Lil' village gangster gossip

October 14th, 2012--Lil' village gangster gossip

This morning I found myself barreling down a bumpy dirt road, gripping the front passenger's seat of a shiny blue SUV with pink and purple silk ribbons streaming from the bumpers.  I asked our driver if that wasn't his wife in the car that we had just paused to talk to and he replied shortly, "Yes. The fifth."  I was, and still am this afternoon, exhausted from this man's marriage extravaganza to his latet wife, which has broughht his total to six (Rumor has it tht one of his wives left due to some intermarital trouble; wonder what it could have been?).  And what an extravaganza this marriage was.  You would think having done this five (or six) times already would make him les inclined to really throw down, that maybe he would rather have a quiet ceremony with only friends, family, and of course the other five wives and fifteen children. But oh no, not this one.  Apparently this wasn't just a marriage--it was a political power move as well.  Bum bum bum!

Our man of many wives, who I shall call Amadou, is brown, tall, and has hair that is mostly salt and a little pepper.  Attractive, but not enough to convince me to be his seventh wife (that man doesn't exist).  Amadou started out in the cotton business, smalltime, like many Burkinabe farmers looking to make a buck.  Amadou apparently started to really make it big, thus calling in the vultures to descend upon his good fortune.  This fortune was also sought by shady means, however, including the distillation and distribution of what I'd have to call moonshine (oh man does it burn!).  This, like in the states, is NOT legal, and thus brought Amadou several days behind bars in Dedugu.  These bars could not contain such gangster power as was manifested in this one, however, and through a bit of palm greasing in the strategically powerful and right palms he was free in a conspicuously short time.  This little success deserved nothing more than magnificient moonshine party, an excellent opportunity to make all kinds of friends all over town, though not the police that arrested him, although they were invited too. 

His other jail term  was far less amiable, however.  After making big bucks in cotton and moonshine, he decided to move on to bigger and better things, namely the selling of quality seeds to the government of Burkina Faso, and he felt that everyone else should also jump on this money boat.  "No" was not an option in response to his business proposition, and allegations soon started to pop up that he was responsible for the burning and destruction of cotton fields all the way down to Banfora.  Not a good way to make friends; but, a good way to make money and gain, most importantly, power.  This little battle between his majesty of the seeds and six wives and the cotton growers has chilled, but is by no means over, as evidenced by this most extravagant wedding to luck lady number six (or seven, depending how you look at it). 

Walking into this wedding, I was scorching under a midday sun in a new outfit of handmade cloth, black cotton with lizards and animals crocheted into the weave.  I felt I had walked into some medieval African games.  Regional music with balaphones and drums burst from the speakers inside a huge concession of packed earth, hemmed in by huge two story houses, factory style (one for each wife and her children, and one for his lordship Amadou).  A dance troup flocked in the center, decorated in handmade clothes, furs, hats with mohawk shaped fringe, and jingly attachments, perfectly choreographed, sinewy muscles shiny black under the sun.  At the end of the concession, his majesty sat in an uplifted stand, covered in purple and white fake silks, ribbons, and roses.  At a long table, the mayor and all the other officials of the municipality accompanied him to his right, while his wives sat decked in shiny purple dresses, hair twisted and kohl arching over their eyes, to his left.  Thousands of villagers camped out in the shade next to the houses, watching the spectacle in the center, like spectators in an arena.  This was only a distraction until huge bowls of rice teetered out of somewhere on dozen's of ladies heads.  Men with heavy plastic crates followed, with Brakina and Beaufort (local mediocre beers), and Fanta. He, incredibly, fed and watered everyone. No moonshine, (fortunately or things probably would have gotten really out of hand), but wine, dolo (millet beer), brakina, and whiskey streamed in constantly, and soon the dance party was ON.  I am happy to say that the people of my village are still talking about my dance moves. I'm sure that's a Peace Corps goal somewhere.  I only made it until about 10pm, however, until I had danced myself away and puddled on chair fast asleep under the stars.  We eventually moved inside, though that couldn't stop the bass, which raged until 7 am with plenty of party people, from entering my ears andd head and dreams  all night.

