Na God de gi yu di pay

“We yu tun bak to yu fambul den, le yu go wit lon lef an welbodi. Fo ol wetin yu bin du naya, noto wi de pay yu – na God de gi yu di pay,” Luckman Gassama the Arabic teacher at my school told me on my second to last day in Sembehun. That sentiment had already been expressed by several people as they bade me farewell: “Na God de gi yu di pay” – It is God who rewards you.

I kept my expression solemn and willed myself not to cry. It was not that I was particularly sentimental about saying goodbye to Luckman, but the thought of leaving in general left me on the verge of tears.  I knew I could not yet cry; that would have to wait until the very end, when the taxi would pull away from the junction in front of my house.

What Luckman and the other well-wishers did not know as they promised that God would pay me for my work, was that I had already received all the payment I wanted. Our definitions of “payment” probably aren’t the same though. For me, payment is calculated in hundreds of different memories.

Even the mundane moments of ordinary life, I remember fondly.

Brightly colored lappas hang to dry in the sun. A matapensil rhythmically pounds cassava leaf, driving the scent of freshly cut grass into the air. Fati Daramy passes balancing a reddish-brown colored plastic bucket on her head.

I remember the last month in Sembehun, keeping fast for Ramadan.

I sit on the cement ledge of my veranda and share a plate of rice with my neighbor Regina. The call to nafla, the evening prayer, rises sad and sweet from the mosque. Women pass wearing beautiful embroidered prayer shawls.

I remember the moments when students so clearly understood what I had been teaching.

“If we know the area of the rectangle is 20 meters, and the width is four meters, we can find the length,” Abdul Rahman explains.

“What is the length then?”

“Five meters.”

“Is that the answer?”

“No, the question says to find the perimeter.”

“How do we find the perimeter?”

“We say two times four is eight and two times five is ten, then we add and get eighteen,” he says without hesitation. I smile, thinking that while I cannot control what happens on public exams, Abdul Rahman deserves to pass math on the BECE.

I remember the moments when students demonstrated confidence.

“Wait,” Betty Swaray says as a teacher prepares to flog her for coming to school without her head covering. “Let me explain why I didn’t come with the veil.”

“Okay, explain.”

“When we go to sit the BECE, we have to go with a different uniform and they need to add blue trim to the veils, so they gave my veil to the tailor for him to sew.”

I was proud not only of the English words flowing smoothly from her lips, but also of the poise with which she spoke. She held her head high and spoke with the certainty that she would not be beaten as long as she had the chance to defend herself.

I remember saying goodbye.

The street is filled with my neighbors and students who came to see me off. I shake their hands one by one, always raising my hand to my heart afterwards in a gesture that has become second nature. Inshallah we will meet again . . .

All of that is payment. The memories of my two years in Sierra Leone are more valuable than words can express. In fact, I am certain that I have been paid beyond anything that I deserved. Just as I consider those memories payment, it is perhaps payment also to know that I will be remembered.

“When I have a daughter,” Zakaria tells me, “I am going to name her Kenley. When people ask how she got that name, I will tell them I once had a teacher called Miss Kenley.”

Cut Slippers

I bent down to take a battery cap – those blue plastic rings that people pull off of Chinese-made double D batteries – from the ground. Those battery caps are easy to find, particularly in the wet season when rain sweeps them across the sandy ground. Children gather them and tie them together on pieces of string to make rattles or jingling bracelets. The battery caps are also useful for mending broken flip-flops, or slippers, as they’re called in Sierra Leone.

My slippers were worn thin, the soles too flat and the strap that fits between your toes threatening to pull loose, or ‘cut’. I fixed the battery cap around the bottom of this strap so that it wouldn’t break away from the sole of the shoe. People may call slippers ‘toilet shoes,’ but they will still go through great lengths to preserve them. Even my slippers that had been mended with battery caps were not to be thrown away.

“Yu no de gimme da wan de?” someone asked if I wouldn’t give him my old slippers, seeing the new ones I had just purchased in the market. I was skeptical, wondering if he really wanted the old mended slippers, but he thanked me happily when I handed them over.

Normally, when slippers cut, you can slip the torn strap back through the worn out sole and continue to “manage” them, as they would say here. However, there are times when the strap severs completely and they cannot be repaired easily. In such instances, the only option is walking home barefoot. Once, as I walked to the Old Town junction to retrieve my cell phone from the charging station, the rubber stopper on the end of my sandal snapped off, thus rendering it damaged beyond the battery-cap-repair method. I was conscious that Sierra Leoneans believe it is shameful to walk barefoot, but I didn’t really care as I continued the last few steps to the junction.

