Reporter from the Street, Ian Mason's Blog

Young writers and engineers wanted, screamed the newspapers. There had been resignations en masse and a sudden short flow of skilled workers in the petrochemical industry. Freelance writers of promise and great potential were asked to attend interviews lasting fifteen minutes. They were hired on the spot, some fired a fortnight later. This was where your young talent shone and blossomed or suffocated and passed on by. As to the engineers, they were most well paid, and knew the fat bonus that awaited them at the end included also relocation opportunities. Cowboys, itinerant workers were discouraged from applying. Hungry people were scrambling for the newly advertised vacancies, would walk miles, wear their best clothes and get to the offices, breathless with excitement. The headline writers, who had painted a stark, if true picture of the financial world of the last seven days, inspired the positive thinkers to respond with action. Some were turned down on the spot as too pushy and brash and cannot spell for trash! She was in the best of health and her spirit soared in the upper echelons of the hemisphere. She shook off her nervousness and anxiety and smiled and laughed her way back into the action. A good writer once wrote that beautiful models were only fancied by introverts and p****. He felt the strong beauty of a most attractive woman. She was there twenty minutes before him and the older men and women came much later. He had found out that same morning her age and could not wait until the next date. On the week-end, Indonesian hawkers were making a killing and wads of foreign cash swapped hands. He was knackered and needed a change of activity.

It was dank and dark, the rains swept in from the east. He had decided long before dawn had broken, he would exercise for the sake of the Spirit. Few were walking let alone exercising their pedigree canines. It was a stunning morning and he whispered as he gave thanks, Pagi yang inda, hari ini sabtu pagi, give the fortitude to be. The shifting sands of time transformed themselves into eddies of late autumn spheres of energy. The weather was awful and the influence of the heavens made him shift to and fro, run up and down on the sandstone track laid for purposes other than human exercise. In the driving rain and icy winds of happiness, he set a good pace, paused a while reflect. The stunning colours of dawn in this corner of our world made camerawork a must. In the absence of tools of modern technology, his eyes, ears and sens of taste, smell were intensified. He had felt sensations unlike these since the last week he had lived in Hong Kong.
He had documented there the names of typhoons. There was not the slightest chance this would be a tropical storm. The air smelt clean and fresh. The rains were clearing for the moment, though he knew that might return later that same morning. He pounded the track, and sprinted on the grass. His only break was to watch the police horses stretch their limbs. These were tamed and could and would only canter. He, meanwhile, ran and sprinted and sprinted in intervals. When the path forced him to sprint, his heart and muscles acted like pistons of fire. He breathed easily and fluidly and breakfasted at the interval. When he ate, it was fuel for the next temporal units of the day. He was hungry and thirsty and rationed his provisions.
The calm before the storm was the period in which the rains had halted. Like an unstoppable force recovering to unleash a second wave of icy rain, the rains suddenly fell with a stinging bite. If it was an animal, this was a wild dragon. It seemed very much, it was testing the lie of the land as though it had travelled from very distant lands. It was not yet relaxed nor comfortable with its surroundings. This was an exciting stage. He wanted to put his body to the last physical test. With acute perception, he knew those rains were minutes away. He left Hyde Park with suitcase, rucksack, body and mind in tack. If he returned, it would be on another day.

Autononomy is the hallmark of the Hadza. No Hadza adult has authority over any other. None has more wealth; or, rather they have no wealth. There are few social obligations-no birthdays, no religious holidays, no anniversaries.

People sleep wherever they want. Some stay up much of the night and doze during the heat of the day. Dawn and dusk are prime hunting times; otherwise, the men often hang out in the camp, straightening arrow shafts, whittling bows, making bowstrings out of the ligaments of giraffes or impalas, hammering nails into arrow heads. They trade honey for the nails and for colourful plastic and glass beads that the women fashion into necklaces. If a man receives one as a gift, it’s good sign he has a female admirer.

There’s no wedding ceremonies A couple that sleeps at the same fire for a while may eventually refer to themselves as married. Most of the Hadza I met men and women alike were serial monogamists, marrying spouses every few years. He was an exception; he and his wife have been with each other their entire adult lives and they have seven living children and several grandchildren. There was a bevy of children living in the camp, with the resident grandmother a tiny cheer full lad named nsalu, running a sort of day care while the adults were in the bush. Except for breast feeding infants, it was hard to determine which kids belonged to which parents.

