You may also notice that I write very little of relationships between the family. This is due to my own ignorance. Even though Katrina and I have an unadulterated view of the Flindjas, we cannot feign to have any real knowledge of the family’s inner workings. Nevertheless, this is the family we know best. Enjoy.
Bawa
When I think of Bawa, Abraham Lincoln comes to mind. Perhaps Abe faced slightly more harrowing circumstances preserving the union, abolishing slavery, and so on. But that’s not to say there aren’t a few similarities.
Both come from humble beginnings and have risen in the ranks to become venerated figures. Both posses a moral soundness matched by few men. Both exhibit progressive thinking. Both take solace in knowing their actions can ameliorate other’s lives. Bawa often says he sleeps little; his mind races with all his responsibilities of supporting his extended “African” family, (certainly smaller than the Union via 1860, but much larger than the American nuclear family). Bawa’s anguish conjures up images of Abe pacing the silent White House floors feeling the weight of the nation on his shoulders. Both are exceptionally amicable gentlemen, but exude a sort of preternatural melancholy, unable to neglect the injustices, cruelties, or just bad luck this big world can bring. Hence, a good sense of humor is imperative for their wellbeing.
On one occasion, Katrina was hosting her boss for a day in Ogaro. Rose, the head of Girl’s Education and Empowerment Program, was talking to students about the upcoming International Women’s Day. As a Togolese woman who has risen from rags to riches, so to speak, she has quite a success story to relay. Charismatic and energetic, she commands large crowds with ease. Bawa sat listening and finally asked with an inquisitive look, “But Rose, what about International Men’s Day? Don’t we get a day too?”
Rose was not impressed. Meanwhile, Bawa convulsed with laughter, legs in the air, slapping his knee repeatedly, nearly choking, he was so pleased with himself for injecting a little humor onto the scene. He loves—nay, needs—to laugh. And he doesn’t count on a few for his kicks. Bawa draws on the masses for his insatiable need for laughter. In turn, the masses are always nearby to catch his contagious nature.
One peculiarity of Bawa is that he has fits when he can’t remember names. Important ones. When telling a story awhile back, his second wife came into the picture. His eyes looked up and to the left, his mouth hung open in thought until he said, “the other one.” While this episode may be sad on a number of levels, the immediate comic value was priceless.
Despite his sporadic absentmindedness, no one is more active in community affairs. Village Development Committee, President. Committee against Child Trafficking, President. School board, active member. Agricultural cooperative, presiding member. There are others.
Men like Bawa are rare. One hopes these guys stick around for awhile. Unfortunately, Bawa doesn’t share these feelings for himself. He says he wants to go at age 60, no later. For a man who is financially responsible for many, being an economic burden on someone else is a pain he cannot bare.
Akovi
Among Togolese, there is a certain sass that is revered by all. Akovi personifies this woman. In classical Togolese tradition, hyperbole is her game. This is a terribly confusing trait to decode. In our first months in Ogaro, a quarrel arose between a man and her in our compound. For no less than fifteen minutes, they shouted with such animosity, that I was sure blows would ensue. Then, with no pretense to what was to come, uproarious laughter broke out on all sides. Having little understanding of our local language, I have no clue what words were spoken. It’s a shame too. It’s clear everyone enjoys her sense of humor.
Slowly bubbling under the surface of her charm and sass however, lays a temper. No more than a month ago, a similar occurrence took place, but with an alternate ending. Serious blows did ensue. Out of the ten or so fights I have witnessed in Togo, nearly every one is a woman fighting another woman. This strange phenomenon reveals a certain relativity concerning each sex’s temperament. Grown men, for example, are prone to hold, and even lovingly caress, hands in any forum. (The idea of homosexuality is so far removed from mainstream thought that no eyebrows are raised in suspicion.) Such solidarity is rare among women.
Akovi is a woman with obvious potential for success. What she does do, she does well. But, as with most women her age, she is illiterate. While she does sell local beer and tofu in the market, she has little ability to expand her entrepreneurial spirit. She represents in many ways, the Togolese woman; a capable person destined to live in, and be held back by, her time and her place.
Sakoundja
The oldest of Bawa’s kids, Sakoundja takes his role as big brother and exemplar seriously. First off, he excels in school. He was third in his class last year, (all students know exactly how they ranked within their class). At night, he will often be seen with a flashlight wedged between his shoulder and chin, reviewing his notes.
His first year of English was an exciting time for him as he is ever eager to win our respect. Everything he knows in English he uses at every opportunity, regardless of its practicality. One day, after learning a dialogue verbatim in class, he approached me and, unbeknownst to me, began the dialogue. It went as follows:
“You! Over here!” *Angrily*
“Who me?” *Leaning back, pointing finger at himself, very surprised. He comes forward.*
“Passport please.” *Tersely*
“Here you are!” *With umph*
“Where are you going?” *Accusingly*
“I go to Lagos.” *Confidently*
Pause. Man looks over the passport.
“O.K. You can go.” *Professionally*
The hilarity of the moment was due to the fact that Sakoundja was so elated at learning a new English dialogue, it didn’t register that the conversation deviated in any way from our normal parlance. We both had a good laugh and in the days that followed, repeated the dialogue several times in passing as if we were simply saying hello.
