When I commented that Niger is actually an interesting place to visit (in response to diaries cutting apart those snarky comments that Joe Wilson wanted to go to Niger for a free vacation), I was asked to tell a little more about life in Africa.
Let me try.
First, a caveat: Life in Africa can be harsh and cruel. I am not arguing that it is not. Still, so much of the image of Africa in the US is based on life in catastrophic situations that we are led to believe that all African life is like that. It is not. Many people lead happy and fulfilled lives, even in areas that most of us in the US would find impossible. They do not want our pity or our charity–though they will accept our help when they need it and ask for it.
What I am going to do is describe a family living near Koupela (pop. 18,000) in Burkina Faso. Koupela is a crossroads town. Go south for a couple of hours and you get to Dapaong in Togo (near where I was posted for two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer). Go west about the same distance and you get to Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso’s capital, where I taught for two years as a Fulbright lecturer). The east road takes you to Fada N’gourma and, eventually (a much longer ride), to Niamey in Niger. In the 1980s, when I lived in West Africa, the roads to these places were the only paved ones in the region.
There were buses you could take, from either Ouaga to Niamey or from Lome, down on the coast in Togo, to Niamey. These were big buses like those of Greyhound in the US, but not nearly so fancy or comfortable–though it was occasionally possible to find one where the air conditioning worked. It wasn’t generally possible to find a seat on one at Koupela, however, so you were pretty much restricted to taxi brousse, the pick-ups, minivans, and beat-up Peugeot 504s that provided the bulk of rural transportation in West Africa. The drivers would pack in as many people, goats, chickens, sacks of grain, bicycles, and anything else you can imagine as possible. Often, the vehicles were on the edge of collapse (and you would pass broken down ones on the road, each trip) with batteries already done in–necessitating a strong push and popping of the clutch for starting.
The Kiemas, lived about 20 kilometers from Koupela, not far from the paved road to Fada. They were close enough so that they didn’t have to depend on bush taxis to get them into town (generally for the market), but could ride in on bicycles. Generally, they would be taking in something to sell (maybe some chickens or guinea hens, a goat or sheep, a sack of sorghum, tomatoes, onions… ). Once there, they might buy kerosene for lanterns, perhaps a lantern, batteries for a radio, a length of cloth, or any of the many small items for sale in marketplace stalls. Probably, whoever had gone into town would stop on the way out for a calabash or two of millet beer in a small stall with benches for sitting, drinking, and chatting.
Trips into town were rare, however. Little that the Kiemas needed wasn’t available at home. There was even a church nearby (the Kiemas were Roman Catholic–many want to claim Burkina Faso as a Moslem country, but the Christian population is nearly as big and neither comes near constituting a majority). Ethnically, the Kiemas were Mossi, part of the largest of the groups in the country.
I got to know Abel and Marie through their son, Joseph. He worked for me in Ouagadougou as a cook–a solid, middle-class profession. Joseph owned his own mobylette, had electricity in his house, and even boasted a television set. During the World Cup in 1986, he placed the TV in the outdoor area of his compound and invited the entire neighborhood to come and watch. Joseph wanted to keep a connection with the family farm, so sent his children there each vacation, but he was extremely concerned that they continue their education in the city. He wished that he could have had more himself, wished he could have become an electrical engineer. So he worked with his own children each night on their homework, making sure they arrived at school each day well prepared. He was determined that they would go further than he had.
His parents didn’t care much for the city, so were delighted to see their grandchildren coming to them. Also, more hands were always welcome on the farm: Joseph’s children learned the habits of hard work at the hands of their grandparents.
The number of people living in the Kiema compound near Koupela varied. Joseph liked to get back there, when he could, driving out on his mobylette when alone or with just one child, taking bush taxi when his wife and a child or two were along. Another brother might also be there, or a sister (one of whom was a nun living in Cote d’Ivoire). There might also be a cousin or two around.
One of the permanent residents was a deaf boy. I’m not sure what his relation was to Abel and Marie, but he was always there. Everyone in the family (like most everyone in rural West Africa) could sign to some degree, so the boy was able to communicate and participate in the life of the family.
The Kiema compound, like most in the area, was contained by a circular wall connecting the circular buildings–each quite small and one-room. The walls were all of banco (mud brick), the lower part reinforced with a thin covering of cement. The tops of the buildings were of thatch, which kept them much cooler than tin would have. Each building had a different purpose. One was dedicated to cooking supplies (the cooking was done outside, in the center of the compound), others were bedrooms and storerooms. Few people in that region do anything inside but sleep, so the décor was spare. One building did not have a roof. Inside was a large container of water, a calabash for dipping, a shelf holding soaps, and hooks for towels.
In some areas, even then, there were compounds like the Kiema’s that had running water and even electricity. Not there, however. If you wanted to do something in the evening, you used a Chinese-made lantern (they work fine: I read by one for almost two years). Each morning, children were sent off with large buckets that they carried back on their heads to the nearby pump to refill the various water containers in the compound.
Though married, Abel and Marie each had their own fields, and were separately responsible for the decisions on what to grow and what to do with the produce. Generally, Abel concentrated on grain crops and Marie on vegetables, but they both might decided to plant either.
Their lives were not easy ones (not by any means), but even though in their sixties, both Abel and Marie were active and seemed content with their lives. They could laugh and relax, and were proud of their children and grandchildren, all of whom seemed to be progressing into a modern world that was of little interest to Abel and Marie. Abel had the highest lay position in his church (which did not have a full-time priest) and a great deal of status in the community. They had little money, but needed no more–able, as they were, to create almost anything they needed out of the material around them.
I liked them, enjoyed visiting with them. It would be an insult to them to ever look down on them or pity them.
