Patience

Patience was a dog.  He looked like every other dog in this part of the world:  pointy snout, shades of brown and white, slowly healing, scabby wounds at the tip of each triangular ear, oozing, fly-paper wound on the top of his head.  Maybe he was a little better nourished than most.  Patience belonged to one of the families in our courtyard, and therefore he belonged to all of us, since private property, and privacy, for that matter, are foreign concepts here.  Patience guarded the courtyard and barked loudly at strangers entering or simply appearing outside the gate.  He chased away other dogs and any pigs, goats, sheep or chickens that didn’t belong here. He accompanied us to the market or the library, bounding joyously through tall grass but never straying far, and growled at would-be aggressors, either human or canine.

I was probably the only person who actually touched Patience, petting him and applying Neosporin to his wounds.  He really started liking me after I let him eat the heads of my friture (small, whole fried fish), for which I was reprimanded because I was spoiling him.  His family did feed him, but kept him chained much of the day so he wouldn’t stick his nose in the corn flour spread on a tarp to bleach in the sun of the courtyard or the rain water so carefully collected in basins and buckets during a deluge.

[I probably should have eaten the fish heads myself (no way!), or at least left them for one of the kids.  No matter what I leave on my plate, be it half of the much too large serving of rice they offer me, or just the bones from a piece of fish, even if I’ve spit them out, someone will eat it.*  When the first riz gras (risotto) prepared in a new pot stuck badly, I added water and soaked my cooking spoons with the mess for a while.  Once I’d scraped the rice loose I offered the neighbor this brew to give to Patience.  The dog never had a chance; the girl ate it herself.  There’s no point trying to cook enough for more than one meal at a time, since there’s always someone wanting to ‘taste’ whatever I’ve concocted.  They are equally generous with the foods they prepare, though.]

Patience was only a dog.  Monday evening he accompanied (‘followed’) the other courtyard family (not his true owners) to the market.  When he was hit by a truck and badly lamed on the paved road, his owners contacted a Dagara family who administered the coup de grace and ate him. 

Muslims will not eat dog, but several other ethnic groups do.**

It was somewhat gratifying that the girl who fed Patience every day wept at his demise and at the fact that he had become someone’s much appreciated dinner.  During PST, one of our cultural awareness activities called for American and Burkinabe groups to illustrate their vision of family and friends in a graphic with concentric circles.  The Burkinabe chuckled when Americans included the family pet or pets in the inner circle.  For the HCNs (host country nationals), all animals, even Patience, belong ‘either way off the chart or in the freezer with the rest of the meat.’

Young dolo drinker. A calabash full, or about a liter, costs a dime.

As upsetting as the loss of Patience may be, I can’t help feeling some relief that the casualty was ‘only a dog,’ and not a child, or one of the many cripples who cross the pavement at a snail’s pace to get to the market.  The goudron is the main drag of the village.  It is lined with shops, cafés, cabarets (where people hang out enjoying a fermented millet beverage called dolo), repair shops, etc., and at any given time it is populated with pedestrians, bikes, scooters and the occasional automobile.   People socialize in the middle of this road.  Mechanics lie under vehicles with their legs sticking out into the road.  Children race along the road propelling hoops, bike tires or wheels with sticks.  Women with babies on their backs and loads of firewood on their heads make slow progress and lack the luxury of rear-view mirrors.

The big truck that hit Patience did not even slow down.  The trucks transporting goods to and from Ghana are the reason the road is paved at all.  Sometimes they blast their horns as they enter the village, but not always.  They own the road.  Why are there no speed bumps?  I’m told the village does not have the right to install gendarmes couchés (policemen lying in bed) on this international highway.  Without speed bumps or outright road blocks, the local police on their motorbikes are about as effective as the ‘slow down’ signs at either end of the village.  I’ve been advised to try writing a letter to the ministry of public works, and to have patience.

*/**  If you’re not tired of reading, here’s a description of traditional Dagara eating habits from Of Water and the Spirit by Malidoma Somé, a man between cultures:

“Indigenous life is a constant physical exercise.  From plowing the earth with your bare hands to running after an antelope during the hunt to carrying huge stacks of wood for the fireplace, the body is constantly involved in expending energy.  It is not surprising that my people don’t have weight problems.  The energy each person burns during the day is incalculable.  No wonder the amount of food available always seems insufficient.  My younger brothers always behaved as if they were starving.  They would gulp down an enormous dish and yet keep sniffing around as if they had not eaten anything at all.  Guillaume told me one day that he never knew what satiation felt like.  He said he stopped eating when there was no more to eat.

When my mother prepared meals, she always made two servings, one for the males and the other for the females.  Father presided over male meals and she presided over female meals.  We always sat in a circle around the dish.  The grown-ups sat on stools, and the young sat with their left legs folded under their butts as a seat.  The evening meal, about ten o’clock, was the most important of the day.  It gathered together the whole family, including visitors, since in the Dagara tradition no visitor can be denied food.

Dinner began with the hand-washing ceremony.  The male leader was first, followed by the next-oldest person and so on till the youngest had washed.  The first bit of food was always offered to the spirit of the earth shrine.  This is called a clearance bite.  My father always performed this ceremony.  He would take a bit of cake [corn or millet cake, akin to corn-meal mush] and dip it into the sauce, say something rapidly between his teeth, and then throw the thing away as if he did not want it.  The dog loved it – even though it was not destined for him but for the Spirit of the earth shrine.  Sometimes the dog would catch it in midair and swallow it at once as if he did not want to know what it tasted like.

To, or millet cake, and sorrel sauce.

Then my father, who pretended not to pay attention to the fate of the first bite, would prepare another for himself.  I noticed that his portion was larger.  He would stick the whole portion into his mouth, hold it in there for a few seconds, and then nod his head before swallowing it.  This was the signal that the dinner was safe to eat.  Seven hands assaulted the dishes, determined to empty them, and the meal was enjoyed in silence.  For the Dagara, there is no such thing as a plate for each person, because in the context of a real community, separate plates cultivate separateness.  The older people were supposed to stop eating first, allowing the youngest to finish it all up.  Anyone who burps is expected to stop eating immediately, as that indicates that he or she is full.

Eating with one’s hands is a fascinating art.  You are supposed to lick your fingers one by one after each swallow, starting with the front of each of the four fingers, then their backs, and finally the thumb.  Then the entire finger must be taken into the mouth and carefully sucked.  The person presiding over the meal is in charge of making sure that these rules are followed carefully.  Consequently, any voice you hear during a meal is the leader’s voice correcting bad eating habits mostly related to finger-licking.  Children who are very hungry don’t take the time to lick their fingers properly, so someone must be there to instruct them in good table manners.”

Malidoma Patrice Somé, Of Water and the Spirit, ISBN 0-14-019496-7:  tedious and at times downright freaky, but a fascinating look at the Dagara culture, spiritual initiation and rite of passage, the pain and damage wrought by colonization and missionaries, the ability to commune with ancestral spirits, and spiritual travel to other worlds.  Healers, diviners, ritual initiation….  A grain of salt wasn’t quite sufficient for me!  But there is going to be an initiation here in Dissin this year.  Nowadays they only perform the initiation every few years, when enough eligible young men are available.  Not everyone is suited for it, and it can be fatal.