Since arriving in Abidjan, I've had the occasion to write about a few experiences which felt miraculous. Though small in nature, at the time the impact was great. And unexplainable. Miraculous, really.
But there have been the 'others' as well. The opposite of a miracle? Or maybe I just mean the opposite force. Or maybe it is all one force - a random universe force that isn't 'good' or 'bad' but just is.
Rather than get into the philosophical side of things maybe its just easier to tell the story. There is a lingering part of this from Kinshasa that I haven't ever told. And if I were to go all the way back to the beginning, well there are moments here and there from early teens. The most terrifying when I was about 14.
Many years have passed since then, of course, and even the Kinshasa incident felt isolated and connected to my relationship with a person rather than completely otherworldly of itself. Remove the person and the spiritual stuff calmed right down.
This time, it was near the beginning of school, that time of year when it always feels crisp and clean to me like autumn air, though I've lived in Africa for 8 years - long and far from real autumn freshness. A new school year coupled with a new job was meant to lend some excitement, but I was still lost in the haze and confusion and slightly unwelcoming sense I've had since moving to Abidjan.
One of these new school mornings I woke up with a large bruise on my neck. There were two long scratches and two small puncture wounds in the area. I looked as though I'd had a run in with a cross from the wicked witch of the west and the Wesley Snipes character Blade. I imagined all kinds of complicated and unlikely scenarios about how this could have happened without me waking. The bruise was a deep, dark purple and the scratches long and scabbed. While it gave me an opportunity to meet the school nurse, she didn't really have any concrete ideas about how it could have happened either.
I walked around for days feeling unnerved by the idea of spiders and other creepy crawlies getting that close to me- to my face! to my baby!- but eventually put the whole idea out of mind. I sleep tucked inside a mosquito net and began to make extra sure each night that all the edges were secure.
Over the next few months, other odd things started happening. Scratches and bruises appearing in the morning, or sometimes even in the middle of the day it seemed, that I couldn't explain. I have always bruised rather easily but some of these marks were so big and deep purple that is seemed impossible not to have felt pain at the moment- a bump I should have remembered.
An internet search revealed that these mysterious signs aren't that uncommon. Apparently there is a whole community of people who suffer from unexplained scratches and bruises which I can now reluctantly join. I won't link any of the pages here because I found the whole thing disturbing. I am super sensitive to paranormal stories and even alien conspiracy theories and I couldn't sleep for at least a week.
Other searches included looking for spiders and insect bites that might result in some of the markings I had, even a grisly search about whether cockroaches bite (anything to get the idea of spirits and alien abductions out of my head. I could battle an angry cockroach a lot easier than the unseens.) Turns out cockroaches are scavengers and, if caught munching on humans, it would most likely be finger or toenails or eyebrows (yeah, apparently there was a story or two about eyebrows being completely munched off -eeew!) In those cases, the websites assure, you'd have to have a HUGE infestation of the bugs and most likely it would never get to that point without some kind of intervention.
While I do see the occasional cockraoch around, it is no more than you might expect for living in the backwoods of a tropical country. There is definitely no infestation and I felt pretty sure that was not the cause of my mysterious markings. Great. Sort of.
Last week I woke up to seven scratches on the back of my calf and two nights ago, after an intensive (but harmless) dance class, I found a bruise covering my knee, swollen and painful and unexplainable. I'd been mentioning them to a friend, especially after that internet search that freaked me out. She shared some of my story with her friend, someone who has been here in Ivory Coast for the last few decades. "Well, what they would say around here is that it is one of the masks." She was referring to my small collection of masks hanging on my living room walls. She mentioned that one of them had felt unsettled to her when she'd last been at my place.
I considered this. I imagined each of the masks I'd bought, the way they'd called out to me in the market. We'd shared a long intimate gaze and I'd walked away and returned to each of them several times before finally purchasing. I've been living with most of them for years. The oldest since 2001, the newest since maybe 2012? 2013? I admire them, appreciate them, consider them. I feel like we have a pretty friendly relationship. I like to think I would notice if someone was feeling upset.