Jean
This kid is all laughs, no business. I hesitate to say a serious thought can pass through his head. His days are spent in joyous revelry. We have a silly game we oft-times play. It’s a staring contest to see who can hold out the longest before breaking a smile. I never lose. Before smiling, his eyes flutter like those of a teenage girl trying to woo a young sprig.
He’s undeniably flamboyant in his idiosyncrasies. In one instance, we were playfully throwing rocks at each other from afar. Each movement to dodge the incoming rock could only be deemed a prance. Each maneuver was crisply, judiciously, yet blissfully carried out. Without view of the soaring rocks, one would think he was practicing an interpretive skate dance, without the skates.
Jean also likes to try his hand at fishing. During rainy season, a nearby crick is sprinkled with small fish. After a few hours incognito, he will return home. Charging in with his chest puffed and his wooden fishing poll carrying a handful of fish, his smile nor the pride in his eyes can be withheld. Never mind his catch stretch no more than a pinky width.
Dapandja
Even after a year and a half in Ogaro, Dapandja has trouble opening up to us. I partly blame ourselves. His two other brothers, Jean and Sakoundja, quickly became confidants in our compound. Dapandja’s presence was slow to materialize, and we didn’t do a great job of extending our hand in friendship.
Tentative and quiet, he is nonetheless an intelligent kid. Roughly the same age as Jean, Dapandja opens up in his presence. The two, who apart seem to be polar opposites, suddenly seem very much alike together. They often stroll down to the nearby crick with slingshots and a pouch full of rocks to track birds and take aim. While their success rate is minute, their accuracy should not be understated. Killing a pigeon with little more than a pebble is considerably more difficult than say, dropping a pheasant with a 12-gage.
I was taking a walk one evening and saw the two skipping along. There was magic in the air. The lawlessness and freedom of this crick overwhelmed me. I looked at the two, clothed only in their worn undies and thought of Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer cutting out to the woods to escape the rigid social norms of their day. Methinks, every boy needs a crick like this and every boy needs a brother like Dapandja to share it with.
Fati
On August 27th, 2008, I was awakened in the middle of the night. It quickly became evident that everyone in the compound was up and milling about. This was understandably a startling fact. I stepped outside and prepared myself for the worst. One of the younger kids noticed my presence and simply said, “Trace, baby.”
Then I heard the baby’s cries.
In her mud hut, Fati had mothered her first girl. She did this without waking anyone and without anyone to assist her. It was the baby’s cries, not the agonies of labor, which awoke everyone. If I have but one memory of Fati that will not be distorted by the prism of time, it will be there in that mud hut, all alone in the quiet of the night, sweating and panting and doing everything else women do while in labor, experiencing the miracle of birth with just her and her newborn.
Since Emma (Katrina was given the honor of naming her), there has been a marked change in Fati. Call it a mother’s glow. Before the birth, while dejected would be too strong a word, there was a submissive, forlorn air to her. Now she seems at peace. This is no coincidence. In a society where a woman’s role is traditionally confined to preparing food, fetching water, gathering wood, keeping up the house, and child rearing, the latter is the most enjoyable. While a baby’s infancy is certainly a special time anywhere, I would argue its “specialness” is augmented here. Those times when a mother is nursing her child, before the rigid task of passing down all the tricks of the trade (to begin a few mere years later), this is the time when a Togolese woman is in her element.
Emma
While still an infant, Emma’s first signs of character are taking shape. Wide-eyed like her dad, all objects in her view seem to be looked at through the lens of curiosity. But I suppose that’s a rather humdrum observation. What child seems bored with life after nine months of existence?
In the long run, I believe Emma will grow to be an open and accepting person. My evidence? She has taken a liking to us in record time. No other baby has performed this task in under a year. It’s a record that could be on the books for awhile with no immediate contenders vying for the crown.
She also has quite a pair of legs on her. While not able to stand yet, if one steadies her body and begins humming a rhythm—dun-di-di-dun-di-di-dun—she will begin jumping wildly. By all accounts, she takes the greatest pleasure in this exercise and does not easily exhaust herself.
Jean-Marie
(Picture to be posted soon)
A number of names come to mind when I think of Fati’s other kid: a strange bird, an odd duck, a turkey.
Although separated in age by some 60 years, he bares a striking resemblance to his grandpa—Bawa’s Dad—who also lives in our compound. This is a semblance I wouldn’t wish on many people. Perhaps the teeth logically lead me to the comparison. Too young yet to fashion himself a toothpick, he has a film of food lining his gums. His teeth also seem especially small, even for baby teeth. Both facts point in grandpa’s direction. Over the years, his teeth have been reduced to small stubs. While food doesn’t line his gums, his pipe, always nearby, has caused his teeth to turn an off-off-white, giving them a similar esthetic. Luckily for Jean-Marie, stalactites of saliva do not form in his mouth when talking. But enough of dental hygiene issues.
When he’s home, he spends his time running around with other kids, chasing animals out of the compound, singing song fragments that he has picked up from the radio—typical kids stuff.
While admittedly he may be a little behind in the game, time has a way of evening things out. Even in his first year of school and he proudly greets us in French when he sees us. I can’t help but recall my parent’s telling me of their uneasiness when my elder brother was busy mastering state capitals and I, lisp and all, had yet to master the art of speaking in coherent, complete sentences.
The fact that Jean-Marie is an odd duck doesn’t bother me at this point. If I had to guess, if we came back in ten years, this hapless little duckling will have grown into something beautiful.
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