The house across the street from us has a clay water pot out front. It is a common sight in Mali, this clay water pot. They can be found in front of mosques, houses and little boutiques. The pot has a cover and usually sitting on top is a plastic cup or two.
Anyone who needs a drink is welcome to come and help themselves. And people do. Mali is hot. People are thirsty. The clay pot keeps the water clean and cool. It is a typical Malian gesture- this kindness in the most basic and humane way.
Just beside our house, there is a footpath that leads to the main road. On the other side of the footpath is a huge lettuce garden. We get a lot of traffic on the footpath, though I haven't quite figured out where everyone is going. Our neighborhood could be considered new; it's still very much a hybrid of half-built houses, lettuce fields and random occupants like us. While there isn't an obvious destination in sight, maybe some are just coming for the water.
There is often a collection of 'talibe boys' who pass by in the morning and evening hours (a quick google search for talibe boys reveals a wealth of information on aid projects and other social programs aimed at their wellbeing.) I have caught myself being annoyed at their begging by my car, in my driveway. As if begging outside a store is somehow better but- just don't bring it home. Ridiculous really, unless I try to justify it by noting that when I go into a store, I can purchase a little food for them but caught in my driveway I am unprepared. I have nothing to give and not giving makes me feel stingy.
I see them go across to the clay water pot and take turns drinking. I have often wished for such a pot in front of my own house. Something that says, I see you. I am keenly aware that the harshest grievance is not refusing to give, but refusing to see. Its important to be looked at, to be greeted and to feel as if you are part of the world. We don't like to do this because looking and seeing results in a sense of responsibility. It's simply not normal to see a young hungry child on the street and turn your head. But we do it. It's simply not possible to bring them all home and offer a cushy bed, or a seat at the dinner table. Sometimes, I buy bread. Or fruit. Or other snacks that we ourselves are in search of, treats. It's not too much to buy an extra box of something or a dozen rolls to share.
It's even easier to put some water outside your house. To welcome those who pass by, and support them in our journey through humanity.
One evening, I watched a group of the boys scamper up to the house, right up close to the wall. They hung around a bit after they had their drink, fooling around and laughing, being physical in that way that boys do. No one came out and shooed them away. No one gave them deep penetrating stares until they slunk their heads and left. Myself, I enjoyed their laughter and their youth. The energy of living in the moment. It contrasted sharply with an experience we'd had in America and the memory came flooding back to me.
We'd been out walking, my aunt, Mbalia, Nabih and I. It was early evening and we were exploring a small patch of woods behind a school across from my aunt's house. A house where she has lived for over 20 years. The woods were really just a small patch of trees between the schoolyard and a wealthy new subdivision behind it.
My aunt led the way through the cool forest path until we emerged into the open- a field of high grass stretched before us abruptly turning into the manicured back lawn of several mini-mansion houses. I stopped in my tracks. Clearly we were trespassing. I looked to my aunt for guidance and she waved me on. She'd done this before. Nabih had the same reaction emerging from the trees. He stopped short and looked at me, questioning.
Later on when we had The Talk, we discussed this moment. This moment of hesitation and the sensation of something being not quite right. Forever and always, we should listen to that moment. Even if your mom tells you to go on ahead, you should question harder. Go with your gut.
We walked skirting the edge of the lawn, trying to balance on an invisible perimeter line. Anyone in their house looking out would see three strangers walking in their previously private and somewhat secluded back yard. Or they might see a small family out enjoying the evening air. It felt weird, but not more so than being a kid and taking the short cut that ran through the neighbor's yard. Until we got to the driveways. It definitely felt too intimate there.
We were in a place we didn't belong, too close to the wealthy. One of the men had come outside and crossed over to his neighbor's garage. He was watching us and waiting for his neighbor to join him. I said good evening but he looked at me coldly, silently. I walked on a few more steps, making my way to neutral ground on the street and turned around to see how close behind Nabih was.