I came home that night with new eyes. I asked them each if they were doing ok. I considered who might be missing Kinshasa, or be feeling ill placed or even slightly dusty. I didn't have a feeling of malevolence. They seemed like my same old masks. The friend of a friend had also mentioned if it wasn't the masks, then maybe it was something that had occured in the house previously.
I wondered why it had taken a year to present itself. Aside from the few nights after my internet search and an occasional night here or there, I'd felt nothing but safe in the house. Still I've begun considering a move. I think of scary movies and how, when you're watching, you keep yelling at the charcaters to just move already and you wonder what is taking them so long. You say, "If that were me, I would be out of there! Why is she staying in that house?!"
But of course, in real life, there are always other considerations. Real life complications. Money, finding a place, getting a moving truck, saying goodbye to your neighborhood- which for all its inconveniences, you've grown to love a little bit. In Africa, deposits can run from 3-6 months of rent plus realtor fees. It's a sizeable amount of cash. Location is everything and finding something affordable in the right place is akin to the old needle in the haystack, or winning the lottery. Whenever someone moves into a new spot, the first question everyone asks is, "How did you find it?"
I'm still feeling calm, or at least, unthreatened, even as I keep better track of the mysterious scratches and bruises on me, the aches and pains from the boys and anything else out of the ordinary. I've got my mind on moving, even if all the small pieces aren't in place yet. And I am considering a few other options, African options for an African problem I suppose. It's sure to lead to at least a few more interesting tales.
31.1.16
27.1.16
A few more stories
I think there are a few more stories to tell, though I am sinking ever deeper into the fabirc of Africa. It gets harder to discern what is worthwhile and I am enjoying evermore just being.
I have been adopted however, and that is sure to signal the beginning of adventure- or so I am hoping. The story of my adoption is one of those 'few more stories' left to tell, as is the mystery of my masks- or secret markings, depending upon how you want to look at it.
Yes, I guess I am trying to entice you to return. I might need a weekend before I can do either of those stories good justice but I am brimming with newfound family in dance and overflowing with tenderness for my masks of Congo, who might be suffering some homesickness along with me (on occasion, ever slightly less but always present just under the surface.)
There are possibilities on the horizon, ripe and near fruition - 2016 is already promising so much - but it all still feels too precarious to give words to.
Just a weekend, maybe and I will try to find voice again to share the uncovering of these tales.
I have been adopted however, and that is sure to signal the beginning of adventure- or so I am hoping. The story of my adoption is one of those 'few more stories' left to tell, as is the mystery of my masks- or secret markings, depending upon how you want to look at it.
Yes, I guess I am trying to entice you to return. I might need a weekend before I can do either of those stories good justice but I am brimming with newfound family in dance and overflowing with tenderness for my masks of Congo, who might be suffering some homesickness along with me (on occasion, ever slightly less but always present just under the surface.)
There are possibilities on the horizon, ripe and near fruition - 2016 is already promising so much - but it all still feels too precarious to give words to.
Just a weekend, maybe and I will try to find voice again to share the uncovering of these tales.
1.1.16
Christmas a la Cote
Just in case you are wondering, Christmas in Ivory Coast is just as decked out, over-inflated, and amped up as anywhere. The streets are lined with row after row of unmoving but ever homking cars. Gift wrappers offer to bundle your purchases in bright packaging for stress free giving.
I took this opportunity to visit the big Orca Deco in Marcory. This department store is four full stories of everything you think you need and plenty of stuff you don't, including an entire wing of fabric bolts that sent my imagination on fire.
Trying to navigate this store in the pre-Christmas rush was rough- I just kept my head down and my sights focused. I had only a few things in mind and refused to even head over to the toy section. They do offer an after Christmas discount though, and that's when things really got bad.