Gender roles are distinct, but for women there is none of the the forced subservience knit into many other cultures. A significant number of Hadza women who marry out soon return unwilling to accept bullying treatment. Among the Hadza women are frequently the ones who initiate a break-up-woe to the man who proves himself an incompetent hunter or treats his wife poorly. In Onwas’s camp some of the loudest, brashest members were women. One in particular nduku appointed herself my language teacher and spent a good percentage of every lesson teasing me mercilessly often rolling around in laughter as I failed miserably art reproducing the distinct, tongue-tricky clicks.

Arthurian legend technocrat-style

The lawyers round the table, shook hands and gave thanks to the chief. This was a ritual if not quasi- religious ceremony they had been practicing since the black days of the recent crash. Calamitous event followed disaster. First one financial institution, then the next went either bust or were bought out. An orgy of brokering, buying and selling saturated the financial global market. This was something quite new in the twenty-first century. Fear that this was the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Experts and old seadogs cried havoc, let loose the dogs of war! This would go on for days and weeks until the both East and West hit the ‘wall” Fingers were being pointed. It’s the West’s fault. It’s the US big brokers who have screwed up, while some have to go hungry and others can’t see where to turn. Some lost millions and one after-shock was the report of a politician killing himself. Let him elaborate; to his close friends, he would admit, the popular French report was an exaggeration, As far as he was concerned, it was a tragic accident, nothing more and nothing less. Who could say what was going through his mind as his vehicle plunged out of control and steered him to an untimely finale? The color of his politics was not to every one’s taste. Nonetheless, this is not to say he committed suicide, for he had been recently victorious in the Austrian elections, represented a vocal minority of the Austrian voice and had no reason to do so. The traditionalists would be shaking their head in disbelief in the status quo of the world exchange markets and brushed this regrettable death under the board room carpet. Let’s keep the financial ball afloat, as far as that is possible. The analyzers and forecasters of current events predicted more heads would roll. It was a question of survival of the fittest.

How the Indonesian women made him feel respected! They knew he had been “through the wars” and had been teaching English to an Indonesian Jehovah’s witness without pay. His only speculation there had been to give his electronic address so that she could arrange a lesson giving at least 24 hours notice. He had other fish to fry.

Terror is here now.

They had planned well in advance. The work men arrived on time with suitable clothes. Their mood was buoyant, they want to be dervishes. They had smoked earlier they eyes glistened. Their passes were given the once over. The entrance had been opened half an hour before. They got in and cleared the months of grim and dust and surface water that had seeped into the gallery. The plastic and gas canisters were in a blue hold all that Dimitri was guarding like a hungry Cossack.

The plan was simple, the execution deadly. It had to come from the vents. Their spur and motivation was about anger at the infidels who, in Allah’s name, had recently cost the lives of two hundred Americans in the space of eight months. If this was a tit for tat reprisal it was well rehearsed. Dimitri was a skilled bomb disposal expert and had a degree in mechanical engineering. Sergey was a coach of the highest caliber and if group timing was important, he was its architect.

All four would finish, tidy away and leave on time. Signs were erected inside the tunnel. These were laminated and fluorescent plastic cards. Their lingua franca was slang English masked in heavy guttural accents. They wanted to arrive and leave undetected. The conference had attracted people interested in the war on terror. Ogor had downloaded images of those expected to be there when the explosions were timed to set off.

They worked in silence, each aware of the task and consequences. The canisters were taken out, placed in plastic flammable bidons. The tip of each was connected to wires. These were connected to a remote control and linked to a cell-phone which could be activated at a maximum distance of 200 metres. Three canisters and bidons were placed at right angles on each of three columns, half a metre in length, and 3 metres in depth. The timers on each were set for ten a.m. Dimitri placed the remaining three canisters on the central pillar, as he burrowed his way along the channel. When this collapsed under the impact of an explosion, the domino effect would follow.