Two of my students, however, happened to have witnessed the breaking of my slipper. Abu Sedik pulled off his own slippers and told me to take them. He said he would go home with the broken ones. “No, no!” I tried to protest, but Abubakar Bockarie gave me a horrified look and informed me the ground was cold from the rain. Clearly walking across cold ground with bare feet is dangerous to your health and highly unadvised. . . What could I have been thinking?

First Rains of May

On an afternoon at the beginning of rainy season, I walked along the road towards Tuba. A few clouds settled over the oppressively hot sun and a faint whisper of a breeze trailed through the grass. I passed the old road and continued until I got to Ansarul Primary School, then I cut across the field to the orange groove. By that time of year, the slender white branches were covered only in green leaves, but no fruits. Along the path, ferns as tall as I am spread their foliage. I smiled slightly. I could forget sometimes that I lived by a jungle.

I entered Tuba by the back way, from the path that leads to Mano. The breeze picked up, and a few drops of rain began to fall. I was not sure if it was going to be a real rain, or if it was just one of those cruel jokes played by a merciless sun. I glanced towards the Bockarie’s house, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. From the other side of the path, Mohamed Sannoh called a greeting. I turned to smile and reply. I never had the chance to teach Mohamed Sannoh, since he attended the other secondary school in our community, but during our combined school athletic meet he was one of the star runners for our house.

As I continued walking, the rain drops fell with increasing frequency, suggesting it was in fact to be a real rain storm. The old woman I always greet when I pass through Tuba called to me. “Waa lei!” I obeyed and went to her. “Waa bi hei,” she commanded, getting up from the stool she had been sitting on and moving over to the cooking fire. I stepped under the thatch roof of the kitchen and took a seat on the stool. There were three other old women gathered there. They asked me questions in Mende, which I could mostly answer, but as the conversation trailed on, I was lost.

The rain had picked up, and I was content to sit in silence and watch it fall. At first, the sand ate it, and the drops vanished beneath the dust. Eventually though, the rain began to win, beating the sand down hard and smooth as it rushed in rivulets along the carved out grooves of the dirt path. One such stream stretched in front of the kitchen where we sat. The water rose and pushed along twigs and dead grass, which clogged together to form a miniature dam. One of the women used a stick to dislodge a mango pit from the dam and the debris flowed away. A small child darted out in the rain to place a bucket in the flow of runoff water from the zinc roof of the house.

When the rain ceased, I thanked them and took my leave. “Baika, nya lima.”

“Oo, baika hoe,” they replied.

I set out across the damp ground towards New Site. When I passed Alpha Mansaray’s house, his sister asked, “Ba mango mei?” as she extended a mango to me. It was one of the small ones – different from any mango I had eaten before coming to Sierra Leone, and easy to eat clasped in one hand like an ice cream cone. I took the mango, and thus encouraged, another woman offered me two more. I walked away slowly, African pace, eating one mango as I went.

Dancing

There is a swaying of hips, stomping of feet, swishing of lappas – blue, red, orange, yellow. A bright mid-day sun hangs overhead. The feet stomp, twist, shake against the jungle green grass of the Methodist Primary School field. A radio, balanced on a head, carries the music through the town and the women dance.

The daily dancing lasted for nearly a month in celebration of the young girls’ initiation to the Bondu society. I watched everything from a distance, knowing that I would never understand the secrets of the women’s society. I was glad that my neighbor Regina knew me well enough to recognize my confusion and advise me when needed. (Don’t sit on your veranda tonight. Give the dancing devil 1,000 leones.)

My only concern was that several of my female students were absent for several weeks. These girls, like everyone else, had joined the society long ago, but they still needed to be initiated. “Initiation” involves a lot of money, hence the delay. I was particularly concerned about the form three girls who should have been in school preparing for the quickly approaching public exams.

“Hey, Clasico!” one of the form III boys called out when he saw Mamie Sendeh approaching my house. It had been at least two weeks since I had seen her at the evening study sessions so I grinned, pleased to have her back. When we got to the primary school behind my house where the form three students study at night, Abdul Rahman asked me for chalk. I was pleased that the students were taking initiative to study for themselves instead of simply asking me questions, so I sat back to let them teach.

“Okay, who can show me the answer to this problem? What do we do first?” Abdul Rahman asked, mimicking my teaching style.

“Subtract first!”  a boy shouted.

“No.”

“The answer’s four,” Mamie said. 

“Yes, listen to the girl and maybe you’ll learn something,” Abdul Rahman informed the others. “Who can explain how she got four?”

I was glad that after her absence Mamie Sendeh had maintained her prowess in math. For the next hour and half, Abdul Rahman continued writing on the board, alternating between teaching Language Arts and Math. I wrote out some questions on a piece of paper, but I left the teaching to the students. It was encouraging to hear a student explain the things I have tried so hard to drill into their minds.