On my second visit, I took more time to explore the store- still not making it past the first floor. I browsed housewares and craftwares, Christmas-wares and toys. I had that Dorothy-out-of-Kansas feeling and wondered if I was even still in Africa. Whatever I needed, surely it was here and possibly even at a price I could afford.
My senses were thrown completely out of balance as I walked by colored light displays and snowmen and santas smiling serenely, wishing me a peaceful season. I was completely overwhelmed by the stocked shelves, the merchandise exploding out of unpacked boxes cramming the aisles, and row after row of choice. Too much choice. I felt an odd urge to take photos- a tourist in the land of holiday wonder.
I went back a few days later, drawn like a gawker to a roadside accident. This time I brought Nabih and I did snap a few photos, though somehow resisted (and now regret) a few that I didn't take. Nabih was looking to spend a bit of his birthday cash and he managed to find something in the happy medium between the Chinese knockoffs and the over-priced imports. Fantastic. One step closer to understanding the Abidjan-is-Paris phenomenon (but wait, I thought Bandal was Paris? Not sure why I keep winding up in places that claim to be Paris but, having never really explored Paris, I can't hope to understand the comparison. Not really. My guess, in the case of Bandal, that it is more about the ambiance and in the case of Abidjan, more about the offerings. The two places themselves- Bandal and Abidjan, or even Kinshasa and Abidjan for that matter, couldn't be more different.)
Some highlights from around the city- complete with that ubiquitous reference to Paris.
But of course, Abidjan is not Paris. There are some major differences, important differences as I came to find out just a few days after Christmas. I had stopped by the bank- yeah, on New Year's Eve, not the best of choices. After sizing up the situation inside- at least a 2 hour wait- I decided to just hit the ATM outside, even if it meant less cash on hand and an inconvenient return trip in the next few days.
I was waiting in line (a much more desireable line of 2, of which I was first) when I heard that all too familiar but always sickening crunch and tearing of metal. I covered my head and turned away- I have long ago learned how haunted I am by tragedy and did my best not to engrain any images. All I saw before turning was an orange taxi speeding away.
Of course, I eventually turned my attention back to the crash. My line wasn't moving and the whole street had become involved by now. A motorcycle was down. The driver had gotten up and was holding his head in his hands as he paced back and forth. My first thought was a grateful prayer until I realized he wasn't just bemoaning a headache or the loss of his bike. Someone else was there, on the ground, and he hadn't gotten up. I peeked just around the corner of a car parked in front of the bank, mercifully blocking my view. Sleep was going to be hard enough to come by this night. I saw an arm, confirmed a friend on the ground and returned to my hampered perspective.
Cars continued to move slowly forward, around - and what I can only imagine was perilously close- to the injured passenger. I wanted someone to go over and stop traffic- turn it back, make it wait, anything but drive by the tragedy. The security guard next to me was calling the local emergency number. No one was answering. So much for Abidjan being Paris. Not where it counts anyway, not for the important things.
People were commentating- a woman in the ATM line was so graphic I had to tune her out. I assumed it was her way of dealing with shock, but she was including too much detail in her account of the man hitting the concrete. Others were murmuring not to move him- good advice although in the end useless. There was no emergency team coming, no paramedics, no stretcher, no police, nothing. No one.
Ironically, there was a clinic just two doors down from the bank. Surely there could be a faster response? I turned to the security guard. "So what are we going to do then?" I'd hoped to spur some action.
"I am calling, but no one is answering. They are going to take him." He gestured to the street. I turned around to see what appeared to be one of the gbakas, though I didn't really see any seats inside. I couldn't tell if it was just someone who had stopped to volunteer (I strongly suspect) or maybe a vehicle from the nearby clinic.
"They will take him to the hospital?" I repeated, needing confirmation. We watched as a group of men picked up the injured motorcycle passenger and placed him in the back of the vehicle. No backboard brace, no stretcher, no IV, no on-scene treatment.
