October

My original intent for this next post was to pour out some upbeat/funny stories to compensate for the dark gloom that has unfortunately dominated my last several posts. I remember doing an initial survey of people in my village, asking them what was good and bad about the village, and feeling a bit frustrated at how hard it was to get people to think and talk about what was actually good in Badion.

I really should take a long hard stare in the mirror, I told myself at the end of September, because there are a lot of good things/enjoyable things about living here.

And then October 1st came along and kind of blew that to hell.

On September 30th my younger sister, Kumba, at 16 years old (who was in Dakar for the equivalent of summer vacation), called my host dad to let him know that she'd be back on October 2nd. We were all really happy to hear this as she'd been gone since the end of June and everyone missed her, including me. The first five weeks of my stay in village was all the time I had to get to know her, but what I knew I loved. Feisty, smart with a great sense of humor (including towards herself) she remembered my off the cuff remark about how great it would be to have a cat for the mice that invaded my hut at night. Knowing she'd be gone by the time I got back from my fourth of July Kedougou outing she even made sure that my other siblings knew about it so I could have a cat when I got back. Which is why I now have Tennan, the crazy wacko cat that she is.

She was my friend. The only person who could braid my hair without making me want to cry from the pain. She was patient with my halting, horrible pulaar and helped me to learn how to laugh at my miserable language skills by laughing at her own ridiculous English. Five weeks - five extremely brief, culturally overwhelming weeks - that was all the time I knew her before we both went off for vacations.

The difference: she didn't make it back from hers.

On October 1st around noon my family was informed that Kumba had died in Dakar from some kind of stomach ailment. Here in Senegal  - and most likely Africa in general - the 'stomach' is anything between the ribcage and groin. And for women it includes the uterus. With that in mind, it truly could have been any number of things. Malaria, unknown uterine cancer, burst appendix, etc. I have no idea if she had mentioned anything to her family about a hurt stomach or headaches or fever before this, so I can't even begin to guess at what happened. When someone asks about your health, the answer is either 'Jam tan' (peace only) or 'Aay, mino selli' (yes, I am healthy). Even between family members. Aside from a few elderly who take joy in detailing their ailments to anyone who asks, people just don't talk about being sick.

So Kumba may very well have not said a single word to her family even if she was in some kind of pain. Which made her death all the more shocking and horrifying.

Mourning, public mourning, is very different here in Senegal. There is a certain kind of shriek and wailing that happens when death occurs. It bores straight into your heart and there is no questioning what has happened. I tore open my curtain and found my neighbors and siblings running towards my host mother, Aisatou - who was Kumba's mother - wailing and crying. My host dad was just across the compound. He called to me and told me, "Kumba is dead." Even at a distance I could see his eyes were puffy and his voice was strained. I thought for a moment he meant his mother, who is named Kumba. "What?!" I shouted back in English. "Bobo [her nickname]. She is dead."

It still took a moment for my brain to process the reality. She was sixteen. Sixteen!! What the hell do you mean she is dead? I burst into tears, took a few steps back into my room and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter that I'd only known her for five weeks. This girl was my friend. She was my sister. She was my family. And she was gone.

I thought, 'she must have been in a car accident'. These damn overnight buses turn over after drivers fall asleep too often to want to think about. Sept places are held together with duct tape and the roads are horrible. Drivers are totally insane. That must have been it. No less devastating, but nothing else could be possible.

A fantasy pushed away when my counterpart, who is Kumba's uncle, came into my room to check on me. He's the one who got the call because my host dad's phone is so awful it rarely can receive calls. I asked him what happened and he said, 'her stomach hurt.'

"Wonna wullu," he said [don't cry]. "Ce n'est pas grave." [It's not bad]

I just stared at him. He got another phone call and left. I started crying again. Not bad? Not bad? Was he insane?!

But this is how death is here. Yes there is wailing and grief and sadness. But only for a short period of time and then the mourning must end. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered how the elementary school teacher told me 'this is Africa' back in April. Well, it is the same thing for death. It is Africa. Life is hard. God wills it, another popular explanation for misfortune. I couldn't accept that. I couldn't not cry. My entire compound was filled with wailing women and children. I didn't join the masses but curled my legs up against my chest, wrapped my around around my knees and sobbed as I sat there on my plastic mat. Maybe I should have gone out so they knew I was distraught with them. But I couldn't. I sat there and cried while Tennan paced around me, rubbing her body against my legs and back, 'round and 'round.

Finally I got myself out and sat in front of my door. Two of my younger brothers came and sat next to me. The hut where my host mom, Aisatou, slept was surrounded by women from all over the village. In front my my host dad's hut, under the shade structure, my dad was surrounded by men from around the village.

Men are not allowed to cry. They do not wail. They do not shriek. They do not throw themselves on the ground in grief and despair. They are expected to be stoic, reserved, and the balance to the dramatic response of women and children. They give prayers and condolences and they sit in silent support while my dad visibly fought back tears as he tried to figure out what happened and what would happen next.

