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Coffee
and Friends
I stepped off the bus into a street
alight with the golden glow of the setting sun. The faces of passersby
and the sunlit trunks of roadside trees were made of liquid gold,
and the long, slim shadows of burnished copper. Over the tin roofs
of the town arched a limpid blue sky. The pure and boundless heart
of an angel. The street was lined with a row of taller and greener
trees than I had expected, and hurrying past under their boughs
were more smartly dressed people than there had been a half-year
before. And the notorious Ouagadougou dust seemed to have melted
into the brick-colored earth. Only around the unbroken line of taxicabs,
mopeds and bicycles on the asphalt road did it swirl in a dry, grainy
halo. And even that was golden in color. The evening was glorious.
I had taken barely twenty steps along
the road which I presumed would take me downtown from the Western
outskirts of Ouaga, when I felt the urge to treat myself to a complet
coffee. I approached the long row of men and women sitting on
a bench outside a roadside cafe watching the buoyant life on the
street. They squeezed over to make room for me and shook hands with
me one after another, bidding me good-evening. I ordered a café
complet and joined in their silence.
The street life was more than just
buoyant; it throbbed in the frenzied rhythms of the approaching
night, as if people were rushing pell-mell to finish in the coolness
of the dying light all the things they hadn't managed to do in the
heat of the day. Their innocent actions called for imitation. The
view from the restful side of the road lured one into momentary
oblivion. I sank my teeth into some white bread and resolved to
postpone my visit to the Zongos for a day or two.
I wished to be by myself, to reflect
in peace on exactly what I would tell the Zongos about my life in
Ghana. I had learned from experience that the stories and thoughts
you share with the first friend you meet upon your return are the
ones you then keep repeating to everyone willing to listen, and
thus inadvertently forget all the things you'd failed to first mention,
until you end up no longer knowing yourself what had truly happened
and what the places you'd visited had really been like. In Ghana,
I had been free and at peace with the world in a way I had never
known before. I'd made a vow to myself that I would not forget that
serene happiness.
I inquired of the other guests at the
cafe about the nearest inexpensive hotel. They conferred, and one
of them told me there indeed was a tiny hotel quite close by, but
it was not fit for me, a white woman, because it was not clean enough
and it had no electricity. Actually, it was not really a hotel at
all, he added, just a doss-house, at best good enough for African
wayfarers who were used to anything. I shook the dust out of my
skirt and asked them to show me the way to the doss-house.
A Handy Hole-in-the-Wall
My hotel room turned out to be a little
hole in the wall, chock full of the tired spirits of all who had
stayed there before me. It was furnished with a military bed, and
illuminated by watery moonlight pouring in through a porthole just
below the ceiling. I liked the little cubicle. It felt custom-made
for my soul.
Spreading the vivid Ghana cloth over
the warm bed, I sank into the sagging mattress, washed and tired
after the long journey. I did not think about my vow; instead I
listened to the buzz of the nearby streets and wondered at how curiously
akin it was to the breathing of the sleeping tropical bush, which
had been my lullaby for the last five months in that backwater Ghana
village. And at how the piercing cries and whispering sighs were
not, after all, the nighttime shenanigans of jungle creatures, but
the waking nightlife of a city. My thoughts grew lighter and weaker,
seamlessly entwining with sweet dreams. At dawn I remembered dreaming
that my journey was only just beginning.
Afterwards, I similarly failed to sort out my travel impressions.
I quickly slipped on my high-heeled shoes and, with my spirits also
high, set out from the little hotel with no name, which stood on
a street with no name, for an aimless stroll around the anonymous
suburb. I did not go far; I knew all along I was going in circles
and never lost track of the general whereabouts of my little room.
I just walked on, with no thought or memory, this way and that,
forward and back. Every now and then I'd buy myself a small delicacy,
a banana or a fried millet dumpling, have a Coke and then go on,
or else retrace my steps. I shook hands with everyone who crossed
my path or met my eyes for longer than a brief second and, as luck
would have it, engaged in lengthy conversation primarily with travelers:
Guineans, Senegalese, Malians.
Every encounter served in its way to
convince me that there was nothing better than a carefree stroll
around the wide world. Young Guineans enticed me with their flirtatious
laughter and off-key guitars. With two fingers they twanged dewy,
pretty tunes. They also sang in strangled, wounded voices, their
eyes moist. Leaning against house fronts they sang:
'I've been all around.
To the south, to the north,
to the east and the west.
It's nice everywhere.
But Ouagadougou is the most beautiful of all.
Because it is there, there that you are,
my love, my angel.
Ouaga's your home, my lovely.
Diarabi, ma Cherie,
diarabi, diarabi, ma Cherie...'
