Village Life
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| A view of the village from the outside. |
My ladies remembered me.
They smiled and said, ‘Nacap!’ I
respond proudly in the local language, ‘Yes, I return.’ This time, the village looks different. Many compounds are abandoned and there are so
many people out and about today. I
wonder what is going on. The village is
a maze with corridors dividing the compounds – even my guide friend gets lost
finding the right compound.
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| Aerial view of villages in my region |
My local friend and guide find my first friend, Teresa. She is home with her daughter and
granddaughter. She is happy to see me
but sadness is still creeps out of her eyes.
She welcomes me back and has one of the children in the compound go
inside the hut to bring out a goat skin for me to sit on. I take the goat skin and she takes a wobbly
wooden bench. I feel a bit awkward
sitting below here but there is no power play here. It is an honour to sit on the skin and not the bench. In many ways she is just as I remembered her – worn, tired, deep black skin with facial beauty marks – dotted skin around
her eyes and cheeks that was burned on her face a long time ago to make her
beautiful. Her hands are strong, tough
and dirty – all signs of the dedication and back breaking work of building and keeping tidy her
compound. She has three grass huts on
the compound which is enclosed by a thick and seemingly impenetrable stick
fence.
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| Village entrance |
Today she is cooking something – a welcome relief to me as
so many in this difficult, dry season are going hungry. The hungry, frail and weak line up to see the
priest each morning just outside of school.
The stench of malnutrition and sickness infest the missionary
dispensary. Swollen bellies are found on
children at the area pre-school and throughout the village.
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| The last time I visited the compound when Teresa had no food. |
Last time I saw Teresa, she had no food and spoke about a
fear of not finding any food. The last
time, all she had was an empty tin can with an American flag and USAID label on
it. “From the American people” these
cans proclaim. I wonder how many more
hunger deaths can be prevented if my president’s budget is approved – one that
slashes State Department funds and foreign aid.
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| Remnants of the last food distribution by the World Food Programme and USAID from my previous visit. |
Our interaction begins a big rocky. I have been practicing
my language so that I might actually speak to her directly. I’ve practiced many sentences. ‘Remember, I am from America. I study at
university in the UK. Now, I teach at
the secondary school. I do
research. I am happy to be here. My home is well. How are you?
I brought you a small gift.’
As soon as I begin, my dear friend and guide interrupts to
tell me that America and UK mean nothing to her. She knows I am from abroad and I should just
say that I am from ‘abroad’. So much for
an entire language class dedicated to explaining where I come from!
Even with the interruption which terribly ruined my language
flow, things feel comfortable, relaxed.
She is not showing me everything in her compound the way she did last
time. Last time, she graciously taught
me how she brews beer, how she crawls into her hut through the tiniest of
openings, how she would cook if she had food.
There is nothing to show because this time, she is not on stage. This time, we are simply friends sitting
together, in the small bit of shade the stick fence behind us provides.
Teresa is more comfortable too. She and my guide friend are talking more quickly and more intensely than I can understand. At times, she looks at me when speaking, letting me know I am in this conversation too. Other iitimes, she stops and demands that my guide friend translate so I know what is going on. This time, she takes out a tiny plastic bag of tobacco and sniffs it up her nose. She invites me to join; I graciously decline.
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| The winnower has at least two uses: as a door to close each hut and as a bean and seed separator used in the brewing process. |
When there is little or no food, many people resort to
sniffing tobacco because it shakes the hunger away. That or they brew sorghum beer. Sorghum is plentiful when all else isn’t and
the cooking leaves a residue which can be fed to children if all else
fails. When they drink, they sure get
drunk. But before you judge, what would
you do? What would you do if you didn’t
have any other food to feed your child?
There’s no food to steal; there’s nothing but beer to brew.
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| Teresa demonstrating how she begins to make the brew. |
Teresa looks like she is holding back tears talking to my
guide friend. I find out that her
co-wife, a lovely woman named Elizabeth whom I met the last time, had lost her
compound – her entire village was burned to the ground the previous night. That explains why people are all about – they’re
trying to figure out what was going on.
Elizabeth used to live in the compound next to Teresa but
she and many others from this village picked up and made a new village, closer
to fresh land for their animals to graze.
There had been an ongoing dispute between the pastoralists like
Elizabeth’s family and another tribe mate who claims that he didn’t want them
grazing on that land. Teresa says that
land is for anyone and doesn’t belong to anyone. But the man from the pastoralist tribe who
has now settled (just one sign of many that the culture and lifestyle of this
tribe is changing) didn’t want them there.
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| Elizabeth in her old compound before moving. |
After a few weeks of quarreling, Elizabeth and the newly relocated members of the village awoke to a group of men who came in the dark of night and burned their village to the ground. Now they have nothing, literally nothing. I’m told no one died but they have nothing.
Imagine how horrible it would be if you lost
everything. For anyone anywhere, it
would be devastating. But here it is
worse than devastating. In fact, I don’t even have a word to describe the
despair and loss these people must feel, particularly the women.
I say the women because the women built that village and
struggled to make those compounds their home.
These women walk hours for more days than you can imagine with a machete
in their hand out to the forest where they cut down wood and carry it miles
back to the village on their heads in the oppressive heat. They build their homes one mud brick at a
time, tying together one stick at a time, one grass straw at a time to make
huts, fences and roofs. They dig, plant
and farm in the heat knowing that if they don’t work, they don’t eat. They do this to survive. They do this to please their husband. They do this to make him want to stay with
them and not one of his other wives.
Now it is all gone, vanished in the night. Every last kernel of maize in the granary is
gone, every last bit of their fences are now ash. All Elizabeth has now is the air she
breathes, the black and silver beaded wedding necklaces that drape down her
chest and lost hope of a fresh start in a new village.
Teresa is devastated for Elizabeth. Although my feelings about it really don’t
matter, I always really liked knowing that these two co-wives got along well
together. They didn’t fight, quarrel or bewitch the other like so many
co-wives. I know this bit here sounds a
bit romanticized but when I saw them together, they at least really liked and
cared for each other. But how much does Teresa even have to help when there is
so little?
Before heading out to see some of the other village women, I
gave Teresa her gift: two small boxes of matches for the fire and a bag of
salt. My guide recommended I bring
tobacco so the ladies talk longer with me, but I just can’t. Teresa appreciated the matches and salt.
We took a photo together after I showed her the photo we
took together last time. On my next
visit, I will bring the photos printed out as she asked for a copy. In my view, this is a better present than
sniffing tobacco.
