The Foreign Service Journal, July-August 2004

to find the man who owned a vehicle in a village 6 miles away. An hour later, a beat-up old jalopy bumped and clanged up the dusty road, bicyclist hanging off the back end, black smoke spewing out of the tailpipe, and dragged itself to a clumsy halt at the front steps of the maternité. “Thank God!” I shout. “Let’s go!” Aminata and I lifted Awa from her bed and, her arms around our shoulders, helped her to the steps of the maternité. But by then, the driver and the bicyclist had disap- peared into the village. The truck sat empty, a wide line of smoke emanating from the hood. My jaw clenched. “What is it now? Awa needs to go!” “I don’t know, Bintou.” Aminata herself looks dejected for a moment, but then says calmly, “I think the men have gone to negotiate the price. They must think the price is too high, and the driver won’t go until he is paid.” “Too high?! Tell them to go! Just go! We can figure out the price later. Or I’ll pay! Just let them go!” Aminata laughs gently, as if to tell me how naïve I am. “I know, Bintou. They will go. Don’t worry.” “Aminata, tell me where they are. I will go and get them. Please help me do this!” I cry out. But then I realize from her defeated demeanor and silence that my words will be to no avail. Awa moans aloud for the first time, and the noise hangs in the air like an insect trapped in a web. “Aminata? Aminata?” I plead, trying to keep tears back. “Bintou. It’s not up to us. God willing, they will return, and then Awa will go.” “God willing?” “Yes, Insha’Allah.” With nothing else to do, we eased Awa onto the steps, and now, we four women are waiting. I n Marama-Ba I live alone in a two-room concrete brick house in the village chief’s compound. Most people live in one room, and never alone, but I receive special accommodations as an honored guest of the vil- lage, because the villagers had been instructed that “Americans like to be alone.” But in the evenings, the children’s faces peeking in my windows and the little hands reaching over the sill remind me that I am never really alone. When I am in a good mood, I sing children’s songs, making my hands into spiders climbing waterspouts, or I make my crooked elbow into a teapot. The kids laugh and mimic my gestures and sounds, melting my words into an alphabet soup none of us understand. Other times, when I’m homesick or frustrated, I sit as still as I can, hoping to be boring enough that they will go away. This usually does not work. The best evenings are when Awa cooks for Namory. On those nights, she puts aside a portion for me and comes to sit with me until late in the evening while I eat. On one of these evenings, she playfully asked me, “Do you know why my husband’s cotton grows so tall?” Suspicious of where she was leading me, I drawled out, “Nooo …” and looked at her to continue. She eyed me for a moment, and then tossed her head back in great guffawing laughter. “Bintou! You know! Bintou, loooove makes my husband’s cotton grow so tall!” She roared at her own joke, and I could not help but laugh, too. When our laughter faded, she said with solemnity, “Bintou, I know what the women say about me, but I am not ashamed. I am happier than they are. My first husband did not treat me well. Namory has made me happy.” Her youthful, 23-year-old face belied her courage and wisdom. She challenged me with an unwavering, steady gaze. I asked, “Awa, do you miss your family?” “Yes,” she said slowly and quietly, “but I had to go away to be with my husband.” She paused. “Now it is important that I make my own family.” She has had two miscarriages already. In a village where virtually every woman carries a baby on her back, Awa is among the very few who do not. Awa con- tinued, “But, Bintou, I am worried.” Over a year ago, on a hot, still afternoon when most villagers were still in the fields, a small barefoot child came running up to me, “Bintou! Bintou! Bintou!” She used my name as a siren. She urged me to follow her, and I ran with her to Awa’s dark, concrete-floored room. “Bintou!” I heard Awa plead in a tiny, quivering voice as I arrived on the doorstep. I felt a shock of cold in my heart. “What is it? What’s wrong?” “Bintou, help. Please.” As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of her room, I saw her on all fours on top of scattered clothes and bedding. Underneath her, a small bloody heap lay on the rags. Her wrap-around F O C U S 28 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