That's when my heart dropped. I saw with someone else's eyes. A guy with a hoodie on, clouding his face. A big guy. Walking on private property. This is how people get shot, I thought. This is it exactly. How stupid of us to have taken what seemed a harmless short cut. How careless of him to be wearing his hood up.
The guy in the driveway was whispering to his neighbor. They stood close, gesturing, clearly pointing out our path. My heart was pounding. I knew they didn't see a 13 year old child. In their eyes, he wasn't the Nabih I knew. They didn't see him as a shy, young boy with a sweet smile and gentle laugh. They would have never have guessed he still kissed his mom goodbye every morning, even in the hallways of middle school surrounded by his friends. And they likely never even thought that his hood was up because he was cold, we were all cold, not quite used to the northern chill, still missing our warm African air, cozy-ing up in our long sleeves and sweaters and hoods.
Nope. They saw a foreigner. A menace. An unknown. Dark and bulky. All their worst imaginings, direct from an American media source nearby being pumped like poisoned well water into their homes night and day, all those easy stereotypes filled their heads. They didn't say hello. No nod. No friendly, 'Where you folks coming from?' Definitely no offer of a glass of water.
It is a stark contrast that America, overflowing with such abundance everyone feels a need to hide in their house and guard their treasures with this Mali, where the little bit of nothing someone has is offered freely with a generous smile. Despite all the 'development,' I'm not convinced Americans are better off. She hasn't sold me on the dream yet.
I had to have a talk with Nabih. I explained the recent history- all the shootings of innocent kids, the bias and racism, the idea that a practical clothing choice could play on the fear of someone else's ignorance. I was a bit surprised at how much he didn't know, and sad I had to introduce him to it. Some of his innocence washed away.
I put my arm around him and enjoyed the feeling of walking down the street with my boy, realizing how it could have all gone wrong in an instant. I had to be much, much more on my toes in America. He could have been hurt- or gone.
Or the guy in the driveway could have said, "You guys get lost? Where y'all coming from?" and we could have laughed and said, "Africa," and he could have said, "Well that's a mighty long way," and then our worlds could have been opened and shared instead of that silent cold stare.
I think about it often when I see groups of kids walking down the streets in Bamako. They have their arms around each other, one leaning on the other or holding hands, journeying together. They surround me at my car, gathering in groups- in masses enough that once or twice I felt a tinge of fear. But my idea of retaliation was to sit them down and lecture them on the behaviors of begging. "If you want to get the most from people," I imagined myself saying,"don't all crowd together at their car. Give people room to breathe and send one or two preferably the youngest....." I cut off my imaginary lecture as I realized how absurd it all sounded. There are no easy answers.
We impose random things to normalize it all. A friend lines them up in order of age and begins by handing cookies to the youngest. I give out my rolls to the girls first, then the youngest boys. When they all grab and no one says thank you, I impose manners on them. As if it is going to change their prospects in life. When I give out oranges, I insist that they share, and then follow them to make sure it happens. Silly things, useless things.
But there is an exchange. No cold stares. No quiet judging of who I think they are or what they're capable of. I know they are children and they are children who are missing a lot of things I believe children should have. I can't fix that. But I can offer a smile, a small treat, an expectation that we treat each other with respect. I can say hello.
Even when they are in my driveway holding their oversized empty cans, staring at me with tired brown eyes, standing too close in their dirty, torn clothes and reaching out with too thin arms - I can still say Bonsoir, ca va? And I can really mean it. How are you, neighbor?
Showing posts with label youth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label youth. Show all posts
13.9.18
27.2.17
The Fool and the Contra-Fool
I had been keeping up with my list pretty nicely, my miss/ won't miss list about Abidjan. I was actually surprised that the miss side was getting a little long and half-heartedly wondering how to put it all together. But then a few taxi stories happened, and I lost my wi-fi for a week, which turned out to be blissful, and I almost forgot that I was keeping a list at all.