It is what infuriates me most about African road accidents. Injury is often compounded by the wait times for intervention and unavailability of emergency treatment. Not to mention the taxi driver, who just continued on his way after plowing through congested traffic and mowing down a motorcycle. I wondered if he had passengers and how they'd responded. How would I respond if I had been in the taxi?
But mostly my thoughts remained with the injured man. My mind kept repeating sorry- not the American sorry used for apology related to guilt for wrongdoing, but the African sorry full of empathy and sympathy that says I am human too and us humans need to be there for each other. I'm sorry that this happened, on this day, unexpectedly and completely avoidable.
I kept thinking how this morning he was just a regular guy, full of plans and positivity. Maybe he had a family, a wife and children somewhere that would soon be learning of this tragedy. I thought about how their evening wouldn't be shaping up as earlier envisioned. It is this suddenness of it all that affects me most. I am keenly aware of how everything can be taken away in just one moment.
I spent New Year's Eve sending prayers for this man and his loved ones, assuring myself it was possible to survive- the driver, after all, had gotten up without a scratch on him. Thoughts back to Kazadi and his accident also kept me in positive spirits. It is possible to persevere. I imagined trying to find him, just to be sure he had made it, and then realized perhaps it wasn't the most rational- or possible- thing to do. Sending my prayers would have to be enough.
My thoughts were split between families, a friend having shared with me an equally tragic story about Christmas day, an 8 year old girl and a completely normal afternoon that somehow turned fatal. And of course, there's always Jean-Marie. This Christmas a la Cote, I spent my time alternately feeling blessed in my present moment and praying for families of strangers that need more than I can give, completely unconvinced that Abidjan- or Bandal- are even remotely close to Paris. There needs to be a lot more than impressive light displays and music to move to around the clock to equal the true advantages of living abroad.
I took this opportunity to visit the big Orca Deco in Marcory. This department store is four full stories of everything you think you need and plenty of stuff you don't, including an entire wing of fabric bolts that sent my imagination on fire.
Trying to navigate this store in the pre-Christmas rush was rough- I just kept my head down and my sights focused. I had only a few things in mind and refused to even head over to the toy section. They do offer an after Christmas discount though, and that's when things really got bad.
On my second visit, I took more time to explore the store- still not making it past the first floor. I browsed housewares and craftwares, Christmas-wares and toys. I had that Dorothy-out-of-Kansas feeling and wondered if I was even still in Africa. Whatever I needed, surely it was here and possibly even at a price I could afford.
My senses were thrown completely out of balance as I walked by colored light displays and snowmen and santas smiling serenely, wishing me a peaceful season. I was completely overwhelmed by the stocked shelves, the merchandise exploding out of unpacked boxes cramming the aisles, and row after row of choice. Too much choice. I felt an odd urge to take photos- a tourist in the land of holiday wonder.
I went back a few days later, drawn like a gawker to a roadside accident. This time I brought Nabih and I did snap a few photos, though somehow resisted (and now regret) a few that I didn't take. Nabih was looking to spend a bit of his birthday cash and he managed to find something in the happy medium between the Chinese knockoffs and the over-priced imports. Fantastic. One step closer to understanding the Abidjan-is-Paris phenomenon (but wait, I thought Bandal was Paris? Not sure why I keep winding up in places that claim to be Paris but, having never really explored Paris, I can't hope to understand the comparison. Not really. My guess, in the case of Bandal, that it is more about the ambiance and in the case of Abidjan, more about the offerings. The two places themselves- Bandal and Abidjan, or even Kinshasa and Abidjan for that matter, couldn't be more different.)
Some highlights from around the city- complete with that ubiquitous reference to Paris.
But of course, Abidjan is not Paris. There are some major differences, important differences as I came to find out just a few days after Christmas. I had stopped by the bank- yeah, on New Year's Eve, not the best of choices. After sizing up the situation inside- at least a 2 hour wait- I decided to just hit the ATM outside, even if it meant less cash on hand and an inconvenient return trip in the next few days.