The timers were set for ten thirty. This was a security measure and an escape clause for the pair. The opening time was the moment when most would rush to claim their places on the first six floors. They were fearlessness in motion and bent on justice. They were all tired to the back teeth of wet politicians. They were no fans of sloganising. They disliked cold bloodied murder.

They thought if the men in power cannot deliver safety and prevent mindless killing and maiming, this would be an example of common justice. They were a team of four, spoke many languages and were trained in other arts.

Lip-reading was a skill. It was a gift when in times of extreme stress. The voices outside suggested all was a normal day. They could be anybody in the world, arrive and leave undetected. They would leave no calling cards. Sergei and Dimitry were the two leaders. They earned and commanded respect; Olga and Anton were loyal and could be trusted. They questioned only if they sensed imminent danger. Now, they were alone in a subterranean workspace. Organization was key. They were childhood friends and were in the third decade of life. They had shared the pain and pleasure of a life spent together.

Nothing was a secret outside personal rapports. They were conscious of prying. Speed was crucial; pace was important; timing and accuracy essential. When they emerged in workmen’s overalls, they gestured to each other. Their clothes were visible testaments to hard work. They disappeared from view. They would meet at midday.

The first explosion sounded muted; dust billowed from the area. The second, timed to happen thirty minutes later would cause important material damage. They heard the wailing sirens. Using heat detecting binoculars, Anton raised the thumb of his right hand. This indicated success. There were injuries. The pact had been to cause maximum material damage and strike fear in the minds of terrorists. They wanted the minimum of bloodshed.

Delay at your peril

Events and political procrastination changed their course. Happily settled in small huts in the eastern side of the DRC, they heard cries of anguish from their witch doctor. On that night, he ushered the elders. They sat and listened. This was no story to make your children want to listen. Diggers from afar had arrived since 2001; their intention was crystal clear. The rape of this part of Africa had begun. Mercenaries had been present for six months. The casqued bleus had arrived at the president’s request.

“Take your young men and women out”. His words had a deep, silky resonance. The elders knew which approach to take and and how to broach this contentious subject. Some young cocks, pumped high with testosterone would be protesting. Speed was the essence. Each mother would hold two hold alls. The older siblings would carry also what they could hold and thee marsupial babes would be held on the maternal breast, held secure by a large handkerchief, painted with oils to make ethnic references.

The maternal instinct, being overpowering, the elders would not mention mineral or marauders from afar. The women were appeased, knew that travel afar would hold its own dangers and suckled their youngest before heading off along the dusty path. God-fearing, peace-loving, the terror that waited hastened their move. Bertha hah hears stories of rape and pillage passed from village to village. The priority was the strong women and children. Damage, if need be, would be averted by clubs clothed in nails and hidden under the skin of a impala. They were a highly civilized village, wary of imposed elements of globalization. A cigarette was a pipe the chief shared with the elders. Marlboro was a trade name and packets of popular cigarette brands were avoided like Satan. It was a nicotine plague.

Karim and suana, the two spotters had risen before dawn. They were on the road to confirm a rumor. Had the rebel army been ordered to vacate Goma and its surrounding villages?. Their trek was perilous. At the heart and in the aftermath was the safety of Adeilha, her children and the other tribal members who also were on the road. They, Marsupial in their movements, reached the 4 km point after an hour. The penumbra of the moon gave them the light they needed.

Mosquitoes were a flame with carnal hunger, they had covered themselves well. In fact, they had taken themselves further than first imagined. They now moved inwards towards the West. They would breakfast with the others when they had the news all were expecting of them. As two, these men were loyal and this loyalty cemented a bond they had developed since early adulthood.

The silence at this hour was a beautiful thing. They had prayed for the health and safety of their fellow men. No one had complained during the four days of group movement. They had passed a small group and questioned the elder members; they had been deployed elsewhere; they were now under the protection of the casqued blue of the ONU. They yelped with delight, drank thirstily from the goat skin carafe offered them, and headed southwards. They danced a merry tune as they ate up the meters and reached Adeilha’s group, for she and her charges were up first and on the road quicker than the rest to motivate the others and deter any incipient lethargy.

