All advice for aspiring writers includes carrying a notebook around to record bits and pieces of conversations and random observations of daily life. Supposedly these things will come in handy for character development and make for richer scene settings.
Since my kids were just learning to talk I have maintained a penchant for recording their cutisms. I wrote down a conversation between Mohamed and a tea bag and another discussion he had with his macaroni and cheese and veggie dog about where they were allowed, exactly, to sit on his plate. I recorded all the fun non words that we understood as substitutions for real words and a ton of Sussu words he preferred over the English for at least the first three years of life. It makes for some of our favorite reading.
Happily, the boys continue to delight me with snippets of their conversations. I'll include a few of those here before I share a longer conversation between two random callers at my gate. Ivorian snippets, I guess we could call them. But first, the boys:
Advice about the baby is hugely popular in my house right now. I often feel as if she has several fathers looking out for her well being and the boys aren't shy at all about sharing their opinions on baby care best practices. My favorite is overhearing their conversations between each other, one of them inevitably speaking as an "expert" to the other. To be fair, the advice is often pretty decent. Mbalia is a pretty good sleeper and usually sleeps through our morning routine. Occasionally she wakes up before we leave though, giving us a chance to sneak in some baby kisses before school. One morning we heard baby sounds coming from the bedroom and Nabih went off to investigate. "Make her laugh before you pick her up." Mohamed called this piece of sweet advice out to Nabih and it seems like such good logic. Shouldn't we all enjoy a little laugh before rising to meet our day?
Taxi rides home from our weekly visit to a friend are another great place to pick up snippets. One Sunday evening, Mohamed was telling us about a girl in his class. "Yeah, she's like my older sister. This girl in 4eme who is always buying me snacks." At which point Nabih interrupts and asks the ultimate test question. "Do you let her touch your hair?" Apparently their hair is all the rage at school and both boys and girls alike suffer the urge to ruffle their curls. It drives both of them mad. Mohamed has already given his younger brother the good advice to "never let them know how much it bothers you," even as he was boasting that his close friends will jump on anyone who comes too close with that certain gleam in their eye. "Don't touch his hair man. Seriously."
Our house is pretty quiet. We have few visitors and even fewer unexpected visitors. Occasionally, however, there comes a knock at our door and a chance for some impromptu conversation. On this particular evening it was the garbage collector looking for the monthly payment. There was a little confusion about the bill from last month and so I started asking some questions. At this moment, the landlord happened to be passing by and inserted himself into the discussion. I know he had the best intentions, but what followed was a circular conversation that began with the monthly price (currently 2000 franc, which, according to him, should be a mere 1000 franc) and then moved on to his opinion of the NGO's, who give the material (such as the motos and tractors for picking up the garbage) which resulted in the youth- who were the intended recipients of such "gifts" meant to create jobs for them- actually getting pushed out of the business by others who sold the materials. And that's theft, he concluded.
He then steered the conversation into a debate about who was at fault for the state of the country - the Ivoriennes themselves and not the Europeans, according to his calculations. And me? I am listening from my doorway, trying to insert all the proper "ehs," agreeable head nods and little laughs trying to figure out how this conversation will (ever) end. The young garbage collector however, he knows exactly what to say. After initially trying a logical response to the questions of the monthly fees and agreeing partially about what is good for the country he lapsed into interactive listening, much as I had. During a brief lull he responded, "Merci Papa, vous avez raison," essentially deferring to the logic of the elder.
By this time, the conversation had expanded to include the practice of allowing huge trucks to pass through during the day and laws that (should? already do but aren't enforced?) require road work to be done at night so as to avoid long traffic backups in the middle of the day. This clearly connects to the tax on cigarettes and alcohol, vices not necessary to life and therefore the government has decreed the taxes from those behaviors should go to pay for other needed social service, like garbage pick up. And voila, raison pour laquelle the price should be 1000 franc and not 2000.
A few more Merci Papas and the landlord was on his way, although not before informing us all that he only stopped by because he knows I am here alone without family. What he actually said was, "if she calls, I come running to help her because she has no parents to call on and you never know when my children might be 'over there'- < referring to Europe or the US>- and in need of some neighborly help." A fine idea.
He went on his way and I continued trying to understand my receipts up to the current. After answering my questions mostly to my satisfaction I couldn't resist trying for that discount that started it all. "How about that 1000 franc, eh?" This time the conversation was easy enough to end with a laugh from both of us.