I was waiting in line (a much more desireable line of 2, of which I was first) when I heard that all too familiar but always sickening crunch and tearing of metal. I covered my head and turned away- I have long ago learned how haunted I am by tragedy and did my best not to engrain any images. All I saw before turning was an orange taxi speeding away.
Of course, I eventually turned my attention back to the crash. My line wasn't moving and the whole street had become involved by now. A motorcycle was down. The driver had gotten up and was holding his head in his hands as he paced back and forth. My first thought was a grateful prayer until I realized he wasn't just bemoaning a headache or the loss of his bike. Someone else was there, on the ground, and he hadn't gotten up. I peeked just around the corner of a car parked in front of the bank, mercifully blocking my view. Sleep was going to be hard enough to come by this night. I saw an arm, confirmed a friend on the ground and returned to my hampered perspective.
Cars continued to move slowly forward, around - and what I can only imagine was perilously close- to the injured passenger. I wanted someone to go over and stop traffic- turn it back, make it wait, anything but drive by the tragedy. The security guard next to me was calling the local emergency number. No one was answering. So much for Abidjan being Paris. Not where it counts anyway, not for the important things.
People were commentating- a woman in the ATM line was so graphic I had to tune her out. I assumed it was her way of dealing with shock, but she was including too much detail in her account of the man hitting the concrete. Others were murmuring not to move him- good advice although in the end useless. There was no emergency team coming, no paramedics, no stretcher, no police, nothing. No one.
Ironically, there was a clinic just two doors down from the bank. Surely there could be a faster response? I turned to the security guard. "So what are we going to do then?" I'd hoped to spur some action.
"I am calling, but no one is answering. They are going to take him." He gestured to the street. I turned around to see what appeared to be one of the gbakas, though I didn't really see any seats inside. I couldn't tell if it was just someone who had stopped to volunteer (I strongly suspect) or maybe a vehicle from the nearby clinic.
"They will take him to the hospital?" I repeated, needing confirmation. We watched as a group of men picked up the injured motorcycle passenger and placed him in the back of the vehicle. No backboard brace, no stretcher, no IV, no on-scene treatment.
It is what infuriates me most about African road accidents. Injury is often compounded by the wait times for intervention and unavailability of emergency treatment. Not to mention the taxi driver, who just continued on his way after plowing through congested traffic and mowing down a motorcycle. I wondered if he had passengers and how they'd responded. How would I respond if I had been in the taxi?
But mostly my thoughts remained with the injured man. My mind kept repeating sorry- not the American sorry used for apology related to guilt for wrongdoing, but the African sorry full of empathy and sympathy that says I am human too and us humans need to be there for each other. I'm sorry that this happened, on this day, unexpectedly and completely avoidable.
I kept thinking how this morning he was just a regular guy, full of plans and positivity. Maybe he had a family, a wife and children somewhere that would soon be learning of this tragedy. I thought about how their evening wouldn't be shaping up as earlier envisioned. It is this suddenness of it all that affects me most. I am keenly aware of how everything can be taken away in just one moment.
I spent New Year's Eve sending prayers for this man and his loved ones, assuring myself it was possible to survive- the driver, after all, had gotten up without a scratch on him. Thoughts back to Kazadi and his accident also kept me in positive spirits. It is possible to persevere. I imagined trying to find him, just to be sure he had made it, and then realized perhaps it wasn't the most rational- or possible- thing to do. Sending my prayers would have to be enough.
My thoughts were split between families, a friend having shared with me an equally tragic story about Christmas day, an 8 year old girl and a completely normal afternoon that somehow turned fatal. And of course, there's always Jean-Marie. This Christmas a la Cote, I spent my time alternately feeling blessed in my present moment and praying for families of strangers that need more than I can give, completely unconvinced that Abidjan- or Bandal- are even remotely close to Paris. There needs to be a lot more than impressive light displays and music to move to around the clock to equal the true advantages of living abroad.
