Death in the Village

So for various reasons, I’ve been avoiding updating this blog. Since the Kaolack House moved to its new location (natural light, ooo!) a month ago, I have not had much internet access for work or communication, so that has made the rare and precious time online even more so. But more than the lack of internet access, there is a blog entry that I’ve been dreading posting, but need to, because it was a HUGE event in my village and my service. And it revolves around an old man who a fellow female PCV once tried to sell me to for 4 cows (not enough to me and too much for him—she was just KIDDING!). I call him George.

I started writing this blog about three weeks ago, so it’s kind of out of date, sorry.

I’ll be honest, the last week and a half has been tough—downright hard. Not for anything like getting used to life again or a lot of work or cultural adjustment or anything like that. No, this week was tough in a way that has shown me just how difficult it will be to leave my village in 8 months, because of the real bonds and friendships I’ve made with the people around me. George passed away. “George” was the name I gave to the oldest man in my compound/ village, and he was convinced I was his third wife. I *believe* George was 93 years old, but realistically, he could have been any age from 80-95. He had told me 90 and 93 on separate occasions and while I never asked him to show me his birth certificate (if he even has one…he was already in his 40s when Senegal was granted independence in the early 1960s), from some of his stories, I believe he was actually THAT old. George’s real name is Mordou Gning, or because of his age to show respect Mame Mordou Gning, but I early on in my PC service gave him the name “George” after he insisted on calling me Fatou Mae after the mother of his second wife, Ndiaye Senghor. Over a year ago, the entire village thought it quite funny that this young white girl who barely spoke Serere would be bold enough to change the name of the oldest and most-respected man in the village just because he wouldn’t call her by her proper Senegalese name. A few people caught on that the US President at that time was named George too, but they didn’t really get the irony in it. In all honesty, it was the first “generic American” name that popped into my head and it stuck. And so our relationship started…

The first few months of my PC service (after Installation) were spent sitting next to George in our compound and arguing with him. My early vocabulary was comprised mostly of different ways to say “I don’t like you” and why to all of his professions of love for me and his desire for me to marry him. Up until even the night before his stroke, George was proposing and insisting I accept and be his wife. Not a chance, sorry George, you are my grandfather and much too old for me, plus you are old and don’t have enough money to pay back my student loans (I always got a laugh from those around me with this comment), which I constantly told him.

A few posts ago I referred to the gifts I brought back from America, including a thick long-sleeved shirt of Dad’s, which I gave to George. I may as well have given him a solid gold cow or my first born child for his excitement about this old shirt. Putting it on right away and wearing it for the first three days I was back in the village after my US vacay, George made sure that the ENTIRE village knew that I gave him such a nice shirt as it was “an obvious profession of my love for him.”

George was a good Muslim in every sense of the word: he prayed 5 times a day, he gave to the poor, and he fasted (no food or water 6am-7:30pm) during Ramadan (even though the elderly are let off from fasting, which I reminded him of every time someone commented to me about him fasting). So the day I left for Dakar back in September, George had a stroke. It was no doubt brought on by fasting—well, and age. While I was gone, no one told me anything about the stroke—nothing at all. Probably because of the fatalist aspect of culture here, but still, it annoyed me. I left Kaolack Friday morning after the house move and almost two full weeks away from the village in Dakar and Kolda, eager to be back to tackle the mold that of course took over my hut and enjoy life in a place where I could communicate with people again (Kolda is mostly Pulaar, so I didn’t really know what was going on). After stopping off in Djilor, I wanted to check in on a youth citizenship camp, but Mary and I both decided we were too exhausted to stay the afternoon and decided to trek back to our respective sites, even though it was around 1:30pm. Shortly after getting back to my hut, it started raining and didn’t stop until around 9pm that night. I cleaned, organized my stuff, and debated whether or not to wait until after the rain before greeting and passing out the gifts of tea and dates (in celebration of the end of Ramadan), but decided that since it was light rain, I should just go ahead and do it. That’s when things changed.

I walked up to the door of George’s room, knocked and started teasing/greeting him as usual as I walked into his room, but not to the normal response. I looked in and realized something was not right—and my sister Njira was right on my heels. She told me he was sick—obvious signs of facial paralysis and confusion in his eyes, he couldn’t see well, and could barely hear. He was scary skinny, his hip bone sticking up from his bed as he laid on his side facing the door. No duh he’s sick. We tried to talk with Njira translating for both of us, unable to really understand the other. I gave him the dates and tea, which seemed pointless, but he thanked me and called me a great person and asked me to sit. So I did. I sat for about 5 or 10 minutes, thinking about what happened and wondering who I could contact who would know what to do to help a person recover from a stroke. The private doctor from Djilor had been by a few times to give George an IV and meds, but George has always been freaked out by needles, or so I was told. After sitting a bit, I got up, telling him I needed to go take a bucket bath. The last words he spoke to me were “Reti bogoox,” or “Go, bathe!” [To those who knew me in my Group Workcamps days, this is quite a fitting phrase…]

Around 8, I was called to dinner by my 8 year old sister, saying as she had for the past year and a half “Mame Mordou says to come and have dinner.” Out of habit, having briefly forgotten about the stroke, I walked into his room where several of his grand children and myself usually eat meals with him, but I was quickly brought back to reality. George was turned over on his other side and as tried to greet him, he barely looked at me. He looked in severe heart-breaking pain. Ndiaye was waving a hand fan on him and Njira was trying to give him some pain medication and I felt like I was intruding on a private, painful moment, and left as I was summoned into the hallway to eat dinner there instead.