Suana, the more senior of the pair, explained how recent events favored them, and therefore all the group. They entrusted to her the task to narrate the events with the emphasis on required the speed and dexterity to reach Goma before sunset. The children had developed blisters, she, in her wisdom, had left to gather strength. The resulting thick dermal carapace added strength and protection against insect bites and the rogue stones the gusts of wind might throw up..

When they arrived in Goma, they sought the temporary shelters erected by the government for its soldiers. Here they could refresh before returning to their tribal land. It would mean a required three days in the RDC capital. They would not be tourists in the capital city of their mother country, but rather sell some of the art work that the village had been making at the flea market. There, tourists with deeper intentions than a visit to a McDonalds or Burger king would buy the work of the highest craftsmanship

Adeila, 26, had already born three children and set about organizing her own family. Her side, the left flank was covered by thick gorse and lemon scented gum trees. Shelter would be sought two half moons further north east. It was not windy or raining and tales of sapphires and other minerals were the tales of the story tellers. In Western eyes, the myth of Africa was about untamed lions, wild coyote and Rhodesian ridgebacks. It was also about gold and oil. They did not choose to live where modern man had so recently chanced upon a small lake of oil, the curse of Satan. The revenues of finds from the last decade had been about newly harnessed wealth for the few and misery and pollution for the many. She wanted the finest education for her son and two daughters.

Her friends in the nearby village were neighbors and comrades. The women held this society’s cohesion. Men dissented, women got affairs settled and the fast runners of her tribe sped ahead in relays of four. Grave danger meant the return of two runners; otherwise the displaced people would proceed unperturbed. Corn and maize harvested meant provisions were safe for the next fortnight. Within days, Adeila knew they would settle somewhere, not be settled elsewhere by foreigners.

Her strength of purpose bred great strength and confidence in the village’s future. It was still a question of living a Nomadic life.

At the first check-point, for it was a warm winter African day, they say under the thorn tree. There were more than twelve; others would follow upon hearing their news. It was not a trial of strength, rather of survival. It was a lesson to all. Being displaced and obliged to move was an everyday existence. Adeilha wanted to end the torment of this uncertainty. She would work morning and night to get a solution. It would be on behalf of her village. There was no alternative; the cohesion of African village life was existence. No foreigners were welcome. If there was recourse to blood shed, it would not be hers.
It was dusty before dinner, spinning eddies whirled and found their way into the bags and left natures mark on the clothes they wore. Adeilha dusted her three down. The spotters assisted in helping the elders. The elders who had lived through so many tempests had no need of this youthful exuberance. It painted, nonetheless, the tribal picture of family. This steadfast security would undergo a severe test, but this would not matter. She addressed the elders; she said that more work was needed and the money harvested would extend their communal patch. Two were expecting and this addition of hands would be a godsend. They preserved their dignity, were as smart as their western counterparts and had style with attitude. Did this mean the village was moving, the elder thought and decided to convene the elders, a meeting in which Adeilha’s voice would be heard.

At the meeting, the groans were about the weather. In reality it was much more important than meteorological banalities.

“The omens are not promising,” began the elder. “Many here have never moved. Times are changing. Foreign men with foreign ways are coming. We must be strong.” They nodded in agreement. They knew the tasks ahead and, since Adeilha had the confidence of the tribal elders, they knew the daily routine. The use of modern terminology was not new; they always had been living this way. You might think she was a business executive by her order and concise use of language. The threat by foreigners was real. They had their own army. It was not an unfortunate allusion to military affairs. They had been this way since the dawn of time. Adeilha now spoke:

“Rape of the lands is something frightening for this generation. Profiteers have arrived and want to bleach the soil for all its worth. If we must use our tools to defend what the Lord has given this land, so be it.” She spoke with the soothing voice of a trained panther, a steely glare in the eyes.

There was a muted reaction. They were weary. They saw the futility of existence was with them. They carried this yoke. It was an acceptable burden. She was aware they had to grow up with the Western adults, but beat them at their own game. They knew the lands of Africa. She continued:

“My good followers, the path is long. Our rewards will be great. Let these foreigners feel welcome, offer them the sanctuary of the market stalls and trade them to the last cent.”

