My only experience with strikes had been in Liberia. Strikes meant looting and soldiers with guns.
We pulled into the office courtyard and found Djelal, Don, and Luanne standing near the double doors. Nassuru, Fati, and Adiza were smiling. Everyone seemed pleased. It was hard not to get caught up in the excitement, but still, my hands started to sweat.
“Why are they striking?”
“President Lamizana is making the same mistake as his predecessor,” Djelal said. He explained that, after independence, Maurice Yaméogo was elected president of the new republic of Upper Volta. Yaméogo dissolved all political parties except the Union Démocratique Voltaique, cut the salaries of civil servants, and built himself a luxurious palace while the rest of the people lived in poverty. Lamizana had overthrown Yaméogo.
“Now, Lamizana is cutting the salary of the civil servants.” Djelal shrugged. “So the workers have called a strike.”
“Will there be another coup?” I asked.
Djelal raised his eyebrows and Adiza pointed.
A military truck entered town on the south road, followed by another. Trucks kept emerging from the dust left by the ones before. After five or six passed, I stopped counting.
We all watched in silence as soldiers piled out of the trucks and crowded the square. I recalled the night in Liberia when a soldier had stopped our car. A boy no older than fifteen in a tattered uniform had pointed his rifle at us until we dashed him a few dollars to let us pass. Soldiers made me nervous.
“What will they do?” I wiped my palms on the sides of my dress.
“Lamizana is just reminding us that he controls the military,” Djelal answered. “Don’t worry. No one has ever been killed in Upper Volta for political reasons. They will patrol the streets, then leave in a few days.”
I kept reminding myself that Upper Volta was not Liberia and hoped Djelal’s prediction held true.
By evening, more soldiers had arrived, setting up military tents, and patrolling the streets. Dori’s small military outpost had tripled its number of soldiers in one afternoon.
We were told to go home and stay there. Hamidou drove us all to our various courtyards. I found Laya and the kids waiting for me, the table set for the meal I had missed at noon. We sat in our places.
“Bismillah!” Laya said, and we ate.
The children chattered about the soldiers as we all cleared the table. Laya warned me to stay in my courtyard and they left. I saw them to the gate and waved at Old Issa across the way. He smiled and nodded to me. I am here. Don’t worry.
So, there I was, boxed up once again in my courtyard, but this time with a 10 pm curfew. Being a prisoner in my own compound was different when it was somebody else’s choice. Three military trucks drove by. As I watched between the cracks in my wall, I had the sinking sensation of standing in the path of an oncoming train. There were eyeballs painted on its headlight.
Chapter 6
Falsehood
Late October/Dhu-al Hijja
A rust-colored scorpion the length of my little finger hugged the edge of the patio next to the wall, its tail tilted upward ready to strike. Broom in hand, I kept my distance, remembering the scorpion that had crawled out from behind my bed in Liberia. That scorpion had been ten inches from head to tail, fat, and a solid blue-green. This one was small, nearly translucent, its sting more painful, much the same as a baby rattlesnake’s bite is more potent than an adult’s. It had taken five or six good strokes of a sharp machete to kill the bigger scorpion.
I fetched the machete from the corner of the out-kitchen. Standing an arm’s distance from the moving creature, I imagined all of my feelings for Rob embodied within the tinted armor of this agony-inducing life form.
Rob’s last visit had been in Vermont. We were saying goodbye when the woman walked by, the one pushing the stroller with the baby and the dog. Rob had put on a sad face. “That’s what you want, isn’t it, Susan? A baby and a dog?” He’d used a tone that implied my wanting to trap him into some boring, traditional life. I had shrugged it off, being ever so careful not to push him, to wait for the right time.
With swift short strokes, I chopped the scorpion into little pieces. “Thanks for the great times.” Chop, chop, chop. “Here, have a nice Swiss Army knife.” Chop.
Live and let live had always been a philosophy of mine, but some things left alone often came back, and the consequences could be nasty. Scorpions and repressed feelings were two of them.