Then everyone went silent.

The time for over dramatic wailing was over. Silence, eerie, uncomfortable silence fell on the compound as though someone had hit the mute button. Kids were shushed if they talked or tried to play. Babies who cried instantly had their mouths full of their mother's breast to silence them. No one spoke.

This is how mourning is done. There is an appropriate interval of time for crying, then after that, you need to pull yourself together and move on with life.

Until my oldest brother showed up.

The entire compound erupted again when Ibrihima came home and found out about his sister. At fourteen, he and Kumba were more than just brother and sister, they were best friends. My heart broke all over again as he screamed, "It's not true. It's not true. She isn't dead!" over and over again. Several men had to practically carry him into another hut as he fought and struggled to get away from them. He sobbed into a straw stuffed mattress, muttering her name. I held his hand, doing my best not to start crying again as the men told him to stop crying and be a man.

The rest of the week went by in a blur of family members showing up from all over the south and Dakar. Chiefs from other villages came. Friends and women from surrounding villages came.  Huge pots of rice and sauce were cooked by my other host moms and some village friends for all those that stayed. Thursday, Oct 4, was the actual funeral, though Kumba, as is proper in Islamic law, was actually buried in Dakar the same day she died. I put on my nice green shirt I had made in Thies and awkwardly sat outside for hours along side fifty other women dressed to the nines as they watched sixty some odd men pray and chant together under the shade structure.

There are no speeches. No flowers. Three hours of chants and prayers. Then it is done. I imagine it is different when the body is present, but I can't picture it to be much more than what I witnessed.

The entirety of October has been consumed by this. While my village and my younger siblings (and other two host mothers) have moved on quickly and rather easily, Kumba's parents have not. For a week Aisatou rarely left her hut. My host dad hasn't been sleeping well and complains of headaches. Mamadou Mballo of October is not the same man he was in the previous months I've known him. "I can't sleep," he told me before I left for Dakar. "My head won't stop hurting. Kumba is in my thoughts all the time. I can't concentrate." I asked when he would be able to go to Dakar to see her grave, as he mentioned this desire previously. "I don't know," he said. "It is so expensive to go and I don't have the money."

Thankfully that situation has changed. I spoke to him a few days ago while I was at the health summit in Thies and he said he would be able to go after Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, which is this coming Friday. I pray that being able to stand at her grave will help him emotionally and spiritually.

As of right now I am in Dakar. I was sick for a while in village just before leaving for Kolda. Could possibly be because I've lost so much weight in such a short amount of time (20 pounds and no signs of gaining it back soon), but most likely from the emotional roller coaster of the previous weeks. My cousin back in the states is currently fighting an extremely hard war with Leukemia and losing Kumba shoved my anxiety over her to the forefront of my mind. My cousin is barely 30 years old and this is her second fight.

I will never accept the phrase, "God wills it" on these sorts of things.

Found out I got strep in my leg from scratching all my bug bites so I've been on antibiotics and such for nearly a week now. The doc said I caught it early and things already look and feel so much better in my leg that I am hopeful at tomorrow's appointment she'll let me head back to my village.

A week ago today I came up to Dakar, then went to Thies on Wednesday for the health summit where all Health Volunteers (nearly 100 of us) stayed for two days of sessions on projects and found out about our new baseline survey we need to do. Then came back to Dakar Friday night since I have an appointment tomorrow.

I've eaten more pizza in the last week than in the last 7 months. So maybe I've gained some of that weight back.

Dakar is a strange place. Not quite the west, but certainly not Senegal, it is in between. There is a mall with an Apple store and Italien Gilatto ice cream. A movie theatre, fancy restaurants run by French ex-pats that make good food and lots of wireless Internet places. I had a fried chicken sandwich about a block from the presidential palace and have eaten loads of ice cream. It is going to be strange to leave and re-enter the reality of Senegal in the next few days.

On another note for October, I have a new kitten. She was five days old when I got her and I first I thought Tennan would kill her but now they are best buds. Talata is her name and she still has to be fed with an eyedropper. Tennan is her overprotective, rough housing older sister, though there are times when I think Talata believes Tennan is her mother. Right now my new community counterpart is taking care of the little blue eyed fluff ball that is Talata - who I also call squirmy because she squirms around so much when I try to feed her - while I'm gone. Her best chance of survival is with Penda (my counterpart), who is great with her and feeds her easily. So I hope she is still alive when I get back.

This is Africa after all, and anything can happen.

Watching the two cats play is a unique joy and cheer me up in the darkest times. And there is something to be said for falling asleep with a two week old kitten on your stomach. They are just so damn cute.

Hope to post my fun stories soon. Until then, cherish your family, tell them you love them and take a moment to look around your home and appreciate even the smallest convenience.

-Christine