Outside, the women were passing through the town again with their radio. The music filtered in, lending a festive atmosphere to the study session. As he wrote, Abdul Rahman danced to the pounding of the speakers. The music and dancing contrasted with the attentiveness the students were currently showing to a grammar lesson, but in the juxtaposition, there was also balance. I smiled as the thought that these kids don’t need me to hold their hands anymore settled on my mind.

“I _____ the answer, if my pen hadn’t stopped.” Abdul Rahman was copying from the paper I had given him. “Okay, which is correct: would write, will write, was writing, would have written…” He read from the lengthy list of conjunctions I had provided.

“Will write,”  someone suggested.

“Why? Can you explain your answer?”  Abdul Rahman asked.

“Because ‘if’ is there and it has not yet happened – “

“Na lie!” Someone interjected. “Stopped is past tense, so you can’t say ‘will’. You get for say ‘would’.” 

“Would write?” They asked.

“No, it should be ‘would have written’,” Abdul Rahman said. “Eh, Miss Kenley?”

I nodded, “But why?” 

“Really, I’m not too sure…” he tilted his head to the side as he does when he is thinking. “It’s because of this ‘had’, right?” He said, pointing to where the sentence read “hadn’t stopped”.

I grinned, “Exactly. When you have the past perfect in a conditional sentence, the other part of the sentence uses ‘would have’ then the action.”

“Okay, is that clear?” Abdul  Rahman asked, before he turned, still dancing, to erase the chalkboard.  The tempo of the music picked up then, right on cue to celebrate a correct answer. Outside, I imagined swaying hips and pounding feet dancing, dancing, dancing.

A Church, a Mosque and a White Woman

On the second term Language Arts exam, I asked my form II students to write a composition about their village. Mohamed Njola opened with the line, “In my village we have a church, a mosque, and a white woman.” After I had thoroughly enjoyed laughing at this sentence, I decided it made me sad. I do not want to be a landmark in Sembehun. (So if you want to go to the market, you’ll pass the church on your right, keep walking until you reach the white woman, and then turn left . . .) I want to be an individual. I want to be remembered not by the color of my skin, but by who I really am.

At times, I wonder if that is too much to ask. The other day, I was walking through my village with another volunteer, and a small child began shouting, “Manungima felei!” (“Two Manungimas”) My traditional Mende name is uncommon, so some children are under the impression that “Manungima “is synonymous with “pumuy,” which means white man.  Is that all I am to people here? A pumuy?

Perhaps to some people, that is who I am. But there are others who see beyond the guise of an overly pale foreigner. There are people who laugh at how I walk, talk, sit, draw water, sweep, or breathe, because all they see is a white woman. Then there are the people who laugh, because they see me.

Before our school sporting event, classes were cancelled, but the teachers and a few students had come to paint the school. Mr. Jabbie and I had drawn the school logo on the side of the building, so I climbed up a rickety ladder with a paint brush in hand to draw over the pencil lines.

“Be careful!” Joseph Tucker warned taking hold of the bottom of the ladder. (Funny how they’re concerned with me climbing a ladder, but it’s no big deal when the students climb up on the school’s roof to clean the gutters or walk out along a thirty feet high tree branch to hack it in half with a cutlass.)

“Oh, I wanted to jump off… Let me not do so?” I said. Abdul Rahman and Betty laughed, catching the sarcasm in my voice.

The conversation continued as I painted. At one point, someone laughed at my pronunciation of a Krio word. I have a habit of pronouncing the “r’s” at the ends of words that shouldn’t have them. (i.e. “water” should be “wata”)

“Okay,” I said, feigning injury, “You all laugh at my Krio and Mende, but I never laugh at your mistakes in English.”

“You don’t laugh; you just make your face like this. Eh, Miss Kenley?” Joseph Tucker asked, doing a remarkably good impression of how I twist my mouth to the side when I am trying not to laugh.

I did laugh then, “Fair enough.”

To the people who really know me, especially the teachers and students, I am an individual not a caricature. “We’re going to feel it when you go,” my thirteen-year-old neighbor Babai Jalloh told me one evening as he sat on my veranda.

“Maybe another Peace Corps Volunteer will come here after me,” I said.

Babai looked at me and shook his head sadly, as if I had not understood. “Miss Kenley, we’ll never get your kind.”

There is some truth in that. We talk about getting a “replacement” volunteer, but really, no person can ever replace another person. We will all be different with our own sets of opinions and experiences. Though people love to compare us, those who really know us will know that there is no need for comparison. They will know that one person is not a representation of all things American. They will see us as people, as individuals. They will see me, not a faceless white woman standing between a church and a mosque.