22.12.15
The lady of grand bassam
The small batik stall we were headed to was tucked in off the roadway. It was the kind of place you would have to know about from a friend in order to realize it even existed. We walked down a crowded dirt path strewn with the remnants of working artists. It was the kind of dirty that inolved ashes and burnt fire pits and discarded pieces of metal. Buckets filled with blackened water sat on a small crest just above the shoreline of a small lake.
She was standing there, in the midst of it all, on a worn metallic plate. Her skirt slightly open to reveal a long, sensual leg. One of her arms was extended behind and I could imagine a child just there, reaching out to grab her hand. The woman's skin was the color of beauty and the weathered blue-green of her clothing made her appear as if the sea itself were wrapping her up in waves of allure. She was magical, standing there in the blackened aftermath of creativity.
I was not the only one affected by her beauty. My artist friend was also captured. We made circles around her, admiring the beauty from every angle. We wondered what she was doing there, this exquisite sculpture that threatened to spring forth into life. Why had she been placed there, on the ground, in such a random way?
After several inquiries, the artist was finally located. He confirmed, as we'd suspected, that she was drying. He also told us she was already sold. She'd been made as part of an order. He pulled out a companion piece dripping in white and gold. She was admirable but lacked the magic and charm of the woman on the ground.
Her price was astounding. Far out of reach. I lifted her briefly, just to see, and she was solid, as heavy as a baby. It's been awhile since a piece of art has affected me so. After a week or more I am still reminiscing about her, the lady of Grand Bassam.
The artist was happy to share his phone number and invite us back to view the process. We were interested in the molding technique and the application of color. Though I remain intrigued by witnessing, and possibly learning, a new process, I am certain there are some things that can't be explained.
She was vivid, surely living in some other world.
She was standing there, in the midst of it all, on a worn metallic plate. Her skirt slightly open to reveal a long, sensual leg. One of her arms was extended behind and I could imagine a child just there, reaching out to grab her hand. The woman's skin was the color of beauty and the weathered blue-green of her clothing made her appear as if the sea itself were wrapping her up in waves of allure. She was magical, standing there in the blackened aftermath of creativity.
I was not the only one affected by her beauty. My artist friend was also captured. We made circles around her, admiring the beauty from every angle. We wondered what she was doing there, this exquisite sculpture that threatened to spring forth into life. Why had she been placed there, on the ground, in such a random way?
After several inquiries, the artist was finally located. He confirmed, as we'd suspected, that she was drying. He also told us she was already sold. She'd been made as part of an order. He pulled out a companion piece dripping in white and gold. She was admirable but lacked the magic and charm of the woman on the ground.
Her price was astounding. Far out of reach. I lifted her briefly, just to see, and she was solid, as heavy as a baby. It's been awhile since a piece of art has affected me so. After a week or more I am still reminiscing about her, the lady of Grand Bassam.
The artist was happy to share his phone number and invite us back to view the process. We were interested in the molding technique and the application of color. Though I remain intrigued by witnessing, and possibly learning, a new process, I am certain there are some things that can't be explained.
She was vivid, surely living in some other world.
18.12.15
African Retirement
I have a sneaking suspicion I am nearing the end
of writing here. Abidjan has worn me down
in more ways than one. It's not official,
of course,
anything could change, anytime
and maybe I'll be writing other things
but it is fitting
that I found this draft of a post
I'd meant to write months ago
about retirement.
I went to talk to....
Our school hosted
a guy-
A money guy
Investment funds, 401K
That kind of talk
Future talk that makes
my heart beat fast
25 years? Do I still even have
25 years?
Of course I do,
Maybe.
Planning for the future has been
an up and down thing for me
A thing I want to do
But just never have the funds,
the time, the frame of mind
to do.
He talks about my future in
number of years that don't seem possible
unless I put my kids ages to it
For some reason,
Thinking about their future is
a lot
easier
than planning for my own.
