“You’re too sad,” Drabo said, putting on his socks.
A goat bleated nearby.
I traced the seam of his mattress with my finger. I had been teary and lethargic since the news of Lily’s death. Drabo had been supportive at first, but was losing patience.
“Do you think you are the only one who has lost someone to death?”
It was as if my life energy had gone off somewhere in search of Lily.
“People die every day, even people we love.” He touched my arm. “The rest of us live.”
I sighed and wiped my eyes. “My sister is coming next month.”
Drabo walked to the tiny mirror propped near the window. “You have another sister?” He put on his beret and adjusted it at an angle.
“No, just the one I’ve told you about.”
“She is leaving her husband?”
I shrugged. “She’s unhappy. She needs a break.”
Drabo frowned. “You American women are too independent. You do what you want, like spoiled children.”
“You sound like my father.”
“You should listen to your father, show him more respect.”
Drabo had, in fact, begun to remind me of my father. They shared the same expectations of women.
“You disapprove of me,” I said.
He turned to look at me, then came and sat next to me on the bed. “Do you love me?”
He had often asked me. I had not been able to answer.
“Do you love me? I asked.
Whenever we had broached the subject, neither of us had answered. We had both ventured into unknown territory and had found it too unfamiliar.
“You don’t love me because I’m African.”
“You don’t love me either, Drabo. My skin isn’t smooth enough. I’m too outspoken. I’m too thin. I’m too independent. I’m not what you want. But I don’t accuse you of not loving me because I’m not African.”
He frowned. “I must report in.”
He escorted me to the street. We walked toward the square and parted silently. I entered the office courtyard and did my morning round of greetings.
Everyone gathered in the conference room for our monthly staff meeting. The new director had arrived. A middle-aged man from some Midwestern state with a wife and a couple of kids. They had set up house in Ouaga. Unlike Don, the new director would be spending most of his time in the Ouaga office, with a trip every now and then to Dori. He had driven up the day before with a VP from Home Office. She was a big time muckity-muck from Save the Children, a woman in her forties who was doing a tour of several African programs. She had on a bright colored silk blouse and a calf-length crinkled skirt. The same orange color of her blouse was splashed about on the print of her skirt. Silk, for crying out loud.
Djelal had returned to his surly self since the arrival of the new director. Though that morning, he was all smiles and hand shakes for the VP in his best blue boubou with embroidery around the neck and cuffs. Nassuru and Fati were also dressed for success, and Adiza had little braids all over her head wrapped in hair wire bent in the shape of flower petals. Even Luanne had donned a batik skirt and matching puffed-sleeve top for the occasion. Jack, the new ag guy, appeared in kakis and a clean shirt that actually looked ironed. I was less than impressive in a wrinkled calf-length dress and flip-flops with my uncombed hair raked back into a ponytail. Hey, they were lucky I’d washed my face.
Djelal had done a good job as interim director. Our meetings over the past months had centered on project problems, village needs, evaluation, and planning. The question of too much organization versus not enough was a popular topic. Now, as we took our usual places around the table, the new director sat at the head in the seat that was usually Djelal’s. Djelal hesitated, then took the seat to the right of the VP. Nassuru, Fati, and Adiza exchanged glances. Jack cleared his throat, and Luanne did a bad job of suppressing a smirk. I sat at the far end of the table, between Nassuru and Fati.
“Well,” the new director began, “as you know, the deadline for submitting our budget for the next fiscal year is rapidly approaching.” He smiled at all of us. “We certainly want to maintain our current level of funding, and we have an opportunity to increase our moneys for next year.”
One day Elephant came across Squirrel on a path to the river. Stubborn and proud Elephant swept squirrel off the path with her trunk, and rumbled, “Out of my way, you of no importance and tiny size!”
Luanne drummed her fingers on the table. Djelal frowned. We all exchanged glances.
“We’ve already written up our projects for next year based on last year’s evaluations,” I said in a somewhat challenging tone. “We’ve determined we won’t need as much money next year.”
