardless of whether or not Imani was by my side.
Much as I learned during my years in Burkina, there are some cultural differences that I will never appreciate. However, I did come to a realization that is still with me to this day: Imani showed me strength that I did not know I had. Losing her did not take that strength away from me. To this day, imani is within. I have faith in myself.
Daniel J. Franklin served in Burkina Faso from 2001–04. He is currently an attorney in New York City.
Part Four
Close Encounters
Hail, Sinner! I Go to Church
Floyd Sandford
Sometimes, it seems as though giving just isn’t enough.
On November 8, 1964, I attended church for the first time since arriving in Ibadan. I was invited by relatives of one of my biology students to be one of several special participants in a Sunday service at The Blessed Church of Christ (Ijo Ibukun Ti Kristi) in the Oke-Ado area of the city. The day was lovely, and passersby returned the few Yoruba phrases of greeting I knew with their own greetings and smiles as I sauntered along Liberty Stadium Road in full Nigerian dress from Adeyoola Chambers to the church, a forty-five-minute walk. It was the church’s big event of the year, a festive harvest celebration. Seven special guests from Ibadan had been invited to participate—Mr. Amusan, a general trader; Mr. Adekoya, an accountant; Mr. Shogbesan, an insurance broker; Mr. Ayoola, a solicitor; Chief Ogunlesi, the Director of Broadway Printers; Mr. Olomo, a politician from the Ibadan Ministry of Finance; and me, tutor at IBHS.
The program for the occasion was detailed in a small, nineteen-page booklet with a pink cover. It consisted of songs and spoken passages. At the beginning of’ the service, to the accompaniment of joyous singing and hand-clapping, as befits a harvest celebration, all seven of us marched in single file—I at the end of the procession—and took our designated seats on a raised dais facing the congregation. The church was packed, about two hundred people. I was the only Caucasian in the room and had worn a brand new traditional Nigerian outfit made especially for the occasion.
One of my students, Musa, had introduced me to an honest, hard-working tailor in the city. He had made me a beautiful traditional Yoruba man’s outfit. It consisted of a flowing outer garment, a sapara (agbada), worn over a matching shirt (orbuba) and trousers (sokoto). All were made of cloth with alternating narrow blue and white stripes. The sokoto, tightened with a drawstring, closely resembled pajama bottoms. On my head, I wore an attractive tan-and-beige-patterned felt fila.
The service was long, lasting about two hours. As the morning festivities wore on, the church approached sauna-like conditions. Midway in the service, each special guest was recognized in turn. All seven of us were listed in the program, each with a full page devoted to us, including a special song in our honor. The six Nigerian honorees had songs in Yoruba. I was listed last, and my song was in English: “The harvest is passing, the summer will end.” My song began with the phrase “Hark sinner while God from on high doth entreat thee,” a curious coincidence, as I was certain none of the program planners knew I was an agnostic and infrequent churchgoer.
Growing up in Smithtown, on Long Island, New York, my main reason for faithfully attending the First Presbyterian Church on Main Street each Sunday was because I enjoyed singing in the choir under the direction of choirmaster Don Gardner. Mr. Gardner wrote several pieces of religious music including “Man Does Not Live By Bread Alone,” which the choir often sang at Sunday services, but was best known for the song “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth,” a ditty he dashed off one evening, while enjoying the company of his incisor-less granddaughter.
I had absolutely no idea what to expect during the church service. I had come only because it seemed unfriendly to turn down the original invitation. All I had been told was that it was a harvest celebration, that the congregation would be honored by my attendance, and that I was expected to bring a donation. No one had bothered to mention that it was a highly publicized special church occasion, or that the other honorees included important local officials, successful businessmen, and well-off politicians.
I had a ten-pound note in my trouser pocket, at that time equivalent to about $24. I had given some thought to my donation. I wanted to be generous and let the congregation know how much I appreciated the honor of being asked to participate. But I didn’t want to embarrass the other participants and project myself as a fat cat, filthy rich American; $24 amounted to nearly a week’s worth of my modest Peace Corps subsistence allowance.
As I sat on stage with the other honorees, I began to wish I had brought a few one- and five-pound notes in the event that I decided to
reduce the amount of my donation during the service. Looking out over the congregation, I began to have concerns and reservations. Would they interpret my ten-pound donation as excessive, perhaps even offensive? Was I about to project a blatant and unnecessary show of wealthy American arrogance? Too late now, I’m here, and all I have with me is the single ten-pound note.