Then one afternoon, after a long, tiring day when my patience was low and my head pain, leg pain, neck pain, over-all-getting-older body pain was high, the fool showed up and I wondered how I could have forgotten to add him to the list. Definitely a NOT miss.
He always seems to show up when I am at my lowest. We first met the fool when we lived in M'Puto village. He is one of those street wandering people who is out of touch with the world, but just enough in touch to have random conversations. I suspect he has a home somewhere and a family that takes him in each night because he is one step up in cleanliness than the true street person would be. He is left to wander all day and he makes his rounds throughout the neighborhood. People know him and generally just say he is "not right." He's definitely one of those cases that highlights the lack of mental health care in Africa.
He took an interest in the boys and used to follow them around whenever he happened to cross paths with them. It didn't help that Christian, with his soft heart, used to buy him a soda every so often. We saw the fool less after we moved, but he was still a presence in the neighborhood.
I am not sure when it happened, exactly, but at some point he started believing in a mythical relationship between us. Whenever he sees me, he will start following me, talking to himself the whole time. In a few instances, when I'd gotten into a taxi, he stood there talking to me, as though making plans for later. Most of his words are incomprehensible, but occasionally he will come out with a complete phrase, Meet me at Soccoci or We left Deux Plateaux together or some other description of a completely imaginary event. Sometimes he catches the taxi driver off guard just enough that he waits, thinking there is a real conversation happening.
The fool will follow me into a store, trailing along behind me pretending to buy something. He will go wherever I go and if I turn around or stop walking, he will do the same. There is no shaking him. A few nights he followed me close to home. I will not go all the way to my house, because I fear if he knows where I live, I will find him there every morning, waiting outside my door. On those occasions when I'd arrived just to the phone cabine before my house, Ivan, my ever friendly and oh so reliable phone cabin guy, would intervene and get the fool turned around in the direction he'd come from. One talking to was so effective he didn't even follow me the next few times he saw me.
Ivan has left his post, however, and I am a bit defenseless on the route home now. Diallo, our friendly neighborhood boutique guy, tried helping me one night, but he is too soft spoken and gentle to have any effect. That night I sat watching a soccer match at a collection of tables and chairs that had sprung up as an eatery and gathering place in response to Ivan's closure while Diallo tried to convince my stalker to go on his way.
It was late, and while I generally believe, as does most of the neighborhood, that he is harmless, we passed a few dark patches in the road that made me really consider my situation for a minute. It is frustrating to have no power over your circumstances. And I really have no idea which connections have gone wrong for him, or when the others may follow suit, fragile holds on this world snapping as he imagines a slight or insult or even a fit of jealous retribution.
The therapist part of me hates to call him the "fool." It is how the Africans refer to him. But the person part of me gets angry when he appears with his relentless effort. This last time, I'd had a particularly long day, and I'd pulled a muscle in my leg which made walking painful. He was there when I got out of the taxi and my whole body sighed. I just wanted to go home and rest, but it was clear, with his presence, that would not be a quick or easy route. I decided to go to the pharmacy, something I'd been avoiding just because I was dreaming of soft cushions and an overhead fan.
The pharmacy security did not let him in, but he stood outside waiting. I bought my coveted Advil 400 and left. Predictably, he followed me to the main road. I had been wondering if I, myself, had ever made it clear that I didn't want him around. Maybe my silence was sending a message of its own. I took the opportunity to turn and tell him to leave me alone, go on his way, continue his day but just leave me be!
In response, he raised his hand to signal a taxi for me. I was having the kind of day where I decided to just hail a cab and outrun him in search of the refuge my small home offered. And there, on the heels of my anger, he was helping me flee.