The director looked at me with a blank face. The VP pursed her lips.
Squirrel was most offended, as he had every right to be. Stomping his little feet, he decided that he was going to teach Elephant a lesson.
The VP sat forward and talked about a slush fund Home Office had set up. She looked from one face to another. “This is your opportunity to extend old projects or create new ones. We’re challenging the field offices to be more innovative!”
“I bet that I, Squirrel, can eat more palm nuts, and for a longer time, than you, high and mighty Elephant!”
Leave it to Home Office to expect us to request more funding than we needed. They were, in essence, challenging all the country programs to an eating contest. Who could eat the most funds! I crossed my arms and sat back with a tsk.
Djelal cleared his throat. “We have been working very hard to undo a cadeau mentality in the villages. It’s time for us to step back and work for greater self-reliance.”
Adiza nodded. “We’ve developed credit systems with interest and repayment schedules to create village revolving funds.” She gave the new director and the VP a dazzling smile.
The director smiled back in spite of himself. The VP ran her finger along the line of her lower lip. My God, she even had lipstick on that matched her blouse.
I almost rolled my eyes but caught myself, reciting in my head Zooey’s admonition to Franny. If you’re going to go to war against the system, just do your shooting like a nice, intelligent girl because the enemy’s there, and not because you don’t like his hairdo or his goddamn necktie. Salinger knew when it was too damn personal. I sat up a little straighter, tried to look a little more pleasant, remembered the coffee stain on the front of my dress.
“I’m just suggesting that we be careful,” I went on, “not to write up projects and spend money just to maintain a certain level of funding. We should question whether more funding is really needed and discuss long-term effects.”
The silence around the table grew uncomfortable very quickly.
“The idea is to lessen their dependence on our funding,” Luanne said with a glint in her eye, obviously enjoying the tension in the room.
Jack added that he was trying to accomplish the same thing with the ag projects. “Of course, a lot depends on the rainfall and the harvests. It never hurts to have a little extra in case of emergencies.”
The new director smiled and nodded. Jack had won a few points.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to write up a bunch of fat, juicy projects for PR purposes,” I said, knowing my voice was too strident, and not caring.
The new director gave me a long look down the table. Clearly I was going to be a problem. I decided I had said enough.
The rest of the meeting went relatively well with a summary of the projects, and how we could improve field and Home Office communication. After the meeting, the new director and the VP went with Jack to visit a garden project at a nearby oasis. By noon, the director and the VP were on their way back to Ouaga.
As I stepped out the office doors to head home for lunch and sieste, the British Save the Children truck pulled into the compound. Philip got out. I wasn’t surprised to see him. He had stopped in Dori a few times since Christmas to join us at the
Militaire Bar.
He gave me the once over. “You’re looking particularly fetching today.”
I tucked a few loose hairs into the rubber band that bound my ponytail. “On your way to Ouaga?”
“Actually, I’m leaving.” He looked out at the market square, then turned his green eyes on me. “I’ve come to say goodbye.”
The strangest thing happened. My chest expanded then constricted, almost at the same time. I was slightly sick to my stomach. It dawned on me that I was relieved, but also disappointed. The two together were like oil and water, hard to mix, but if shaken enough, they combined briefly.
“Leaving?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re going to miss me.”
“Where are you going?”
“They’re transferring me to Guatemala. Somewhere near your neck of the woods, isn’t it?”
“A couple thousand miles or so south.”
“Yes, well, I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to one of the few Americans I don’t despise.” He almost sneered, but ended up looking alarmingly serious.
His driver started up the engine.
I turned my head at the sound. As I turned back, Philip bent quickly and kissed me on the lips. Then he strode to the car and got in. They backed out and turned right.
I stood at the fence. They drove past the market and down the road. The truck grew smaller until it was a tiny green bug on a beige wall, then it disappeared. All that was left was a cloud of dust, rising into the hazy sky. With a sigh, I turned and walked home.