The numbers just don't add up
and I guess in many ways
my own life is beginning to feel
like a wash
Not much left to do
but make theirs better
The dollars he wants me to invest
Are more than I even earn
And the numbers we do crunch
Come up dismally low
"That's all?" I say. "Some people
make that much in a year."
After 25 years of saving
I couldn't live on that.
What's my real plan A?
We talk about my kids.
They have a plan for me. Like good African children,
they've already planned to take care of mom.
But when that tax guy talks-
"I don't want my kids to have to
take care of me and worry about dad
because he doesn't have enough money.
I want them off living their own life-"
It sounds bad, my plan A.
Just for a minute.
As I listen longer, I can see
only lonliness in his words.
His kids off in their financial wonderland
and he in his.
Mohamed has had an idea
since he was 5. He's always talked
about homes for his family.
It started with his grandparents and has now
expanded to include me.
He's ready, prepared, willing
to provide for me,
when I get old,
though I am ready to work forever.
He's got me covered, he says,
full of ideas for things
I don't even want.
It's the African retirement plan-
Invest in your children
100% return. Plus.
It was an interesting talk with that money guy.
I'm sure he left there
shaking his head
At my foolish plan
to invest in family
to place all my bets
on that little boy
who once wished
to be strong enough
to carry me on his back
as he sprinted
through a rain storm.
I listened to that money man's version
of retirement
without
burdening
his children and it just seemed
weird to me.
I've put my life into them.
Every second, every hour,
weeks and months and years.
It is an investment of love and time
and duty.
It should be
returned.
I thought back to the Quran,
its prohibition of making money
from money.
In that moment, I saw it as
a protection.
Investing in people is the alternative.
Feeling duty for family is
the original plan.
And still my only
plan A.
of writing here. Abidjan has worn me down
in more ways than one. It's not official,
of course,
anything could change, anytime
and maybe I'll be writing other things
but it is fitting
that I found this draft of a post
I'd meant to write months ago
about retirement.
I went to talk to....
Our school hosted
a guy-
A money guy
Investment funds, 401K
That kind of talk
Future talk that makes
my heart beat fast
25 years? Do I still even have
25 years?
Of course I do,
Maybe.
Planning for the future has been
an up and down thing for me
A thing I want to do
But just never have the funds,
the time, the frame of mind
to do.
He talks about my future in
number of years that don't seem possible
unless I put my kids ages to it
For some reason,
Thinking about their future is
a lot
easier
than planning for my own.
The numbers just don't add up
and I guess in many ways
my own life is beginning to feel
like a wash
Not much left to do
but make theirs better
The dollars he wants me to invest
Are more than I even earn
And the numbers we do crunch
Come up dismally low
"That's all?" I say. "Some people
make that much in a year."
After 25 years of saving
I couldn't live on that.
What's my real plan A?
We talk about my kids.
They have a plan for me. Like good African children,
they've already planned to take care of mom.
But when that tax guy talks-
"I don't want my kids to have to
take care of me and worry about dad
because he doesn't have enough money.
I want them off living their own life-"
It sounds bad, my plan A.
Just for a minute.
As I listen longer, I can see
only lonliness in his words.
His kids off in their financial wonderland
and he in his.
Mohamed has had an idea
since he was 5. He's always talked
about homes for his family.
It started with his grandparents and has now
expanded to include me.
He's ready, prepared, willing
to provide for me,
when I get old,
though I am ready to work forever.
He's got me covered, he says,
full of ideas for things
I don't even want.
It's the African retirement plan-
Invest in your children
100% return. Plus.
It was an interesting talk with that money guy.
I'm sure he left there
shaking his head
At my foolish plan
to invest in family
to place all my bets
on that little boy
who once wished
to be strong enough
to carry me on his back
as he sprinted
through a rain storm.
I listened to that money man's version
of retirement
without
burdening
his children and it just seemed
weird to me.
I've put my life into them.
Every second, every hour,
weeks and months and years.
It is an investment of love and time
and duty.
It should be
returned.