The next morning the whiskey, wine, and beer came out with breakfast and was tucked away quick as a wink.  Who would have known Burkinabe could be such party animals?  So, many thanks to Monseigner of many wives and his power play.  I think it was successful, if sexist.

An old man's funeral

September 29^th—

Victorine's father, the man with the feather in his ear, died last night.  I remember thinking the other day that he would probably die while I was here.  They took him to the doctor yesterday because his stomach was bothering him.  He told Victorine and I before that that he wasn't feeling well, hurting all over, in his joints especially.  He had lost weight,  so that his skin hung on his shoulders, shiny and taut from the weight of all the rest of his skin pulling down on itself.  They told me yesterday that he was sick but that it wasn't serious—just an IV drip.  

I went over to their house by myself this morning, as everyone with whom I would normally go to such an event is part of that family and was already there. Justine, Victorine's sister, this old man's daughter, was despondent and bleary eyed, lost.  Deni, Victorine's brother, was digging the huge grave with a dozen other men, burying big tree pillars in the ground to make a hangar.  I saw Micheline first, Victorine's sister, and wished I had more words to tell her how sorry I was.  I kicked off my sandals and went into the house where he laid on a gaudy green plastic mat, a hand woven blanket covering his long form, and the smell of parfum hanging on the air to cover up another smell. 

I could see the shape of his nose through the blanket, which made me think of his droopy eyes above it, sagging with age, and his ears being tickled methodically with a feather shaft, much to my amusement.  His wife sat beside him, her ethnic scars, normally visible all over her face, now hidden in the dim light of the room. She emitted sighs as if trying to figure out how to deal with this.  I wondered how long they had been married

—it could easily have been over 50 years, beginning before Burkina Faso was even Burkina Faso.  I already felt teary eyed and choked up before going in their house, but as soon as I saw Victorine, I started to shake uncontrollably and only barely got out a “Fo” and “Alla ka heneyala” (Sorry and May Alla give him a cool grave), before I couldn’t speak.  I felt my face twisting and twitching in the deluge of tears and I felt acutely embarrassed and somehow presumptious to cry here, as if I, as an outsider, could be “in” enough to feel such real remorse over the death of this old man whose name I don’t even know. 

I remembered the old man in Mali who told me that the death of a really old person is a loss to the whole community, a wealth of knowledge like a library, suddenly gone.  I thought of a huge old tree with thousands of rings in its trunk, cracking as its sinews and fibers snapped apart brittley, and crashing with a rumble on the forest floor.

Follow-up

Who knew what a rockin’ party this funeral would turn out to be?! The first two days were solemn with lots of tears and blessings.  Hundreds of people streamed in from all over Burkina Faso to pay their respects and give blessings to Victorine’s family.  But that doesn’t mean they didn’t also throw down.  Dozens of animals must have been slaughtered this week, a hundred of kilos of rice consumed, thousands of blobs of to.  Victorine’s family bought beer, fanta, dolo (local made millet beer), sopal (a really gross liquor that’s like fire going down your throat). 

 I think I drank my weight in dolo this week, really.  I kept accidently getting drunk.  I was waiting for lunch to be ready, so I was of course taking up all the offers of a free calabash of dolo to entertain myself (and others, admittedly).  Three calabashes into waiting on Wednesday, and I found myself chasing the headcook with a stick, telling her to get to work, "Everyone's hungry!" I hollered, to peals of laughter all around.  It didn’t take long for her to snatch that stick out of my hand and start pointing it in my direction (don’t worry, all in good fun, no battle wounds to speak of). 

I would take a little sieste to sleep of the dolo effects at 3pm after finally eating some riz gras (kind of like Spanish rice) and then not waking up until 5pm—by then the day is almost done!  So, I walked down to give my blessings and say hi at the funeral, only to be offered another calabash of dolo.  Drunk again! Damnit! How does this keep happening?! But who can say no at a funeral?! Not me.  Clearly.

The idea behind all the merriment is that this old man lived a full long life, something that deserves celebration.  In the states, the big expenses of a funeral (I believe) are buying a place for the departed in the soil, a box to set inside that place, a stone to mark the place, and a reception for friends and family.  Here—it’s the reception that costs all the money.  Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for hundreds of people for over a week.  Whew.

Anyway, I’m hoping for a more sober week. But only sort of.