They had already made and painted a number of wooden objects. These were to be passed off as authentic African objets d’art. They were priced according to the market value just as electronic gadgets that could be ordered and bought en masse in the city. Adeilha made their eyes gleam. She appealed to their innate values of the hunted and the hunters.

“Let the white foreigner know it is him who is our quarry. Let him feel it is his achievement when he buys. Let him never forget your culture. Let him leave wanting to return. Let him know our market is open all day.”

They whooped and set about their day. They were all the animals on God’s planet and they were the strongest and the bravest. The plan was rehearsed for Adeilha. They showed her the painted and sculptured objects they would be selling and wanted the tribal elders as witnesses; the funds soon to be harvested would be invested. Adeilha as an important member of this African tribal wanted to open a time deposit. She had already discussed with the elders.

She said before all those gathered:

“The funds harvested as fruits of our labors will be in the hands of our trusted financial partners. These will fetch the highest rate of interest. We have to have confidence in these people. An account at the highest interest will be opened. The fittest and the strongest among you are our protectors.”

She wanted Boauke to know that this was the way to be and how to live in this country. She wanted the travel experiences at a national level to instill in her son the drive to look further a field without having to be told to do so. This was about maternal discipline and a mother’s affection in a country that had seen so much tragedy. RDC was not the place for tear-jerkering stories.

Adeilha was visibly touched by the courteousness of the foreigners as they handed over the US Dollars in exchange for African tribal originality. It was, then, an opportunity for learning for the young member of this tribe. She had great visions of a strong, successful and sociable son who would go on to become an ambassador for the tribal village. He would never forget his roots.

In private, she was nervous. She wanted so much for her family that she did not want any mistakes. She knew their curiosity could get the better of them. The spotters, her most faithful, were green. Karim and Suana would be attracted to the glam and neon lights of the city. She wanted their protection. They were lean and hungry. She wanted them to be protected and called on Mongo, a mature tribal member to ensure their safety. He was expert in use of the African arts. He could throw as far as an impala can travel in three seconds and score. His talent had been nurtured by the tribal elders. He was a bodyguard in Western eyes. His physical strength made the local villagers respectful. He could strangle a man in thirty seconds.

Her husband, Koutouba had headed for the coast. He would begin the week as the angler who had his responsibilities to keep. In fact, he would reap more now that the mild weather was an invitation for tourism and, therefore, more customers. He was noble to recognize the raw talent of his wife. Did he need a woman as he fished the seas? She had told the tribal elders about the strong family link Koutouba and Bouake had made, she being the only one who unified this bond within the daily goings on of village life. They both thanked God for life.

In the capital, gaudy images bombarded them. Slogans of temptation excited and distracted from the hard worn path they had traveled. Their focus was disturbed. Adeilha wanted them to enjoy their day. She spoke quietly with Mongo. He pounded his way unperturbed through the smog of people of the city of Goma and told Karim and Suama, the two spotters, that there would be time for these things after the market sales.

They were carrying three baskets covered in dried impala skins. The first housed wooden objects, the second ivory and the third paintings. At the market, Adeilha was the chief. The time was just before midday. The faces of the potential buyers glistened with sweat, evidence of the lack of airconditioning that they were used to. The first customers were a man and a woman. Adeilha was intrigued and thought , judging from the clothes they were wearing, they were prosperous. She wanted to pitch at the highest level, aim for the sky so that when they bought and left they would return next time. She had perfected a spiel that was bipolar with whoops and rolled consonants. She had friends who had spoken of the Hadza people.

They set up store. It was a zone designated for sellers.. She asked Karim to open the first basket and place on the table a number of objects. The elephant, white rhinoceros looked outstanding. One of the elders, himself a craftsman had made of the wood from the boab a giraffe. He had painted using oils made from local plants. Adeilha smiled at the curious faces of the tourists.

“Gee darling, look at these!”, said the voice of an American gentleman.
“Wow, Does this look like one of our horses back home?
“ How much is the rhino”, he asked.
“ $1,000 US. If you want also the elephant I can let them go for $1,500.”

She caressed the animals and asked them to hold them.
“Feel the energy of the creatures of the land. They roam our country.”
“ Gee that feels swell”. He opened his wallet and lay down $2,000 US
Adeliha was stunned and feigned an air of innocence, then thought of the foods that could feed the hungry mouths. She had no intention of offering any change.