I pushed the broom back and forth, sweeping the dust and scorpion bits from my patio, and imagined all those chopped up feelings scattered to the wind. Just as I swept the last bit of dirt off the cement, a gust blew a fresh batch across the patio and into the corners. I sneezed, gave up sweeping, and rested my chin on top of the broom handle. A tiny dust devil skipped across the courtyard, over the patio, and swirled around my feet. I sighed.
The strikes that had started in September had continued intermittently through October. About half the military contingency that had occupied Dori during the strikes had left, but Dori was still crawling with soldiers. Our routines at the office had gone along as usual until a staff meeting the day before, when Don had informed us he was being transferred to Somalia. I would be losing a mentor and a friend.
“A new director will come in a few months,” Don had said, smiling at all of our long faces. “But I’m glad to see I’ll be missed.” After the meeting, he took me aside. “You’ll be getting a letter from home office in a few weeks. They want you to stay on another year as full-time staff.”
My head had been flattered but my stomach had sunk to somewhere below my knees. Another year? Home office wanted an answer soon.
A thin coat of dust covered the patio, my bed frame, the tables, and every chair. A stack of school books pinned a pile of my papers to the low table—a project report I’d intended to work on over the weekend. The books belonged to Gray, the new Peace Corps volunteer in town.
That train I had seen coming with the general strike had, rather than running me down, slowed and dropped off two American women instead. The first, Gray, had driven up one day in late September on a lime-green mobylette. She had entered my life with a stiff-armed wave and a look on her face that said she was glad to have landed on this new planet but was not quite sure where in the universe she was. I had invited her to lunch, then to set up camp at my place until the Peace Corps house in town got a new roof.
She had gone to Ouaga for a teacher in-service training three days before, and would be back that afternoon. The curfew of mid-September had ended after a week, and Dori’s social scene had burgeoned, boosted by the increased number of soldiers in town. Gray had managed to get me out of my courtyard and to the Militaire Bar.
Kate, the second woman to disembark the train, worked on women’s projects for the U.S. Agency for International Development, known in short as AID. Kate split her time between the AID offices in Ouaga and its projects in Dori. Both with pretty faces, gregarious natures, and excellent French, Kate and Gray had quickly made friends with the group of soldiers who were regulars at the Militaire Bar. Luanne had also snagged herself a boyfriend, a local man from a nearby village. Everyone had blossomed into socialites.
Everyone but me. After the first few evenings at the Militaire Bar, I had made excuses and stayed away from the social scene. Consequently, I had earned the title, La Femme Impénétrable, translation, “Ice Queen.” Their group of male friends had accused me of being racist because I wouldn’t hook up with one of them. I threw the broom onto the patio and kicked it a few times.
“Assholes.”
I sat on the edge of the hammock and asked myself if that was really the reason. Was I staying away because their skin was a different color? One summer evening when I was in high school, my mother and I had observed my neighbor leave on a date with the cousin of one of my best friends, a Japanese-American. They were a highly respected farming family who had been in the area for two generations, and the kids were among t
he most popular in school.
Mom had shaken her head and turned to me. “You wouldn’t go out with one of them, would you?”
I had been furious and called her all the names teenagers call their parents.
I shook my head. No, I wasn’t avoiding them because they were black. It was because they were men. Fucking men! Gray had advised me not to let their teasing keep me from joining the group. But I knew manipulation when I saw it.
A vulture does not circle without reason.
I picked up the broom and resumed sweeping. I wanted Gray to come back so we could play a game of Scrabble and I could have a beer without worrying over the fact that I was drinking alone. The wind pushed the dirt around the patio as I continued to sweep. By God, I was tired of this damn courtyard, tired of being afraid of a bunch of soldiers who hadn’t fired a gun since they’d arrived. Why was I letting a few jerks intimidate me with their insults?
“A weak person goes where they’re smiled at,” I told the broom. Where had I heard that one? Probably painted on a money-bus or a taxi somewhere.