While he makes my won't miss list, there is another follower that I will miss. He is one of Mohamed's old friends and a neighborhood kid. There's a fine group of them now, between Mohamed's friends and Ousmane's soccer trainees, that say hello to me as we pass on the dusty streets of our cartier. But this one, I've always had a soft heart for this one. I remember one rainy evening, when the heavy downfall let up for a minute and all of the boys ran for home, but he, he stayed. Mohamed pulled out some old board games and looked for lost pieces so they could amuse themselves 'old school style' since the power was out. His staying had an air of nothing better to do and nowhere better to go.
Since then, I have found him often at my house, long after Mohamed is no longer there. I've found him crashed on the living room floor after a particularly intense morning of soccer training. I imagine his house full of cousins and uncles and noise. I smile to think my cold, hard floor feels like a little bit of peace to him. He's been known to sit outside the front door, resting on an empty potter, using the internet when no one is home. And sometimes, when I come back with groceries to find him there, he grabs a shopping bag and brings it right in, and sits down for a minute.
I see him around the neighborhood, walking fast and always a quick smile on his face. I am told he is intelligent, keeps a fragile bond with the other boys- hanging when it's good but knows enough to leave when it's not. He is always polite, snatching a bag from my hand or offering to carry my packages whenever he sees me walking. "Bonjor tantie," he says, his long legs don't seem to break any stride as he smoothly replaces my hand with his and takes off at a gamble. I met him at my house, wondering how we managed to arrive at the same time, when he was so far ahead of me. He told me he stopped home to report in on some errand he'd been sent on before making his way to my house, package in tow. It all appears like one effortless stride, he is so fast and focused.
My favorite memory is the day I'd been walking with Mbalia, who stopped mid-street to comment on something or notice something in her 2 year old way. T comes along with his light steps and scoops her up, keeps walking, though the way he moves is more like a hover board speeding just inches above the ground. He is sweet talking her all the way to the house. I am sure she has no idea what has just happened.
She has always loved seeing Mohamed's friends, since he left especially, and I am sure she was just reveling in his attention. I opened the outside door and he brought her in, deposited her on the porch and even helped her to take off her shoes and socks before he was speeding out into the night again. Full service delivery, I think.
It makes the miss list because I am always impressed how these boys, and this boy in particular, will drop what he is doing and go out of his way to help. They have banded together before to help me, countless times, really, with carrying the propane tank and even hooking it up (you never know when a certain tank will have a valve that just doesn't turn.) I am impressed by this ingrained sense of duty they have to help an older person. There's no question. You are walking with something, they carry it. You need something, they go to the store to get it. It is the heirarchy in Africa that is helpful, creates an order and structure. They've accepted me into it here and I just might miss that. The neighborhood kids, and this one in particular.
Then one afternoon, after a long, tiring day when my patience was low and my head pain, leg pain, neck pain, over-all-getting-older body pain was high, the fool showed up and I wondered how I could have forgotten to add him to the list. Definitely a NOT miss.
He always seems to show up when I am at my lowest. We first met the fool when we lived in M'Puto village. He is one of those street wandering people who is out of touch with the world, but just enough in touch to have random conversations. I suspect he has a home somewhere and a family that takes him in each night because he is one step up in cleanliness than the true street person would be. He is left to wander all day and he makes his rounds throughout the neighborhood. People know him and generally just say he is "not right." He's definitely one of those cases that highlights the lack of mental health care in Africa.
He took an interest in the boys and used to follow them around whenever he happened to cross paths with them. It didn't help that Christian, with his soft heart, used to buy him a soda every so often. We saw the fool less after we moved, but he was still a presence in the neighborhood.
I am not sure when it happened, exactly, but at some point he started believing in a mythical relationship between us. Whenever he sees me, he will start following me, talking to himself the whole time. In a few instances, when I'd gotten into a taxi, he stood there talking to me, as though making plans for later. Most of his words are incomprehensible, but occasionally he will come out with a complete phrase, Meet me at Soccoci or We left Deux Plateaux together or some other description of a completely imaginary event. Sometimes he catches the taxi driver off guard just enough that he waits, thinking there is a real conversation happening.
