I was eating dinner at my kitchen counter, shoveling it in as if it was the last spaghetti in the Faso, when over the pounding bass of dance music down the street I heard a soft noise outside my door.
I don’t get many visitors that aren’t local kids, always wanting things, and breaking things, and stealing my heart anyway. I was oh so ready to yell at them (it was too late to be bothering the white lady). When I looked up I saw it wasn’t my kids, but instead a woman I know from around town standing there with her chubby baby, Noel (born, you guessed it, Christmas day). I stopped, mouth open, mid-Moore thought, and then tried not to look shocked as I went out to greet this rare grown-person visitor.
I brought her the obligatory cup of water (an old Mossi custom) and settled in to ask the regular questions. Yes, she just came to say hello; all was well; her family was well, too; she had already eaten; Noel was eating well but, no, he hadn't gotten his last baby vaccination yet. Seeing as it was dinner time, I knew I should offer her food. I also knew, using knowledge of my new Burkinabe skill "inviting oneself over", this lady had come to eat. I had extra I said, was she sure she didn’t want some? She looked away. So, I went back in the house and I put my uneaten spaghetti in another bowl for her with my best fork, as if to make up for the lack of food. Not much, I thought, but it was all I had on hand, and selfishly I still really wanted to eat that spaghetti. Again, she said she’d eaten, but she accepted the bowl and ate in silence. When she was finished, however, she had gained the nerve she needed. She hadn’t eaten in 4 days, she said. Could I give her some money? Specifically, two mille? (2 million CFA is equivalent to around 5 dollars or about 2 day’s labor-wages.)
There are people in need in my village. There are people who don’t have the money for enough food, or to send all of their kids to school, or who just want enough to get by on until harvest comes in. I have met many of these people and some of them I know personally. I try to help them by buying their produce or hanging out with their kids. I rarely just give them money, though. I do have a lot comparatively and I feel like it’s my responsibility to give where and what I can, but I also believe I should be responsible with what I have. The question is knowing where the limits are. I feel the same struggle in the US with giving, always wondering if I am being “had”. It is even harder here though, because I am seen first as a foreigner, second as white, third as an aid worker,fourth as a woman and finally as “Talato” (that’s me, personally; my village name). How I respond to requests for money and stuff represents more than just my personal choice to people, it represents all of those other groups, too.
So back to my visitor. I asked her a few more questions-- for example, if she had a place to cook I could give her some beans and rice; no, no place to cook-- which lead me to believe that perhaps she was just into some other trouble requiring 2 mil. I explained to her, not quite meeting her eyes (because I still felt bad), that I can’t give away money. For one thing, I explained, there are many people who need money here and I can’t give to everyone (therefore: I can’t give to you). Which may be a terrible philosophy, but it’s an answer I’ve found that most people here accept without argument. I also blamed my “work” and told her that the money I get can’t be given away. Not entirely true, but not untrue either (it’s meant for living expenses). I’m not entirely proud of it, but I’m not entirely unproud of my actions either. It’s simply what I chose to do that night. I then turned my attention to little Noel, and we played for a few minutes, he sitting on my lap on the stoop.
Suddenly, the woman’s face turned to panic. Thinking little Noel was peeing all over me (it wouldn’t be the first time, no diapers here you know) I handed him over. Then I realized she was still looking at me and not the kid. I don’t remember if she beckoned or if I just got up, but we were both staring at the stoop milliseconds later when I saw the shadows move in an odd way.
Then my mind clicked, that’s not a shadow it’s a fucking black snake! My mind immediately calmed itself down, it’s just a tiny snake, it’ll be fine. You’ve seen snakes before. That *insert words inappropriate for even this blog’s usage* African snake could be poisonous I replied to myself. Realizing I should do something other than talk to myself, I yelled. “Holy shit! Je dois faire quoi?” The lady didn’t have any idea what I should do, and I, fearless spider killer, woman bitten and stung by countless things, didn’t know the first thing about what to do with scary African snakes. All I knew is that I did not want that thing in my house and I would not be sleeping ‘til it was good and dead.
Soon it got tired of being yelled at and wound its way into the corn near my latrine (yes, I’m growing a bit of corn). Since it was away from the door, I went inside and grabbed a failing flashlight and what can best be described as an ax (the big kind of dabba). After a little while, the snake made its way back to my stoop (I think it was attracted to the light or heat or something) and I, having gone back outside, watched in horror, wondering what the hell I was gonna do.
Suddenly, forgetting to think for a moment, I took a good sized swing at it with the ax. I cleanly hit its midsection as it was slithering away. It should have chopped the thing in half. Key word being should have. But what did the fucking snake do? Attack the ax handle, bite it, and then slither away as if I’d merely bothered it, that's what! Snakes here are traditionally seen as ancient spirits of sorts who want to make trouble; now I understand why. It may have been small, but that thing was scary as hell. Like it knew something.
About 10 minutes later, long after the woman had shouted her goodbyes from beyond the courtyard gate and I was in my house staring at the doorway (ax still in hand), some guys with good flashlights came over and found a skinny black snake with a thin clear line around its mid-section in my courtyard. They smashed it’s head with a big stick (so that’s how you do it, I thought). Clearly, they felt need to note, I would not have had this problem if I had a husband. Thanks guys, but no thanks.
I spent the rest of the evening reading an African travel book and then watching an old episode of Glee, falling asleep to the sounds of cockroaches under my bed.