The buzz of an airplane whined from out of the sky. It was midmorning and the Saturday plane was on time. Gray would be home soon. Forget the Scrabble, tonight we would go out and celebrate her homecoming until the wee hours.
A group of replacement soldiers had arrived that week, and the Militaire Bar, the only party scene in town, was particularly lively even for a Saturday night. Kate had flown in on the plane with Gray, and the three of us, along with Luanne, entered the courtyard.
Soldiers and a few local men, including Luanne’s boyfriend, John, crowded several tables near the center. Kate and Luanne, much shorter than Gray and me, led the way.
Gray took my arm and pulled me along. “You can smile now,” she said through her teeth.
I tried, but my lips were stuck.
The men stood as we approached. A few familiar faces raised their eyebrows at me. I raised mine back. I promised myself if they bugged me too much, I would leave. John pulled up four extra chairs and called the bartender over for more glasses and more Sovobra.
Everyone shook hands, and we were introduced to a man I had not seen before. He looked to be in his early thirties, a captain, sharply dressed in a clean, pressed uniform. A green military beret topped his head at a slant. His name was Drabo. He grasped my hand with a square palm and shook with a gentle firmness.
When shaking hands, I had developed the rather unsociable habit of looking at people’s hands instead of at their faces. A pink half moon rose at the base of his thumbnail, contrasting against the dark skin of his fingers. He was my height.
We all sat and the conversation resumed. They were talking about the black revolutionary movement sweeping Africa.
“Nigeria nationalized their oil so the people will grow rich instead of the oil companies,” Drabo said in polished French.
Luanne sat up very straight. “If the politicians don’t take it first.” She laughed, a hint of hysteria in her voice. Luanne tended to laugh at just about everything, especially the stuff that wasn’t funny.
The table fell silent and I sunk ever so slightly into my chair.
Then John replied, “Oui, c’est toujours possible.” He admitted that corruption was everywhere. None of the soldiers spoke, but they all exchanged quick glances. Several of them pressed their lips together as if to keep themselves from talking.
My hands began to sweat. I wondered at the loyalties of these men who were supposed to be supporting President Lamizana. Whose side were they really on? Since the beginning of the strikes, there had been rumors of a planned military coup to oust Lamizana.
“Les Blancs!” a skinny soldier next to Gray said. The whites. “They do their business with only one tribe, give them more money than the others; give them places in the government. Soon there are more and more problems between the tribes.”
“But now that you’re independent from France,” Luanne said, “you can’t keep blaming the corruption on them.”
The skinny soldier scowled at Luanne, who thrust out her chin. Several others shifted in their chairs. Gray cleared her throat and took a long sip of beer.
“Upper Volta still has strong ties to France.” Kate spoke softly and shifted her big blue eyes from face to face. “As long as business deals go through governments, there will be corruption.” She turned her palms up as if to say, “Everyone suffers from this.”
Several of the men nodded. One soldier stared at Kate, seemingly dazzled by her dark lashes and freckled face.
The skinny soldier next to Gray began talking about the revolution in Rhodesia, where a rebel leader, Robert Mugabe, had organized black majority rule and formed a moderate socialist government. “Now they are Zimbabwe!” he said, raising a fist. “An African name instead of a white one.”
“To Zimbabwe!” Gray unleashed a toothpaste-commercial-smile and raised her glass in a toast; Gray—our goodwill ambassador.
We all clinked our glasses and drank. A couple of young Dutch volunteers walked in and joined us. One, David, had just moved into the house behind mine. He was quiet and shy, but we often said hello over the crumbling wall that separated our courtyards. They pulled over an extra table, shook hands, and ordered more beer.
“Qaddafi is the one to watch.” Drabo rubbed the knuckles of one hand with his finger tips. “He wants to unite all of North and West Africa into a Pan African Republic with himself as leader.”
“Would you want that?” I asked, surprised to hear my own voice.
“Exchange a Voltaique for an Algerian?” Drabo shook his head. “No.”
“At least Qaddafi is from Africa!” the skinny soldier said in a loud voice.