The fool will follow me into a store, trailing along behind me pretending to buy something. He will go wherever I go and if I turn around or stop walking, he will do the same. There is no shaking him. A few nights he followed me close to home. I will not go all the way to my house, because I fear if he knows where I live, I will find him there every morning, waiting outside my door. On those occasions when I'd arrived just to the phone cabine before my house, Ivan, my ever friendly and oh so reliable phone cabin guy, would intervene and get the fool turned around in the direction he'd come from. One talking to was so effective he didn't even follow me the next few times he saw me.
Ivan has left his post, however, and I am a bit defenseless on the route home now. Diallo, our friendly neighborhood boutique guy, tried helping me one night, but he is too soft spoken and gentle to have any effect. That night I sat watching a soccer match at a collection of tables and chairs that had sprung up as an eatery and gathering place in response to Ivan's closure while Diallo tried to convince my stalker to go on his way.
It was late, and while I generally believe, as does most of the neighborhood, that he is harmless, we passed a few dark patches in the road that made me really consider my situation for a minute. It is frustrating to have no power over your circumstances. And I really have no idea which connections have gone wrong for him, or when the others may follow suit, fragile holds on this world snapping as he imagines a slight or insult or even a fit of jealous retribution.
The therapist part of me hates to call him the "fool." It is how the Africans refer to him. But the person part of me gets angry when he appears with his relentless effort. This last time, I'd had a particularly long day, and I'd pulled a muscle in my leg which made walking painful. He was there when I got out of the taxi and my whole body sighed. I just wanted to go home and rest, but it was clear, with his presence, that would not be a quick or easy route. I decided to go to the pharmacy, something I'd been avoiding just because I was dreaming of soft cushions and an overhead fan.
The pharmacy security did not let him in, but he stood outside waiting. I bought my coveted Advil 400 and left. Predictably, he followed me to the main road. I had been wondering if I, myself, had ever made it clear that I didn't want him around. Maybe my silence was sending a message of its own. I took the opportunity to turn and tell him to leave me alone, go on his way, continue his day but just leave me be!
In response, he raised his hand to signal a taxi for me. I was having the kind of day where I decided to just hail a cab and outrun him in search of the refuge my small home offered. And there, on the heels of my anger, he was helping me flee.
While he makes my won't miss list, there is another follower that I will miss. He is one of Mohamed's old friends and a neighborhood kid. There's a fine group of them now, between Mohamed's friends and Ousmane's soccer trainees, that say hello to me as we pass on the dusty streets of our cartier. But this one, I've always had a soft heart for this one. I remember one rainy evening, when the heavy downfall let up for a minute and all of the boys ran for home, but he, he stayed. Mohamed pulled out some old board games and looked for lost pieces so they could amuse themselves 'old school style' since the power was out. His staying had an air of nothing better to do and nowhere better to go.
Since then, I have found him often at my house, long after Mohamed is no longer there. I've found him crashed on the living room floor after a particularly intense morning of soccer training. I imagine his house full of cousins and uncles and noise. I smile to think my cold, hard floor feels like a little bit of peace to him. He's been known to sit outside the front door, resting on an empty potter, using the internet when no one is home. And sometimes, when I come back with groceries to find him there, he grabs a shopping bag and brings it right in, and sits down for a minute.
I see him around the neighborhood, walking fast and always a quick smile on his face. I am told he is intelligent, keeps a fragile bond with the other boys- hanging when it's good but knows enough to leave when it's not. He is always polite, snatching a bag from my hand or offering to carry my packages whenever he sees me walking. "Bonjor tantie," he says, his long legs don't seem to break any stride as he smoothly replaces my hand with his and takes off at a gamble. I met him at my house, wondering how we managed to arrive at the same time, when he was so far ahead of me. He told me he stopped home to report in on some errand he'd been sent on before making his way to my house, package in tow. It all appears like one effortless stride, he is so fast and focused.