If you fear your parents...

At the Community/Teachers Association on Friday morning, Mr. Bockarie stood to make a comment. “Yes, I just want to address my fellow parents,” he said. He has an intimidating presence, tall with broad shoulders and a stern face. There is kindness and sense of humor in his eyes, but I would never dare to cross him.

“As parents, it’s our responsibility to make sure our children learn,” he was saying in Krio. “Our children need to fear the teachers. If they fear them, they will always pay attention in class.”

I kept my expression neutral, but I wanted to laugh as I remembered the previous Tuesday in language arts class. Mr. Bockarie was right, parents do play an important role in getting their children to respect teachers. His son Abubakar certainly respects me, but it’s not me Abubakar fears. He’s afraid of his father, and I use this knowledge to my benefit.

On Tuesday, I had asked Kadiatu to read aloud from the board and she accidently pronounced the word “prefect” as “perfect.” Abubakar snorted with laughter, eliciting an embarrassed frown from Kadiatu and an uproar from several of her friends.

“Miss Kenley, Abubakar is always mocking at us. He thinks he is the only one who has sense and knows how to read.”

I quieted them down before turning my attention to Abubakar. He is not the most serious student, but he can read better than anyone else in the form. Regardless of whether or not it’s well earned, his pride is a problem.

“I don’t want to hear you mocking your companions,” I said.

“Yes, ma,” he replied. His expression was completely remorseless, so I fixed an angry glare on him.

“I’m serious,” I said in a sterner voice.

“Yes, ma,” Abubakar repeated, but his voice had become quiet.

“Your father stopped by the school this morning.” I added. (This was true.) “He wanted to know if you were doing well in class. Do you want me to go to your house after school and tell him that you provoke your classmates and laugh at them when they try to answer questions?”

Abubakar’s eyes grew wider, but he didn’t speak. He has grown over the past year, but it’s still hard to believe that he’s seventeen. Gangly and suddenly afraid, he looked like a small child.

“What would your father say?” I asked.

“He’d beat him,” another student piped in.

“This is the last time I’m warning you. If you ever laugh at someone in this class again, I’m going to inform your father.”

As I expected, AbuBakar was perfectly behaved for the rest of the class. Mr Bockarie is right: having parents who are involved in their children’s lives makes a world of difference.

Give me a brick

“Give me a block,” I say to Joseph Tucker, one of my form III students, indicating that he should help me lift the heavy mud brick onto my head.

“No, Miss Kenley, please,” he says staring at me in horror, as if I have just suggested something completely awful.

To tell the truth, my request is somewhat at odds with cultural norms. I’m a teacher and carrying mud bricks is decidedly beneath me – or so I’m told. I know we are not supposed to work alongside the students on the work days, but I also know that as a foreigner I will often be forgiven to bending the cultural norms.

“I’m going to work too. I don’t like watching while other people work,” I say with a laugh to lighten the mood. Joseph, still looking slightly doubtful, lifts the brick onto my head. The form two girls who I am walking with, however, are thrilled. Salamatu Injai, Mariama Moijue, and Mbalu Kpaka are all struggling academically, but outside of the classroom I can appreciate their personalities. As we work and talk in Krio, I am able to see an intelligent side to these girls that was never tapped by the education system.

We have to walk nearly a mile with the bricks from Tuba to the school. They are heavy enough that I strain to lift one in my hands for even a minute, but on my head, the weight settles over my whole body. Sweat drips down my face and my neck begins to ache by the time we reach New Site, but I am still glad to be working. The women in my village are also pleased to see my toting bricks. They greet me with huge smiles and thanks in Mende. The teachers think I am breaking the rules of social standing, but the women are glad to see those rules broken. It means I am one of them.

Mariam, a volunteer from the NGO Restless Development who teaches at my school, sees me working with the students and decides to join us as well. She grew up in Freetown and is as unaccustomed to carrying loads on her head as I am, but if I can break the rules, so can she. When we get to Tuba for the third time, Joseph Tucker greets us with a smile. “Good, we like this when teachers work.” I’m glad we have won him over.

Having already walked nearly seven miles, we decide to rest in the shade for awhile before returning with the final blocks. Realizing how dehydrated I am, I ask one of my students who lives in Tuba to bring me water. I trust that he will give me the most sanitary water available, but when it comes down to it , I fear thirst more than giardia. After gulping down the water gratefully, I hand the cup to another student so she can drink as well.

We set out at last with the blocks on our heads. The sun burns hot and dry. Everyone has forgotten how strange they thought my behavior was a few hours earlier. I too have forgotten that I am a foreigner and this is not my native land.