He passed minutes later, but no one in the family was told until after 9:30 that night. As I went to my room praying for his healing, I didn’t realize that God had already taken care of it. No, when I ran out of my room at 9:30 or so, running from the army of cockroaches that had taken up all corners of my latrine and making using it impossible, begging the other side of the family to buy cockroach killer for me at the market the next day, I had no clue. I thought it was crazy that when I handed them money for the poison, they weren’t sure if they were going to the market the next day or not. But I didn’t know. In fact, my brother Ibou (one of George’s oldest sons) specifically waited to tell everyone so that he could call relatives in Dakar (he spent all night on the phone and a ton of phone credit notifying people) and they could arrive in our village the next morning in time for the funeral. In Islam, the burial is supposed to happen almost immediately after the person passes on. The body is ceremonially washed and wrapped in white cloth and taken to the mosque and cemetery, but no preservatives or anything are used. Ibou was so good at this in fact, that a Dakar relative then called a different relative in my village to let them know they were coming because of the funeral, and the person in my village was all “George died?” Ibou didn’t tell the village until the 5am call-to-prayer marking the last day of Ramadan.

From my journal,

“I woke up around 7:15 to sweeping outside my hut and Rhoky knocking to tell me the sad news. I was shocked, and thankful that he didn’t have to suffer anymore—not to mention extremely grateful that I had (barely) made it back. I quickly changed, brushed up on my Serere condolences and grabbed a 5mille note to go pay my respects to Mame Dibbor, his 1^st wife/widow…then I basically stood/sat around for several hours, in shock and unsure about what to do…A crowd quickly started to gather as relatives from Djilor, Gague, and Dakar arrived, plus others from Ndiomdy. It was tragically sad as people walked in with red eyes, crying, or even wailing.”

(back in real time, aka October 16)

The elders of the village washed and clothed the body in the traditional white fabric as HUNDREDS of people from all of the surrounding villages showed up throughout the morning (as many as 1000people that day and hundreds more in the following days). Sitting mats, benches, and a large picnic tent were set up to accommodate the mourners as men started praying. I sat around, mostly silent, as people came in. Many were surprised I was back so quickly (most not having seen me the day before) and then looked visibly relieved when they heard that I had seen and talked with George before his passing. A little before noon, the body was brought out (covered) and the tears flowed as the men of the village accompanied the body to the mosque and the cemetery for burial. It was quite emotional and I don’t really have words for it, even now. After the body was buried, everyone returned and the men circled up and spent the next 2 or so hours talking about George and all of the good he did in his life. The people he helped, the families without food he shared with, the grandchildren he supported through school when their father wouldn’t buy them new clothes or take them to the doctor, and the work he did as a store owner, cowherd (walked across Senegal MANY many times), President of the Communaute Rurale, and farmer.

Oh, this all happened the day before Korite (the celebration for the end of Ramadan), so Korite was pretty lame as the village was still in morning. For George’s passing, one of his cows was brought (since George couldn’t really walk, he had a Pulaar family outside our village watch his heards) and sacrificed, then the meat divided up and distributed among the whole village, so Ndiomdy ate beef for Korite. But otherwise it was a lame end-of-Ramadan. The day after Ramadan, another 500 or so people came through and in the week following (and the month too…) visitors from across the country have come to share their condolences. The village will be in morning for some time as we get used to life without George.

George, an old man who as much as he would irritate me with his constant marriage proposals, was also one of the most alert and understanding people in my village, in terms of his understanding of my work. He would constantly ask me about projects I would mention (including constantly harassing me to get him his own private latrine behind his room back in May) and also harass me about all of my work and the fact that I never took time to rest. I know that he enjoyed the two weeks between coming back from my US vacay and going to Dakar because I sat around our compound rather than constantly being on the go. He took care of me (I think my eating with him and his grandkids was because he thought I couldn’t get my fair share eating in the chaos of the rest of my family) and made sure I took care of myself.

I know sometimes they say someone who is dying may wait a bit for something or someone before they feel like they can properly move on to the next life. I don’t know if it’s true, but I like to think it is. MANY people in my village said that George waited until I came back before he gave in and let God take him back; that George wanted a final few words—maybe that he even hoped I would finally accept his proposal. All I can hope is that my simple gifts of the shirt in August and the dates and tea (a big Senegalese tradition) were enough to let him know I care. I miss him, and I was very hard to hear my friend Seynabou (and others…) say to me, “George left you [me],” but it’s true. The village is sad, I’m sad, and they know and understand how sad I am. They have found their way into my heart and I think I have found my way into their’s.

O kiin a paax a ref'u, yasam Roog malaka paax a ngetwin.

He was a good man and may God keep him in Paradise.

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Thanks and sorry for this being long-winded and kind of nonsensical and sentimental. Hopefully there will my a more upbeat and light-hearted post next time around.