After nearly an hour spent reciting religious passages and singing eight anthems, many of them with multiple stanzas and long solo parts, the special part of the ceremony began. The choir and full church congregation stood up and began to sing “Omo Arowosola ti nro bi ojo….” Mr. Amusan, the general trader, proudly arose from his seat, and began dancing. Aha, so dancing is part of the ritual. Well, I can handle that, I thought.
He danced slowly and gracefully, keeping rhythm with the music’s beat, to a box located off to the side of the stage. I hadn’t been aware of the box until then. Arriving at the box he reached into his pocket, deposited something inside, then shuffled back to his seat, keeping beat with the music all the way. As he was returning to his seat, an elegantly dressed Nigerian woman standing by the collection box, who had been singing some of the solo vocal parts throughout the service, reached into the box and held up the offering for all the congregation to see. “Twenty pounds,” she announced. The congregation responded with cheers and shouts of approval. Mr. Amusan smiled, faced the audience, graciously received their praise, then took his seat. Good grief, I thought.
Then it was the turn of Mr. Adekoya, the accountant. A soloist began singing the first verse of his specially selected song “F’Olunun wa o Olorun Ibukun iba Re to to, K’a to korin o ajuba Emi Mimo….” Several portly older women from the congregation left their seats and moved into the center aisle of the church, singing and shaking, as Mr. Adekoya danced across the floor to the money box. In slow, subdued fashion he glided gracefully across the stage. Nearing the box he picked up the tempo, showing off some special dancing skills. Then, finishing with a flourish involving several twirls of his body, he stuck his hand in the box. “Twenty pounds,” the box keeper announced, holding up and waving about a crisp twenty-pound note for all to see. More cheers from the congregation.
The insurance broker and the solicitor were even more generous. Sitting on stage watching their performances, facing the multitude, I was feeling sick to my stomach and increasingly uncomfortable. Rivers of perspiration poured from my armpits. My hands were clammy. I sensed the blood draining from my face, my clothes becoming damp and clinging.
Then Chief Ogunlesi took to the floor in his elegant traditional dress. Exhibiting fancy footwork, he danced across the stage and really upped the ante. “Fifty pounds,” the woman announced to the congregation, which responded enthusiastically with joyous shouting and clapping. I sat motionless and stone-faced. The seat of my sokoto was sopping wet. When I shifted slightly I could feel the back of my sapara plastered with perspiration to the back of my chair. What had I gotten myself into? Could this be really happening? Or was it all a bad dream, related somehow to last evening’s meal of highly seasoned curry?
Then it was Mr. Olomo’s turn. Looking at his elegant apparel, a beautiful white sapara with elaborate embroidery and gold braid, I had a gut feeling that he was going to surpass everyone, duly impressing all assembled with his generosity. I was not disappointed. Rising almost triumphantly from his seat, he immediately pulled from his pocket a crisp new one hundred-pound note, which he held up and waved above his head as he began to dance across the stage. The consummate politician, he obviously intended to make the most of his opportunity to play to a full house.
His dance was lengthy and over-the-top. There were elaborate embellishments: body twirls, arm and leg extensions, and knee bends with crouching that brought his body close to the floor. As he danced, he kept waving the hand holding the note. Pleased with the size of his donation, he put on a terrific show. The congregation went wild.
At the end of his performance I felt about as big as a microbe, or one of the suspended dust motes visible in the beams of light streaming into the church through the stained glass windows. Had the floor opened up and swallowed me from view, I would have been thankful. Good Lord, had someone deliberately arranged the program honorees in the order of presumed wealth and anticipated size of gift giving? Nearly every participant preceding me had made a contribution an order of magnitude greater than the one previous. Did these folks think I was a Rockefeller? Didn’t they know I was a helplessly middle-class American, subsisting on a Peace Corps living allowance of less than $5/day?
I yearned to be delivered from my impending embarrassment. Let this agony be over quickly. Why hadn’t someone told me about the nature of the harvest celebration, the gift-giving obligation of the honorees, the magnitude of gifts commonly given? Why had they placed me last on the list of potential donors? I was about to be humiliated in front of two hundred people. The women’s chorus began to sing “Hark sinner while God from on high doth entreat thee....”