The bar-boy arrived with more beer, and I wondered at the wisdom of more alcohol.
“You’d prefer to have a Qaddafi, an Idi Amin, or a Bokassa?” Luanne said with her laugh. “Someone who spends $200 million dollars to crown himself emperor and shoots children for not wearing school uniforms?”
My God, that woman was gutsy. I drank my beer, wishing Luanne had stayed home.
When nobody said anything, I cleared my throat and spoke again. “Would the OAU permit Qaddafi to take power?”
The Organization of African Unity was a body of African countries whose goal was to promote solidarity among African states. They had held one of their meetings in Monrovia.
Drabo shifted his attention from Luanne to me. He had swirls of brown within the black of his eyes. “Qaddafi has a lot of influence in the OAU, but the other leaders do not trust him.”
“But Qaddafi has gone to the Soviets for support,” Kate said. “What if they help him build a strong enough army?”
“The U.S. won’t let that happen.” Luanne sipped her beer and smiled as though she had just said, “Lovely party, isn’t it?”
“Your Cold War has made a pawn of Africa,” Drabo said. A crease folded the skin between his eyebrows.
The skinny soldier slapped his hand on the table in agreement, and both Gray and I jumped.
“It’s true,” Kate said in her calm, matter-of-fact way. “The main reason for U.S. involvement in Africa is to prevent the Soviets from gaining a foothold here.”
“But your government supports the rich man, the countries who have oil and diamonds to sell,” a middle-aged soldier who had been quiet spoke. “The Soviets support the poor, working man. They are better than the Americans.”
“Too bad we’re on the wrong side!” Luanne said and let loose the hyena in her laugh. Every head in the bar turned.
I looked from person to person in the group, wondering why in the world I picked this night to come out. First they didn’t like me because I was an Ice Queen. Now, like Djelal, it was because I was American. Strike two. Shit.
The Dutch volunteers drank their beers, seemingly unruffled by the anti-American turn the conversation had taken. I wished the U.S. could be more like the Netherlands, which limited its foreign involvement to community development programs. When I looke
d at Drabo, he was looking back at me.
“You’re angry.” He lifted an eyebrow.
My cheeks began a slow burn. “It’s hard to be…” I hesitated, trying to remember the French phrase for “blamed.” “You can’t put the actions of the CIA on our backs.” Oh, shit! Why did I mention the CIA? Gray widened her eyes at me. Luanne smiled. I cleared my throat. “They destroy it for the rest of us who are here trying to help.”
Drabo kept looking at me. All the other soldiers were listening with alert faces.
“We, all of us,” I indicated Kate, Gray, and Luanne. “We grew up with images of American soldiers liberating European towns and handing out chocolate to kids. We’re supposed to be les bons types.” The good guys.
Luanne laughed, and I wanted to stuff my shoe into her mouth. “That was a long time ago. We’ve blown it since then.”
“Yeah, but most Americans still believe that’s the way the world sees us. All the CI—the overthrowing of other country’s leaders isn’t in big print on our front pages.”
My face was so hot I pressed my glass of beer against my cheek to cool it. I had begun to learn about CIA meddling in the world while I was in Liberia and had been angry then. But the Liberians had never directed their suspicions at me personally. I had chosen to hold onto the image that, despite our materialism, America was still seen as a beacon of democracy.
“Most Americans don’t know what’s going on outside the U.S.,” Luanne said with a tsk. “They’re too busy with their cars and their stereos to notice what’s happening over here.”
I remembered the party in LA. “But, is it fair to blame us for what our government is doing?”
“You elect your government.” Drabo leaned toward me. He smelled like soap. “Unlike us, you have a say in what they do.”
“Not when they do it behind our backs!”
“What about our work?” Gray pushed a pair of oversized glasses up her slender nose. “What about Peace Corps and Save the Children?”
“Schools and clinics are good and we need them.” Drabo looked from Gray, to Kate, to me with an expression so neutral I couldn’t read it.
In the Belly of the Elephant Page 7