Toward evening, as the haze turned pink with the sunset, Drabo knocked at my gate. Rocky, who had not left my courtyard since the day he wiggled under the fence, barked and wagged his tail. I welcomed Drabo in and grabbed a cold Sovobra from the frigo. He sat quietly, avoiding eye contact as I poured the beer.
“How was the day?” I asked, wanting to talk about mine.
“We received new orders,” Drabo said, then took a drink of his beer. He finally looked at me. “I’m being transferred back to Ouaga.”
I was suddenly the last kid standing after everybody else had been picked for the team.
“When?”
“In a few days.”
“A few days?!” I sank into a chair. Rocky sat at my feet. “You knew this was coming.”
Drabo took my hand and studied my fingers for a moment. Then he looked at me and said, “Remember the story of the Bida Dragon?”
I nodded. The crickets started up, one by one.
“After Mamadi rescued Sia Jatta Bari, he took her to his village. But she was unhappy. Though Mamadi loved her, she did not love him. One night, after Mamadi had gone to sleep, Sia Jatta Bari took his horse and rode from the village, for though she had stayed there, it was not her home. She left Mamadi, and he never saw her again.”
He turned my palm upward and cupped my hand in his own. He bent and kissed it. I blinked and tears trickled down my cheeks and under my chin.
“You’re the one who’s leaving,” I said.
Turned out Drabo was Sia Jatta Bari and I was Mamadi. In the end, Sia left and all Mamadi got for his pains was the curse of a long dry season in an empty bed.
Chapter 13
News from Home
March/Jumada-al-ula
A grasshopper clung to the outside of the mosquito net, its green tail bobbing up and down. Through the gauze of the net, a sliver of gold rippled at the horizon and grew to an arc, infusing the morning with the leaden heat of March. Today was the day my older sister, Tricia, would arrive. The grasshopper shifted its antennae back and forth, an organic radio listening for sound waves.
A hundred years ago, great swarms of locust invaded the plains and high valleys of the American West, destroying entire crops.
I sat up in bed. Smoke from morning cook-fires hovered above the town like a cloud of insects. Tricia would come today, and with her, a swarm of my family’s unfulfilled expectations. The grasshopper rubbed its back legs together. A trio of yellow-plumed birds flew overhead.
In my memory, sun glinted off brass wings spread wide in an upward spiral against a blue sky. I stood in black patent-leather shoes on the grounds of the Mormon Temple in Salt Lake City, looking up at a sculpture of flying seagulls that rose twenty feet into the heavens. Aunt Ethel stood next to me, telling me a story.
In the early 1870s, the first Mormon settlers tilled the high desert at the foot of the mountains and planted their crops. In late summer, when the corn and wheat bent with the wind in green waves across the fields, a swarm of locust darkened the sky. The settlers watched in despair as the locust descended on the only food they would have to carry them through the coming winter.
When all hope seemed lost, a flock of seagulls appeared. The birds feasted until the insects were gone. As Jehova sent manna from heaven for the followers of Moses, and Allah led Muhammad to victory in battle, so the Almighty Father sent seagulls to save the followers of Brigham Young.
Seemed religions were always claiming that God sent miracles to save his faithful. But, if God wouldn’t save the little girl in Liberia, if God forgot Lily, why would He care about a bunch of humans dumb enough to get lost in the desert, kill one another, or try to coax crops out of the saltiest soil west of the Mississippi? If you asked me, the seagulls had just been hanging around the Great Salt Lake and took advantage of an easy lunch.
The grasshopper clung to my mosquito net a moment longer then hopped into flight with a loud clacking and disappeared over the fence. I got up, dressed, and went to work.
The office buzzed with expectant energy all morning, awaiting the arrival of my elder sister. In Islam, the family and the ummah, the community, were of primary importance. Here was a member of my family coming to Dori, and it was something to be celebrated. The festive mood rehydrated my spirits, and I looked forward to Tricia’s arrival. She had flown into Ouaga the day before and was catching a ride to Dori with Hamidou.