Everyone was on their feet, smiling, swaying, and hand clapping. Mr. Olomu and the others all turned their heads in my direction. It all seemed like a bad dream. I slowly rose up from my chair, all eyes on me, and started to move with the music, the seat of my sokoto and my orbuba darkened by perspiration.
“And warning with accents of mercy doth blend.…”
My clothes were plastered to my body. Had I just stepped from a sauna, I couldn’t imagine looking any more bedraggled. The rim of my fila was wet. Sweat coursed down my face, as I sensed myself anemically and inelegantly shuffling toward the insidious box and the fated announcement. I didn’t want my dance to be anti-climatic following the politician’s energetic performance, but I had no enthusiasm, no joie de vivre, as I sensed myself creeping along like an amoeba with an iron deficiency. I felt like an Arthur Murray reject, that my life force had left me.
“Give ear to His voice lest in judgment he meet thee.…”
I imagined what everyone was thinking, sitting on the edges of their seats. “What’s he going to do to top Mr. Olomo?” I could imagine all the pent up energy ready to be vented in cheers and shouts at the announcement. “Two hundred pounds from the American tutor!” My song seemed to go on forever. The previous participants had measured their dancing so that their arrival at the box and the return trip to their seats coincided with the length of their song. Had they practiced beforehand? The trip to and from the collection box couldn’t be more than thirty feet, but I felt like I was moving in slow motion. Oh, God, let there be some sudden event to distract the congregation. A sudden storm, perhaps. A massive thunderbolt. Let there be a miracle. A total solar eclipse that blackens the church. Let this ghastly day be over.
“The harvest is passing, the summer will end.”
I turned and looked out at the congregation. The atmosphere inside the church was fever pitch, everyone standing, hands clapping and bodies swaying, all primed for the climax of festivities, the reservoir release of all the accumulated pent up energy, the shouts of joy and jubilation. I reached the accursed box at a point about midway in the song, deposited the soggy crumpled ten-pound note that I had clutched in my clammy hand for what had seemed like an eternity, and began the long dance back to my seat. Agony, misery. I wanted to run back to the seat, to have my moment of ignominy end quickly. But what then? I would be sitting in my chair facing the congregation while the choir was still on the third verse, with the final verse yet to come. Better I keep moving, even if it seemed like I was maneuvering through thick molasses.
Soon after I dropped the sweat-dampened wadded note in the collection box, and was nearing the security of my seat, I heard the woman announce “Ten pounds.” The silence in the church was oppressive…soon followed by what agonizingly sounded like a few audible gasps...then feeble polite applause. Mercifully, the service concluded soon after.
I stayed briefly at the reception following, watching members of the congregat
ion besiege Mr. Olomo, gushing over the magnitude of his Christian charity. He looked really pleased with himself. After the obligatory polite niceties, I slowly moved toward the door, nodding to people as I passed, and beat a hasty retreat. That was my first and last appearance at the Blessed Church of Christ. They say that religion comforts. Not so for me that day.
Floyd Sandford is the author of African Odyssey: the adventurous journeys of a Peace Corps Volunteer in Africa, from which this is an excerpt. He was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Nigeria from 1964–66.
A Visit From H.I.M.
Carol Beddo
Our relations to power can become quite real, especially when there is love involved.
Leaning in the shade of the metal warehouse building, I’m one of about ninety villagers who have come to the dirt airstrip to welcome Emperor Haile Selassie to Bahar Dar. We stand still and silent at the sight of the distant plane, an exotic silver insect aloft in Africa’s enormous blue bowl of a sky.
As the plane touches down, women demonstrate enthusiasm with their loud falsetto trill. Men call and humph in deep voices and some clap their hands or rhythmically stamp their doulas, sturdy wooden walking sticks, on the ground, creating a deep syncopated layer of organized sound beneath the women’s continuous, high trill.
Not only am I the only non-Ethiopian in this crowd, I am the tallest, the palest, the only blonde; and I’m the only person who’s not a peasant.
Not one of my fellow teachers is here. The bank president and vice-president are not here. Perhaps the airport director is inside this warehouse that serves as the airport building, but he is not to be seen.