I thought back to the Quran,
its prohibition of making money
from money.
In that moment, I saw it as
a protection.
Investing in people is the alternative.
Feeling duty for family is
the original plan.
And still my only
plan A.
15.12.15
grateful
We have naked kids
who live around the corner.
They're not always naked,
it just happens
that the times we are passing by
coincide
with their morning bath
or evening tub.
It's hard not to
take a moment
to be grateful
for indoor plumbing.
I have seen
the girl on the corner
in her school uniform these days
I am
grateful
for that
too.
And the young boy
I used to pass and wish
I could send home for a sandwich
and a mug of hot tea
sweetened with sugar and milk
I see that boy sometimes
wearing a mechanic's
uniform
covered with a mechanic's
grease and dirt
even as I wonder about
school
I am
grateful
he's not alone.
who live around the corner.
They're not always naked,
it just happens
that the times we are passing by
coincide
with their morning bath
or evening tub.
It's hard not to
take a moment
to be grateful
for indoor plumbing.
I have seen
the girl on the corner
in her school uniform these days
I am
grateful
for that
too.
And the young boy
I used to pass and wish
I could send home for a sandwich
and a mug of hot tea
sweetened with sugar and milk
I see that boy sometimes
wearing a mechanic's
uniform
covered with a mechanic's
grease and dirt
even as I wonder about
school
I am
grateful
he's not alone.
12.12.15
Congo kid
I still find myself missing Kinshasa with the deep longing that is generally reserved for people. I will be somewhere, or even passing through a place and something about the energy there will transport me back in my memories. I remember a street corner or a path I walked or a favorite drive. It all comes rushing back, enveloping me in the sights, the sounds, the smells and the rhythms. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with a physical ache and an intense nostalgia for that other space in Africa that feels like home.
The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)
In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.
This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.
It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.
When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.
Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something. Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.
It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
The boys don't often talk about it. At most they remember friends from school with fondness, but I don't get a sense they miss the country in the same way I sometimes think I do. (I'm still trying to determine if I really miss it or if it is all part of the settling into a new city phase.)
In the last few months, however, Nabih has shared his thoughts in a way that makes me proud. On more than one occasion his responses to an activity in school have resulted in him presenting a sort of mini-history of Congo to the class. I am impressed when I hear him speak so knowledgeably about the past political scene and the present implications. I am impressed with his ability to make connections and use his past experiences to inform his present learning. Maybe I did something right after all.
This past Friday we went out with a few of his friends to celebrate his birthday. Although our first intention was to go karting, when we arrived they were in the midst of remodeling. We took our cake and our carful of boys and headed over to the bowling alley.
It was a first for Nabih and he had a lot of fun. We had the place to ourselves, which often seems to be the case in terms of African entertainment. There was no customary changing of the shoes (what fun is bowling if you don't have the inconvenience of wearing someone else's ill fitting shoes!!??) and the bumpers were up, but none of that took away the pleasure of hefting a heavy ball down the lane and watching it knock over a bunch of pins with crashing success.
 |
| A real bowling alley...complete with chain smoking Lebanese grandma running the place |
When it came time for cake, Nabih insisted his friends sing happy birthday first in Lingala. He taught them the words and then listened with a satisfied smile as 3 eleven year old voices sang slightly off tune. Next came the French version, followed by the English. Not to be outdone, one of his friends insisted on singing the Dutch version. It was all topped off by the completely bizzare, "Attieke, poulet, frite" version which I have never heard. Maybe it was their on the spot tribute to Ivorian food favorites.
Nabih had also insisted at Mbalia's birthday that we sing the Lingala version first and he is always ready to speak to her in whatever Lingala he knows, sometimes asking for the right way to say something. Often he reverts to this when he feels like she is not listening to his command in French or English. As if she has some deeper understanding of Lingala that will inspire her to obey his command.
It's quite heartwarming to me and leaves behind a bit of hope that maybe those Kinshasa years weren't as hard on him as he'd led me to believe.
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