“Would you like this wrapped?”, she asked as reached for some paper. “ I’ll put these in a bag that has the flavor of my country”
“ Golly the giraffe ‘ll look fine on grandma’s commode”, he spat in apparent disbelief
She wrapped the objects and passed the dollars to Suana who put them in wallet made from the skins of the impala.
“You know were are here on vacation and I think it is only fair you keep the change, don’t you Marjorie?”

“Let’s go, love, too hot I need a fresh drink”. Her face was crimson a mixture of the oppressive heat and happiness.

They left laden with new goods, and meandered their way through the thrash. People, faces, objects, money to spend.

Next there was a woman. She was dressed in the finest clothes. She was a peroxide blonde and was puffing at a cigarette. She had heard the conversation and wanted to bargain. She stubbed out the cigarette and started as fresh and innocent and culturally impoverished as they come.

She knew when a customer is not a client. She signaled to Suama. This young, hungry tribal man fetched the third basket. Adeilha placed the impala skin on the table and took out six paintings. She let the first fall.

“Let me help you. No I insist. I don’t want to give you any bother. I like art. I want to buy African paintings and can pay in local currency and $US.”

“Good afternoon. Would you like to see all?”

“Does this show a local view?”

She was referring to the painting that had fallen.

“This is a painting of the local river that runs through a tribal village. We fetch waters at dawn and dusk. We wash and cook with the fish we catch. It is not expensive. $2,000.US”

“Ah wow! I have more from different places. I am not a collector. I buy to sell on. It is a buyers market. I’ll have all of these”.

She did not need to ask why and wanted the sale. She asked no questions and gave no answers. She was a reliable customer. She put all the paintings into a basket and covered this with a second skin. She did, however, as k how she was going to pay and insisted on American dollars, not the local currency.

“It’s 15,000 for the set. You can put them anywhere in your home.”

She said fine, took the new notes from a Gutti bag and handed them to Adeliha. She smiled as she placed them in the wallet made from the skins of an impala. She was so stunned by the interest these people had shown. She did not want to waste time. She wanted the very best for her family. She wanted her custom and good word to disseminate. There was every chance more would come next Saturday.

The peroxide blonde almost stumbled as she left. She struck as curious figure as she reached for another cigarette from a case. Adeilha dared not as k where she had bought that while she was doing business. She was kitsch personified. An alien to the traditions of the tribal village. When she reached for the chi wara, she wanted to appeal to the refined. It was now six. The crowds were still hovering around the market stalls.

A man dressed in tweed approached and asked for directions to the lavatories. She sensed he wanted to talk about their art and used the politest of questions as an opening gambit. His voice sounded like the fines bee’s honey. She asked Suama to take him. He returned and asked about the wooden statue.

“She is a seated woman. Her hair is typical of the African queen.” She said as little as possible because she knew he was a collector.

“Please show me also the Bambara. I may wish to take both. They look of the highest quality. My interest and my work is in African art.”
He handed over his card; Mr. Henry S. Wintry. She was not surprised. She was pleased a gentleman had arrived .

“They are the nomadic people that continued tradition”, she continued. “They sought to educate the young and encourage the oral tradition through the griots”. Adeilha was refreshed, yet jaded. She continued with a sparkle in her voice. She was pleased the others could enjoy this special moment. When it was a question of arriving at a gentleman’s agreement, she trod with caution. He would not pay more than he knew the auction houses of Christies. He was a gentleman and he was smart. He knew she had attracted the travelers and the retired; he wanted the finest.

“I will pay in US dollars”, was the first thing he said. He was visibly impressed. Suama had acted in accordance with his traditions. Mr. Wintry glanced around, saw that many were heading for refreshments. He knew these were Americans and Europeans.

She knew money was a dirty word. “ The Chi wara is $20,000 US. The symbol of fertility and fecundity is $50,000.” He liked her precision and the fact she did not haggle. He could, if he wanted converse for hours but sensed they were tired. He knew too well their path was long.