The passersby fell in step to the rhythm
of the guitars, swaying their hips; young girls faltered and let
their eyes drop, intimidated by the rhythm of the willing male desires;
and I, I was overpowered by homesickness for places I'd never even
been to. For cities that must be almost as beautiful as Ouaga. For
Lagos, Dakar, and Conakry, for Kinshasa, Luanda, and Lusaka. The
Senegalese produced from their bottomless pockets wallets made of
crocodile leather, bracelets and belts made of cowrie shells, strings
of glass beads, Fula earrings, Tuareg swords, and heavy Ashanti
weavings, jingling them in front of my eyes until I finally bought
one tiny, trifling souvenir that I did not need and could ill afford.
But what could I do - it was so nice to adorn myself with nomadic
jewels and imagine a life both restless and steadfast in the future.
The Malians were the most alluring
of all. I had never before seen people with such graceful bodies
and regular features. The older they were, the more perfect and
stately their beauty. The men wrapped in shiny Moslem togas were
tall and lean, with smooth, regal faces. I had to look up into the
women's faces as well: their many-layered turbans and heavy earrings
pulled their patrician heads back, and they craned their necks in
sharp, falcon-like twists; between their sparse words they would
lower their silky black lids until their eyes were like coffee beans,
and disdainfully pout their thick lips. Their demeanor exuded an
air of dignity that was only fleetingly comprehensible. Quite evidently,
the Malians were anything but rich. They hung about in the streets
on the outskirts of the world's poorest capital city. But their
surroundings had no bearing on their undisguised otherworldliness.
It was as though they guarded inside
themselves the memory of the time when Malians ruled the known world,
and with their gold undermined the financial markets of the unknown
white world. They came from Gao, Timbuktu, Bamako, Djenne, Segou
and Kayes ... The very names of their hometowns rang with echoes
of legendary beauty and fairy-tale power. Without restraint, and
without lying either, I answered those Malians who invited me to
come visit them when my travels took me to their desert kingdom
that I would probably be going there the very next day. I did not
have time, though - let alone money - for a new journey. But my
daydreams knew no parsimony as I walked on and on and on, skipping
over muddy puddles and laughing, thinking of a bright future and
enjoying the moment, making new friends and taking a long time to
say goodbye, as the ground under my feet turned golden, the sunlight
ebbed away, and the afternoon soundlessly blossomed into evening.
Until an enormous and restless full moon wandered onto the cornflower-blue
expanse of Ouaga sky. I realized only then that I was no better
prepared for my pending return than the night before.
Parcelling Memories
I took refuge in my little cubicle.
I shook the money out of my handbag and onto the bed. I did not
bother with the kerosene lamp, I made do with the torch. But the
longer I counted, the less money there was. Even if I managed to
postpone my flight to a later date, I could not stay in Ouaga for
more than a week. I dropped my clothes on the ground and lay down
without washing, covering myself with the coolness of the turquoise
moonlight. Without wanting to I started thinking about the objects
in my suitcase. I wished to give the Zongos something, I knew they
would appreciate every little thing no matter how small, even down-at-heel
shoes and torn socks. I tossed about on the creaky bed, endlessly
distributing my meager belongings among people who loved me rich
or poor.
In my mind, to the mothers I gave my
toiletries, to Lizeta the non-African jewelry and my wristwatch,
to Lara my worn clothes and shoes, to David the English books I'd
finished reading, to Ousmane the bed-sheet, to the children the
leaves in my notebooks I hadn't written upon. I decided to hand
them the paltry gifts at the last moment before leaving for the
airport, so they wouldn't have time for profuse thanks. Only for
Abdoulaye I had nothing left. I could give him my camera, or the
Swiss army knife. After a brief moment of deliberation I decided
to keep the camera for myself and took comfort in the thought that
Abdoulaye did not have money for film anyway.
Undoubtedly, though, he would have
been delighted with the knife, which would have been useful, too.
He could whittle forked sticks for catapults with it, or open bottles
of beer in his bar. But I had inherited that pocket knife from my
late father, and I could not bear to part with it. Before I had
resolved whether I would nevertheless leave it with Abdoulaye or
not, a ray of sunlight peeked into the room and I dropped off to
sweaty daytime sleep.
When I peered out from the stuffy cell, my head heavy, the sun was
high up in the middle of the sky. I threw my odds and ends into
my suitcase and, carrying it in my hand and walking on my own shadow,
hurried to the asphalt road. The first taxi stopped, and I agreed
to the driver's first reduced fare to Dapoja. I did not feel like
haggling. I began to look forward to returning to the Zongos, and
immediately after that, home to Slovenia. Now, I could not have
explained even to myself why I had feared going back. I could hardly
wait to shake hands with the Zongos, and learn if they were - as
always - all well and happy.
Translated by Tamara Soban  |
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