Around four in the afternoon, I sat in my office, doing paperwork and waiting for the truck to arrive. Out the window, dust coated the leaves of the neem trees. I hoped Tricia’s bad back was surviving the bumpy trip from Ouaga. I sighed. The last time I’d seen her, she hadn’t been happy. Had Tricia ever been happy? She had visited me at grad school a few weeks before my departure to Africa.
On a bitter-cold afternoon, we had driven the back roads of Vermont, exploring three-hundred-year-old cemeteries and eating at an inn where George Washington had slept. On the return drive, the light faded and snowflakes fell in big white clumps. The old heater in the VW Bug hummed and blew cold air onto our toes.
Tricia sat shotgun, her face grim in the passing headlights. “I hate being left behind.”
Ice formed on the road and I slowed for a curve blinded by trees. “What do you mean?”
“I feel so abandoned.” She blew out a long breath, steaming the windshield. “It’s just that, I feel like I raised you. In lots of ways, it’s like you’re my child.” She paused. “And now I can’t get pregnant and you’re leaving.”
I blinked at the passing headlights. The heater got too hot, there wasn’t enough air in the tiny space.
“Trish,” I said with a little too much edge, “I’m not your kid, I’m your sister.”
Melancholy had settled into the car the same way the snow had blanketed the trees.
One who needs a thing, will travel on a bad road to get it.
The sound of the Land Rover’s horn sirened in through the window as the truck pulled into the office compound. I stood, took in a deep breath, and hurried out to the courtyard. Everyone bustled out the office doors to form a semicircle around the side of the truck. Adiza ululated a song of welcome and everyone clapped. A big smile on his face, Hamidou stepped out of the truck and opened the back door, presenting Tricia to the group.
She peeked out and swung her legs onto the ground. Hamidou offered his hand and Tricia took it, pulling herself out of the car. Her face streaked with dust, she stood, sl
apping dirt from wrinkled khaki pants and a sweat-stained Pike Street Market T-shirt. “Rats, I’m a mess.”
I wrapped her in a bear hug, feeling the back brace beneath her shirt. The group applauded.
“I thought we’d never get here.” Tricia looked around at the group and attempted to smile. “My God, it’s hot.”
“I tried to warn you.”
I had suggested she wait until the cold season in November to avoid the heat. But until one actually experienced the heat of the Sahel in March and April, it was impossible to imagine. She had wanted to come in the spring, heat or no.
The staff chattered in Fulfuldé, laughing and nodding. They were comparing Tricia to me. Tricia had inherited the square face of my father’s eldest sister. Mine was oval. Tricia’s eyes were hooded like our mother’s while mine were round and open from some hidden gene. The only family resemblances my sister and I shared were height, hand gestures, and Idaho accents. But I knew the staff found us nearly identical since they often joked that all white people looked alike.
“Welcome to Africa!” I took her arm. “Come, let me introduce you.” We stopped at Fati, the first in the circle. “Fati,” I said, “Ma sœur, Tricia. Tricia, Fatima, one of our field agents.”
“Tricia.” Fati pronounced the name “Tritseea,” giggled, and shook Tricia’s hand. “Bien venue à Dori!”
We continued around the circle to Adiza, Nassuru, Jack, Jack’s new ag assistant, Nouhoun, and finally to Djelal, who actually managed to smile. Each one shook her hand, welcoming her.
Hamidou drove us to my compound, smiling at the windshield the whole way. Rocky met us at the gate, barking and turning in circles, his tail thumping against our legs.
Once inside the courtyard, Tricia lowered herself into a chair in the shade. “The bumps on that road nearly knocked my teeth out.”
It was good to see her, though she looked like an undercooked piece of chicken. “Come on, you need a bucket bath.”
“I’m so tired I can’t see straight.” A camel peeked its head over the compound wall. Rocky stood with his paws on the arm of her chair. “A camel.” She smiled like a little kid. “And you have a dog.”
In the Belly of the Elephant Page 11