My favorite memory is the day I'd been walking with Mbalia, who stopped mid-street to comment on something or notice something in her 2 year old way. T comes along with his light steps and scoops her up, keeps walking, though the way he moves is more like a hover board speeding just inches above the ground. He is sweet talking her all the way to the house. I am sure she has no idea what has just happened.
She has always loved seeing Mohamed's friends, since he left especially, and I am sure she was just reveling in his attention. I opened the outside door and he brought her in, deposited her on the porch and even helped her to take off her shoes and socks before he was speeding out into the night again. Full service delivery, I think.
It makes the miss list because I am always impressed how these boys, and this boy in particular, will drop what he is doing and go out of his way to help. They have banded together before to help me, countless times, really, with carrying the propane tank and even hooking it up (you never know when a certain tank will have a valve that just doesn't turn.) I am impressed by this ingrained sense of duty they have to help an older person. There's no question. You are walking with something, they carry it. You need something, they go to the store to get it. It is the heirarchy in Africa that is helpful, creates an order and structure. They've accepted me into it here and I just might miss that. The neighborhood kids, and this one in particular.
26.5.15
Finishing Boys
School is out for summer. Not for me – but for Mohamed and many of the boys in the
neighborhood. It felt like they barely went to school. Finishing at 12:30
equals only a half day in my book and I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t
continue school year round with a schedule like that. I’m feeling lost and
anxious about what to do with him (and by extension them) for the next few
months. I hate to think of the bad habits forming from all these hours of hanging around with nothing to do. Year after year after year.
“Finishing schools” (I’m not really sure what else to call them, skill schools maybe?) for girls are quite popular. They are an aid/NGO thing and I’ve seen them here and in Congo. They offer training in skills like sewing, hairdressing, manicures and even technology. Some also have courses in reading and writing and math. The walls around these schools often have pictures of women and girls engaged in all sorts of useful tasks designed to keep them busy and provide a livelihood.
My unease about the long schoolless weeks ahead led to me wondering what kind of skills would be useful for guys. How would we “finish” them? If such schools existed (and I was, of course, imagining the start of a new trend all across Africa) what would they offer? Most importantly, I wonder why they don’t already exist. A recent conversation with the boys about how to be beautiful inside and outside and how to treat the hordes of girls who would soon be surrounding them reminds me of this article about a school for husbands. The time is ripe for a new trend.
I find myself trying to dish out these small bits of wisdom as Mohamed reaches those difficult years of teenage-dom. He’s got lots of energy, he’s right about everything and he wants to please his friends. I am happy that he’s made so many friends but it seems one solution has led to another problem. I recognize this as not just our problem but the problem of all developing countries (can I call them emerging countries? Is that a term that has taken hold yet? So many countries in Africa and Asia are taking off and flying into modern times with more services and advancements than can be found in Europe or the US.)
The unending voyage of migrants is a testament to the dismal situations boys and men are facing. They spend days, weeks and months with nothing to fill their time and no prospects for a future. What are they to do with all of their time? Mohamed’s ceaseless requests for small money (100franc alloco, 50 franc bissap and on and on) resulted in me sending him off in search of a way to make money. We quickly deduced that it was futile. Things kids do for money in other countries are careers here. Selling lemonade- women feed their children on profits from making and selling cold drinks. Raking? Pulling weeds? It’s known as agriculture here and there is no shortage of farmers in the lettuce fields. Small jobs for youth don't exist, unless it is money going to feed the family.
This early search for money is only the beginning of a lifetime of deadend leads down a road to nowhere. When I think of the boys in our neighborhood, I am frightened for their future. Some may get scholarships to better schools (it is the practice for students to attend Ivorian schools until the last two years when the smartest ones can get entrance to the French schools- at government pay, I believe. My colleague in the secondary school tells me they arrive strong in French and math skills, subjects of emphasis in the French system. They are well prepared to take the exams.) But not all students have this opportunity. And higher or better education does not always ensure employment.
