The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

but short and withered with age in what were probably his best clothes. He greeted me, told me his name, and in a manner that was not rude or arrogant told me he was my gardener. He explained he had been the gar- dener for every previous resident. I saw no need to break the cycle. Over the years, my dealings with Ebrima were infre- quent and brief. He knew what he was doing and he did it well. He managed to stretch out a day’s worth of hard work into six full days of steady toil. For his efforts, he took away a reasonable weekly wage, all the firewood he could cull from my trees and still leave me with shade, and half the crop when there was fruit to be harvested from the mango, papaya or avocado trees. He never bothered me for extra money, never asked for a loan, never coveted my meager possessions, and never troubled me with conversation beyond his formal greeting every morning as I left my bungalow to try to save the continent. In the evenings when I returned from my efforts, frustrated and hot, he was already gone. He had 12 children. That’s right, 12 children. Eleven girls and one boy. The boy was the last to be born. The day his son was born was one of the few occasions Ebrima and I spoke at length about anything. He waited for me to come home from work that evening to tell me, his face twisted into a wrinkled mass of beaming flesh that took me a moment to realize was a smile. I noticed for the first time that he was almost toothless. Eleven daughters and one son—he was a rich man in a land where riches were counted by one’s progeny. There were several wives too. That’s just the way it was. Each one younger than the last. He must have been close to 80 when his son was born. That was just a couple of months back. I knelt down next to Ebrima’s still form. His skin shone and was pulled tight across the frame of his body, not stretched, just a perfect fit. What I could see of his chest and arms were lean and fit; only his face gave away his great age. At first I didn’t want to touch Ebrima. I wasn’t worried my presence would disturb him from his well-deserved rest; I just didn’t want to destroy the sanctity of his final moment. I was wit- nessing a mystery where flesh meets nature in its great- est and final glory, and I wasn’t sure I was worthy. Still the butterflies flittered and fluttered about the garden, but even they seemed to be losing interest. Where their efforts had been focused on the bushes and blos- soms a moment before, now they were breaking up and flying about in random loops and whirls. I knew the moment was passing. It had rained. The butterflies had come. And now they must go again. As they per- formed their last dance across the garden before disap- pearing, a handful passed over Ebrima in his repose. They seemed to hover there a moment before moving on, and one of them, one of the butterflies, broke from the group and began a slow, wavering spiral up into the sky, as if caught on an errant breeze. I watched that butterfly as it was carried higher and higher, above the limbs of the avocado, above the tall palms, then up beyond view. By the time my eyes returned to my gar- den, the rest of the butterflies were gone. Only Ebrima and I remained. Finally, I reached out and gently took his hand in mine. His fingers were long, the pads on them and his palm surprisingly soft and warm. This was never my garden, never my home, never my Africa. I held his hand in mine. I held his hand and I cried. A year has passed since Ebrima’s spirit was set free in the garden. The husband of his oldest daughter now tends it. His touch with the land and the greenery isn’t as gentle and perfect as was Ebrima’s, but that will come with time. I greet him as I leave for work every morning. Sometimes I linger and ask how the family is doing, or if he needs any supplies for the garden. Sometimes we just talk about the weather, and I ask him if he thinks it will rain. It is the dry season again, but there has been no rain, and there is no sign of rain. Just like it has always been. Just like it should be during the dry season: hot, dusty, and dry. There have been no butterflies either. No other surprises. Africa is as it is — as it should be. Finally, I understand that. F O C U S 22 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / J U LY- A U G U S T 2 0 0 4 One of the butterflies broke from the group and began a slow, wavering spiral up into the sky, as if caught on an errant breeze.