Baby Protest

 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. 

neighborhood watch

After my last post, I got to thinking- do my neighbors have guns? I sort of just assume there aren't as many weapons hanging around, but I guess I can't really know. Just as I was pondering this question I heard a series of pops going off like a drive by.

Mohamed assured me they were just kids with firecrackers- like I should worry less. I do see an awful lot of machetes around- I even have one myself. But they are mostly used as a gardening tool- yup, I planted some of my flowers in our small dirt patch with a rusty old machete. Oh, the skills I am learning.

Today when I came home Christine greeted me with tales of a snake in our yard. She even snapped a few photos with her phone which she eagerly shared. It was a king snake. Bigger than the spread of both arms. Really. Huge.

She told me a man had been passing by and saw it slither into the yard. He came banging on the door to let her know. A different kind of neighborhood watch. She was freaking out herself, screaming a bit but still courageous enough to wave a broomstick around. The man did more than just alert her, he came in and killed the snake as well. Neighborhood watch plus.

Considering how the crab managed to get inside, I am feeling a bit uneasy. There are just too many gaps between doorways, holes in the walls, and hidden entryways that only the animals seem to know about.

In the meantime, I am grateful for concerned citizens wielding heavy sticks. 

Easter Wishes

Maybe it’s Easter, maybe it’s just one of those things but the last few days have found me ensconced in religious conversations with my neighbors. I have been the recipient of several surprise visits. Remember this post when I supposed that some European neighbors might have a better idea of how to initiate friendship than I myself had? Turns out that a few Ivorian neighbors have filled the bill. 

A few weeks ago, two women showed up at my door, laughing, a bit uncertain but seeking an invitation to come in and talk for a few minutes. They said they’d noticed me walking by and just wanted to make my acquaintance. In true African style I was filled with suspicion and intrigue all at the same time. I could hear Christian’s voice in my head telling me I should send them on their way.  However, when one of the women inquired with hesitance, “Can we come in or are you afraid?” I felt I had no choice but to accept. How else can you make a friendship except to be bold, I reasoned.

They came in and we sat on the porch trying to get over the awkwardness. I asked a lot of questions and listened to their stories. One, Leah or Leila, said she was married to a nurse and working in insurance. We talked a bit about the complexities of selling insurance in Africa. I half expected her to launch into a pitch but she refrained.  Instead, she told me about her family’s plan to immigrate to Canada. 

The other, Dianne, stays at home with her two girls. She seemed the most shy and aware of the strangeness of the situation. Dianne looked often to Leila for cues and when they finally left, she seemed relieved.  We promised to say hello if we saw each other in the neighborhood again and I vowed to try and remember their names.

I saw Leila in passing on my way home one day. I’d stopped at a corner boutique to pick up a few items and she was walking by. She stopped and offered a proper greeting. More surprising, however, was a visit from Dianne. She came with her youngest one evening to say hello and visit the baby. I learned more about her this time. Her husband is a doctor at the airport (plenty of questions here on my part) and he takes the lagoon route to work each day. We exchanged questions and answers- more this time from her. I felt a bit odd offering bits and pieces of my life. That uncertain suspicion ever lurking in the back of my mind. At one point she asked if I didn’t feel afraid, living here alone- and I wondered what prompted her to make such a statement. I added some strategy to my response, replying that we’d made friends of our neighbors and this helped us to feel secure. (In case she was part of a band of robbers who had designs on infiltrating our abode in the night. Making new friends is a joy- n’est pas?)  

 

Since then she’s come back once more- with both of her girls this time. They had fun watching Mbalia and trading shy smiles, though most of our questions had run out by then. Silences were filled in with remarks about the children.  I asked her about her Easter plans, which led to the first of what turned out to be several of my recent religious conversations. She seemed to invite me twice to her sister’s to celebrate- or just to eat food really- but I am not ready for such pressure on my conversational skills. I like her (guardedly) but I am just not sure what to say. It’s always been that way for me. 

I remember watching the women in my dance classes, in the changing room. I wondered what they had to talk about, how they managed it- knowing each other- and felt it was such a difficult thing. What do people talk about? Maybe that’s why the mundane holds such fascination for me at times.  Underneath it all we are just regular people, but what does regular look like? What is it that facilitates conversation in one group of people only to be hampered in the next?

Just this (Saturday) evening, my other neighbor stopped by, Assita. She is the writer who came to leave me the script so I can prepare for next Saturday. In my search to fill the silence, I asked her if she was celebrating Easter and had hoped merely to wish bonne fete. This innocent inquiry turned into a rather intense discussion of her conversion to Christianity – her soul searching and healing through Jesus Christ.