What of the ones who squeak by with 50%? They may end up selling wares in a small boutique or along the roadside. They might have the chance to learn a trade such as mechanics, electricity or carpentry. Some may find themselves in labor- working with cement or doing the preconstruction tasks of digging and clearing. There is always the ever present phone credit business. I’m going out on a limb to offer another of my intensely unscientific statistics to guess that of all the boys Mohamed hangs out with (4 or 5 solid friends and another 5 -6 interlocutors) maybe 2 will end up in one of these situations. And the rest? Wandering about town wondering how to fill their days, gathering in groups at the corner spaghetti shack to talk about the latest soccer scores, dreaming of a faraway life in another world where work is possible and the basic comforts of life are not considered a luxury. Surely there is a better finish for our boys?
“Finishing schools” (I’m not really sure what else to call them, skill schools maybe?) for girls are quite popular. They are an aid/NGO thing and I’ve seen them here and in Congo. They offer training in skills like sewing, hairdressing, manicures and even technology. Some also have courses in reading and writing and math. The walls around these schools often have pictures of women and girls engaged in all sorts of useful tasks designed to keep them busy and provide a livelihood.
My unease about the long schoolless weeks ahead led to me wondering what kind of skills would be useful for guys. How would we “finish” them? If such schools existed (and I was, of course, imagining the start of a new trend all across Africa) what would they offer? Most importantly, I wonder why they don’t already exist. A recent conversation with the boys about how to be beautiful inside and outside and how to treat the hordes of girls who would soon be surrounding them reminds me of this article about a school for husbands. The time is ripe for a new trend.
I find myself trying to dish out these small bits of wisdom as Mohamed reaches those difficult years of teenage-dom. He’s got lots of energy, he’s right about everything and he wants to please his friends. I am happy that he’s made so many friends but it seems one solution has led to another problem. I recognize this as not just our problem but the problem of all developing countries (can I call them emerging countries? Is that a term that has taken hold yet? So many countries in Africa and Asia are taking off and flying into modern times with more services and advancements than can be found in Europe or the US.)
The unending voyage of migrants is a testament to the dismal situations boys and men are facing. They spend days, weeks and months with nothing to fill their time and no prospects for a future. What are they to do with all of their time? Mohamed’s ceaseless requests for small money (100franc alloco, 50 franc bissap and on and on) resulted in me sending him off in search of a way to make money. We quickly deduced that it was futile. Things kids do for money in other countries are careers here. Selling lemonade- women feed their children on profits from making and selling cold drinks. Raking? Pulling weeds? It’s known as agriculture here and there is no shortage of farmers in the lettuce fields. Small jobs for youth don't exist, unless it is money going to feed the family.
This early search for money is only the beginning of a lifetime of deadend leads down a road to nowhere. When I think of the boys in our neighborhood, I am frightened for their future. Some may get scholarships to better schools (it is the practice for students to attend Ivorian schools until the last two years when the smartest ones can get entrance to the French schools- at government pay, I believe. My colleague in the secondary school tells me they arrive strong in French and math skills, subjects of emphasis in the French system. They are well prepared to take the exams.) But not all students have this opportunity. And higher or better education does not always ensure employment.
What of the ones who squeak by with 50%? They may end up selling wares in a small boutique or along the roadside. They might have the chance to learn a trade such as mechanics, electricity or carpentry. Some may find themselves in labor- working with cement or doing the preconstruction tasks of digging and clearing. There is always the ever present phone credit business. I’m going out on a limb to offer another of my intensely unscientific statistics to guess that of all the boys Mohamed hangs out with (4 or 5 solid friends and another 5 -6 interlocutors) maybe 2 will end up in one of these situations. And the rest? Wandering about town wondering how to fill their days, gathering in groups at the corner spaghetti shack to talk about the latest soccer scores, dreaming of a faraway life in another world where work is possible and the basic comforts of life are not considered a luxury. Surely there is a better finish for our boys?
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