He handed over the crisp dollar bills and she tucked them inside a wallet, the skin of which came from the hide of an antelope. Few words now were exchanged. He smiled.
She wrapped carefully both and placed each in a basket. Suama fetched one of the covers. It was tribal unity. She handed both to this gentleman from London who bid farewell.

CHAPTER TWO

Her needs and the tribal village’s welfare combined to set the tone of the next hours. She spoke softly and quietly about the great contributions. She mentioned no names; her gestures spoke volumes. They were not just hungry, they were worn.

“ We will purchase items, we will carry what we have all sown. Our village will remember this day. Our elders are still carving and making paintings. These have priceless value. We must always remember.”

They collected everything; the spotters shouldered the physical burden. They all carried the pride of their tribal village. Adeilha did not want to fritter way time because the children were hungry, thirsty and expecting them to be home. She could speak and write this word with no difficulty.

20 kilos of corn, 10 K yellow rice, 20 liters of purified water, all the fruits and vegetables, harvested under the East African sun. She penned this list. She would show it to the vendors in the covered market and Suama, Karim and Koutuba would take the baskets, laden with fresh produce, carry them on their heads when they returned before sunrise.
She spoke in local dialect. The produce was given immediately by men who had been working all day, sweat having soaked their torsos. They also bought meats that would be baked over a stone fire. Westerners would label this a kiln but in fact, Africans had used their advanced skills before the birth of Christ. They were perfect. This sounded corny; it was on the contrary a reflection of African tribal efficiency. They looked after their own.

The elder was waiting; he had been praying for their well-being. It was a series of African incantations they could hear as they arrived. It was sweet music and it tasted of wild honey. They were tired and they had things to do before the village would eat meat. Suaama and karim and the others washed before laying the foods; there tired and smelly feet to be washed. These ablutions were quite customary. They would not be let down. Foreign interference on this day had made the next weeks’ schedule all the more interesting. She wanted to enroll some of the children into a school where fees needed to be paid. Adeliha would vet these places would not place false hopes in glitzy names and titles; she was a superb judge of a person. When a man came, she already knew many things. She was not a Ginny, though had powers of which the elders were proud.

She was annoyed when she tuned into the radio stations. She thought they were disseminating untruths. Now for the children of the village, she convened a meeting with the elders; it would be a tiresome affair. Cash, planning and prescience were needed. The eldest was about to turn ninety, though it was not clear exactly in which year he had been born.

“What is important for me, she began, is that my sons go to school. We have all suffered the intrusions of the foreign man. They bring great technology and they remove things of immense value. I want to local villages schools to have space for my offspring. I want the recent joys and tribulations that we have witnessed to make our future better. This has to me they attend school.”

Her eyes flared as she addressed the elders. She was calm as she spoke eloquently.

“Karim and his elder brother have glimpsed the neon lights of Goma where temptation and opportunity sit side by side. We could have spent all the $US we harvested at the market. We chose wisely. The products we all eat and the pure water we can drink and cook with are a result of our labors. Our village is our concern. We must always make it thus. Great change is forcing our hand. I want us to be strong for this new invasion and the rape of the African continent.”

Her Strong words werespoken with conviction. She breathed fire and passion. The elders looked jaded. Change had knocked the wind from their song. In Nigeria, political procrastination had enforced change, though children also had the opportunity to attend school.. In this their tribal village, it was motioned and it was passed that education, if fee-paying at the local schools, would be funded.

Now they prepared breakfast. The baskets of foods, fresh now, would go rotten if uneaten. Health and vitality in a country where winter temperatures plummet during two seasons and soar into the stratosphere at the height of the summer. When they sat on the earth, they did so, having first taken skins of buffalo to have as cushions. The foods would be equally shared. It was a brunch for thirty hungry people. They served the coconut, splitting it first and extracting the pulp. Into a plastic bottle full of cold water, they cut out its top and, into an empty bottle poured cold water. Karim mixed the flesh of the coconut with sugar and spices, stirred this mixture and left it settle for twenty minutes.

On beds of white rice, they poured this delicious mixture. It tasted sweet. It was delicious and was a fine start to the second part of the day. The dark breads made these very hungry Africans whoop with pleasure. Adeilha smiled as her sons and their friends ate hungrily.