It was interesting to share our completely opposite journeys of conversion. I let her express her passion while keeping mine in check a bit- I wasn’t ready for an all out debate about the truth of the Qu’ran--- or the Bible for that matter. What I did share, and what I continue to believe is essential- is that God calls us all to the path in different ways. The most important factor being belief in God and adherence to spiritual kindness for our neighbors. We didn’t exactly agree here, but managed to keep the conversation from getting to that point of outright disagreement.  (The main difference in the two religions comes down to whether or not Jesus is the son of God and God himself or whether he is a miracle of God, a prophet and holy being but not divine.)

We each had stories to tell of being moved (by songs of praise in her case, by the call to prayer in my case) and of searching for a truth that spoke to our souls. I appreciated again the ability of Christians and Muslims to live and pray side by side in Ivory Coast- without one dominance and without coercion. She agreed with this.  True believers do not follow the path of violence. 

In the end she said she would pray for me and I accepted. Her experiences of being saved and being healed- physically and spiritually- were true for her. I wasn’t about to dispute them, and certainly not refuse the well- intended wishes of another through prayer. Islam acknowledges Christians and recognizes intention as more important- or equally important- as action. 

So, I’ve met my Christian neighbors (who would like me to return to the faith) and my Muslim taxi drivers (who believe my husband should be converted) and we’ve conversed well this Easter on all accounts. Bonne Pacques to those who celebrate. 

Snippets

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.
 

Tales from the hood

The knock on my door is not unexpected. I am waiting for the French tutor who will be giving Nabih lessons to get him confident enough to go to school in French. Mohamed has already started an Ivorian school and seems to like it well enough.

When I open the door, however, it's not the man but a woman. A neighbor. She doesn't say anything in way of greeting or announcing herself and I am not sure how to proceed. It's an awkward moment while I try to figure out the protocol. I raise my eyebrows as I gesture her inside. It's more of a question than an invitation.

We've established a ritual of greeting guests on our small porch, and so I offer her a chair outside. Eventually I determine she is Assita, the woman we met recently on the walk to the main road. She is a screen writer and is developing a TV series. She approached Christian and I because she thought we might be good actors for a part in her show. Apparently there is a section featuring a mixed couple and we fit the image. Christian's sap heritage probably doesn't hurt.  I don't think he goes to the extreme but he does care about his clothing.

As we walked to the main road, she explained her project in more detail. It was a fascinating story and she promised to stop by our house and talk again. The woman at the door did not resemble a screen writer, or any other type of writer. She wore a large African print housedress and had a weary air about her. It was too easy to imagine her fanning the flames of an outdoor cookstove. Traces of the smartly dressed woman hurrying off to work were barely visible.

I tried to merge the two images of her as we talked about character development and how major themes in her work reflected life in Africa. I had read the synopsis she'd dropped off earlier and was impressed. It was a good story.

The main character is Agape, an orphan in search of a good education. Typically, she has a brush with prostitution, which she just manages to avoid, homelessness, and is thrown out by several who agree to take her in, due to jealousy, illness or other misfortune. But the story doesn't begin with Agape.

It starts with her parents, Marc and Maria, two school kids in the throes of amour. Maria is pressured by Marc to give in to his lust, despite good advice from a friend that studies are more important. Not only is Maria's family scandalized by her pregnancy, war breaks out causing both families to flee, in different directions.

Maria finds herself without family, unaware if her mother is alive or dead. She gives birth to Agape and 8 years later dies of illness.  Marc's family fares slightly better in that they are together and even search for Maria, to no avail.

Agape's story begins and the viewer follows her through a series of highs and lows. At one point, she befriends a schoolmate and is adopted by her family, a mixed couple. This seems to be the beginning of a good life, until her adopted father succumbs to sickness. The family is left without funds and Agape beings to feel she is a burden. She leaves her studies and returns to her country to search for relatives. It is here, at the age of 15 that she has a brush with prostitution and homelessness, which she successfully averts. She does get a position as a nanny, but there is jealousy over her beauty and intelligence. The woman of the house throws her out.

Finally she secures a job in a bar.  She captures any moment she can to sneak away and read in hopes of keeping up with her studies. It is there she meets a man who takes an interest in her and offers to help. Typically, again, they end up in a hotel room. The conversation continues, however, and before they take things too far Agape reveals just enough of her story to give the man pause. She shows him a picture of her mother and lo, the man, Marc, recognizes his sweetheart Maria. Father and daughter reunited. Wow.

Sure would love to see this on the screen. Assita tackles everything from teenage sexual pressure to refugee family separation and access to education.  She works in themes about tolerance and justice, forgiveness and peace. The proposal she left me is only the first in the series but after reading, I was eagerly waiting for the next episode. She assured me my scene would be in episode 34, presumably the mom of Agape's friend who adopts her. While I am not necessarily counting on that, it would be a treat to see this project become a success. It is set in Abidjan but could easily take place anywhere on the continent. A timeless tale with just enough of a twist to make for a jaw dropping end.

I am inspired by my neighbor and vow to continue working on my own tales from the hood. In the meantime, funding connections welcome.