The baby voices outside my window were sweet and innocent. So cute. There wasn't a hint of the power and determination hiding within. It was mid-morning and I'd come home to use the internet and get some writing done. The deadline for my last paper had passed, twice, and I was scrambling to put something intelligible together.
There is no such thing as privacy in village life. All of my neighbors know when I come and go, the hours I wake and sleep, the visitors I have or don't have. They know if I'm late to work or have stopped home for lunch, usually a cup of tea, in the afternoon. There is no hiding from the babies. They say goodbye to me every morning and are usually the first to greet me when I return. The babies like to dance, and we'd gotten into a habit of listening to music while I cook in the evening. But this morning, I had one objective: writing.
I shut the door, closed the curtains and huddled up close to my computer. I'd barely written a few sentences when the tiny voices began. "Mama Soumah, mama Soumah, open the door." I ignored them for a bit, but babies are not easily ignored. I tried reasoning. "I'm working, come back later. I am working hard." That was really as far as my Lingala could stretch. I realized their concept of working was far different from what I appeared to be doing. Work was outside, cooking, sweeping, carrying water. Work was loud with laughter or singing or even yelling. I was inside, quiet, alone. What kind of work could I possibly be doing?
My paper was about Congolese social movements and the legacy of protest. I was busy writing about students calling out the assassination of Lumumba and the university massacre of the 90s. I was immersed in public demands for Mobutu to resign and the masses imploring Kabila to degage. Outside my door, the sweet voices turned indignant. "MAMA SOUMAH." It was clear whatever else they were saying meant, we know you're in there and we're not leaving until you open up. That's when the banging started. Things escalated quickly from there. The rascals started rattling the doors, pounding their fists, shaking the metal window frames. The cries turned into screams. I kept quiet and tried to concentrate. A real live protest was erupting outside my door. What better ambiance?
After what seemed like far too long, one of the mamas showed up to see what all the commotion was about. There was more yelling, threats of violence, babies crying, maybe even some real violence, and then finally...quiet.
The girls didn't hold it against me, nor I against them. We met for our regular dance-cooking party that evening, and we're still working on boundaries. My paper is finished and I am presenting a summary tonight. Luckily, it will be around midnight my time, the babies should all be sleeping.
