The fête du Ramadan (Aïd el Fitr) was on Tuesday. The market stayed open until just before dawn, so everyone could get supplies. We could hear music playing all night, but by eight o’clock, it was unusually quiet. Fanta had the day off, as did the daytime guardiens on our street; there was a substitute guardien sitting outside our neighbor’s house. I saw him praying towards the east at four o'clock. Perhaps he agreed to work in the others’ place because he had no family to spend the holiday with. That seems so unlikely in this country where family is everything.
Our guardien Husseini works 6:30 p.m. to 6:30 a.m., but his house sits on the corner of our rental property, and during a normal day I see him shuffling around in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and flip-flops. (Now that it’s under 70 degrees Fahrenheit at night, he wears a flannel shirt or leather jacket, and knit cap.) On the day of the fête, Husseini walked out purposefully in a crisp brown boubou, glasses, and a black skullcap, and for a moment I thought there was a stranger in our driveway. I only recognized him by his distinctive loping stride and habitual over-the-shoulder appraisal of the yard.
Note that Husseini was wearing glasses for the special occasion. I’ve been told that most Malians wearing glasses don’t actually need them to correct their vision. Motorcyclists, I know, wear them as goggles to keep the dust out of their eyes. The others, I hear, just want to look smart. (And, I should be embarrassed to admit, it works on me. Maybe I’m a sucker because I wear glasses myself.) On the other hand, Fanta is significantly near-sighted, but never wears her glasses, because one of the earpieces is broken off and, I suspect, the prescription is probably not correct.
Later in the afternoon, I decided to go for a walk to see what a Malian national holiday feels like. Most people did not work and there was no school. The paved roads seemed to have fewer cars on them, but groups of children in new clothes walked the side streets. Guardiens who did not have the day off were joined by their families. The men wore bright new boubous and matching skullcaps; the women, shiny, custom-made dresses and matching headwraps; the little girls, frilly European-style dresses. Most appealing were the little boys, with their miniature boubous down to their ankles, and coordinating pants. One recited a benediction for me and I fished in my pocket for change. I did not have any small coins, so I gave him 100CFA (about 20 U.S. cents). “It’s your lucky day,” I said, and he ran off clutching his treasure.
The official fête may have been Tuesday but it wasn’t over today. There was no school, and Fanta asked if her two daughters might come to visit. Of course, I said, and they appeared at the end of my morning French lesson, in identical new dresses, blue with black insets, dyed and sewn by their aunt. The older one, Maimuna, was tall and slender with fine reddish braids. She perched on our bamboo chair with a straight back and gazed quietly at our yard. The younger, whose name I never learned, was chubbier, slouched and fidgeted in her seat. Neither would meet my eye or say a word unless I asked a question, and to those Maimuna responded for them both with as few words as possible. Do they have school today? No. What are they doing? Nothing. Where are their four brothers? At home, doing nothing. Did they come by SOTRAMA? Yes. From what quartier? Messira. Is that far from here? No. Would they like some more water? No, thank you, no.
We sat quietly for a few minutes before I realized that Fanta would not stop dusting and join us, unless invited. After I urged her to sit down, she kept the conversation going single-handedly. My daughters are Gabonese, she said. I made all my children in Gabon. I’m Malian, and their father was Malian, but we went there for his work. Then we came back to Bamako. One day, while I was working and the children were all at school, he fell down. He was alone. He was paralyzed. She runs a hand down her right side to illustrate.
It sounds like he had a stroke. Not long after that he died. I wonder how long ago that was, but I don’t want to ask in front of the girls. Fanta continues her story: I wanted to return to Gabon but my father said No. He is Bamakoise. Now she and her six children and their grandfather live together. That’s the way here -- the family is everything. It seems such a burden to an American, but the Malians don’t understand. Why would you want to get ahead, if it means leaving your family behind?
