Sometimes I wonder if not understanding
Mende is a blessing in disguise. Of course, I would give a lot to be fluent in
this difficult tonal language, but I do wonder if I really want to know
everything that people say about me. I understand enough to realize that I am a
continuous source of amusement. While people only laugh at me in a good natured
manner, I still do my upmost to try to avoid unintended stand-up comedy
routines. To be honest though, if people knew the insignificant things I
agonized over, they would have a real reason to laugh at me.
For example, I developed a complex about
going to the river to wash my clothes. After a few weeks in Sembehun, I had
gathered my lappas and bed sheets and carried them outside to go wash them.
Before I had even stepped off my veranda, people were pointing and laughing at
me. Nothing out of the ordinary though, considering I was constantly the center
of attention during those initial days in my village. I held my head high and
continued on my way. I made it about twenty feet before my friend Fatmata
spotted me and pulled the clothes out of my hands. Rather than let me progress
to the stream, she took my things to her backyard to wash for me. I accepted
her kindness somewhat begrudgingly, and decided I would never again venture
outside of my own compound to do the laundry. For the next month, I had to
listen to stories about how I “didn’t know how to brook my clothes” and Fatmata
had to “rescue” me. I’ve never been very good about dealing with suggestions of
incompetence.
Anyway, I eventually decided it was time to
move beyond my fear of the kpaku (waterside). Washing clothes in buckets is a
pain during the dry season because it requires carrying too much water from the
well. After a year in Sembehun, I was no longer the center of attention that I
once was, thus I felt ready to brave the stares of laundering in public. On my
first trip alone to the stream, the girls nearest to me began laughing
hysterically. “Njei bo tongo!” they said, meaning that I had filled my bucket
with too much water, thus over-diluting the soap. “Njei”(water) is a very common word and my
form three students love to comment that the math problems I give for
homework are “bo tongo” (too much). So
while I knew exactly what they meant, I feigned ignorance. Perhaps it would
have been better if I didn’t understand their Mende. . .
By the next time I went to wash my clothes,
the novelty of seeing me try to behave like a normal African woman was wearing
off. (I was also careful not to overfill my bucket.) On the way home, I managed
to walk with my laundry balanced on my head without using a hand to support it.
“Bi gbua kulei mi lo?” people asked as I
returned. (“Are you coming from laundering?”
“Oo,” I answered. (“Yes.” )
Then as I passed, I heard the appreciative
laughs and the comments:
“Ah Mende yei go lo panda!” (She knows
Mende well!)
“Ngewo va.” (I swear.)
I smile to myself. Maybe I should revise
what I said earlier. Knowing Mende is the real blessing in disguise.
