a day in the life, a story

she wakes even before the roosters begin to crow, her body knows the day should begin. she doesn't drag herself out of bed reluctantly (like they do in the west) because this day is no different than yesterday and tomorrow will be the same again. reluctance admits an unwillingness to embrace the unknown. but she knows exactly what today will bring. she rises, steady on her henna-ed feet, her husband turns and sighs deeply, adjusting his hips to the slope of the bed without her. he slept with her last night, his other wife will have her turn, in time. she's young still, his 'baby' he calls her, not yet ready to bear him a child. she knows her way in the dark in their room, her room. she winds the batik printed wrap around her waste, throws a camouflage mesh tank top over her shoulders and ties the red headscarf around her braided head. it doesn't matter that nothing matches, nothing special is happening today. from the bucket in the corner, she splashes her face with water and lets herself out quietly.

she's already made the porridge, adding water to the cornmeal spoonful at a time and swirling the mixture into tiny balls with her wrists in rhythmic flicks. she burps softly from last nights dinner as she makes her way outside to gather kindling for the fire in the kitchen out back. as she stirs the porridge above the crackling fire, she relishes the last peaceful moment she has to herself as she hears the first rooster crow in the compound across the field. her own roosters will return the cry soon and with their song will wake the family, sleeping soundly on their mattresses of hay. but in this moment, she is quiet. there is nothing she wants for. the droning call to prayer begins in the distance and she thanks allah, praise be his name, for her health and the health of her children, even though the youngest has had a terrible cough all week. more or less, things are fine, and she is grateful.

the boy is the first to wake and wander into the open-air kitchen at the back of the compound. he throws his arms around her neck and closes his eyes as if to fall back asleep. she shoos him away gently and he stumbles back inside to wake the others with his impatience.

her sister is up next with the newborn and walks into the kitchen with the little girl sucking on her bare breast. she's had enough and her sister expertly swings the child around her back with one hand, wrapping a cloth around her with her other hand to tie the girl to her back. the baby whimpers softly and then is quiet. she resumes stirring while her sister washes her face and then moves to the dishes from last night's meal. the palm oil makes it easy to wash the rice away, though the chickens have eaten most of it already.

the sun has nearly cleared the mango trees across that frame the village, its fierceness muted by the early morning chill. by now, her husband has dressed and eaten the breakfast set aside for him. he takes rice, nuts, sugar and butter ground together to make a sweet watery paste. there's enough money in the family to afford him this before he drives away and does whatever it is that he does with his days. she doesn't exactly know, though she has an idea, she never asks.

the rest of the children are up now, the girls are dressing themselves for school in their tattered blue gingham uniforms that a dutch couple paid for when they came through the village on a packaged holiday tour. she meant to sew the pockets, ripped clumsily in a playground tousle, but she doesn't have a sewing machine and won't be going to the next village for the tailor anytime soon. the girls don't seem to mind. they too parade through the kitchen one by one to greet her and the quiet is spoiled. 'atcha atcha' she yells at them, 'get out, go away.' the day has begun.

behind her, the hens cackle their morning greetings, joining their partners in welcoming the day, a donkey breys sorrowfully and the goats begin their bleating. her other sister puts a tape into the cassette player run from a car battery. their favorite singer from niger, rabiatu haruna, and she hums quietly while she dishes the porridge into the large silver bowls they use for every meal. it's the same tape they play every morning, they know it by heart and they love it more with each listen, though the woman warbles more now than she did when the tape was new. they warble with her allowing her the imperfections that come with age.

she puts lids on her bowls and stacks them, three high, taking the men their bowl first, then the grandmother and the little ones, and finally, the bowl for her sisters, daughters and herself. they sit quietly, dipping their spoons into their section of the breakfast, rubbing last night's sleep away between bites.

the girls head to school and the little ones finish their morning routines with the grandmother while she clears the bowls, the same way she brought them, three high. the morning is still cool, the sun hasn't yet delivered its fiery promise but she knows he'll deliver soon.

the sand of the compound floor has collected too much of yesterday and so she sets about sweeping with her broom. she bends at the waist and fiercely whisks at the combination of rubbish, mango leaves and animal droppings that have gathered below her feet. her momentary zen garden, until the chickens come racing through leaving their mark, today's footprints.

the women have started the wash in the shade under the mango tree, perched on benches and foot stools. the clothes soak in the opaque grey-blue water, waiting their turn at the hands of the wringer. she joins them, taking a seat on the mat, and so begins the chatter among sisters that won't let up till the last has gone to bed. they screetch with laughter, hurl innocent, playground-like jabs and share family gossip with only intermittent bouts of silence. but silence is hard to come by in africa. the little ones are already running themselves ragged, chasing each other, creating their own fun, scolded only occasionally with shrill screams from the women under the trees. though the scolding seems less about a child wronged than a chance for another jibe that sends the sisters into fits of giggles, practically children themselves.

when the last drops of the grey-blue water have been squeezed, the women take it in turns to hang it on the line that runs from the tree where they sit to the fence that guards the compound. she hung the wash yesterday, so she sits while her sisters hang today, which is just as well because the sun has indeed delivered its fiery promise and she is content to be still. and for the heat, she is allowed this small respite. but only for a few moments, for she must, again, gather kindling for the fire that will boil a pot of rice and heat the domoda for the next meal. the older children aren't back from school by the time this meal is prepared, so it's a quieter affair, though still the largest meal of the day.

but it's the hours after this that she relishes most. for while she too complains of the afternoon's heat, she is secretly thankful for the hours that trickle like the sweat between her breasts. in the afternoon's heat, hours are broken into minutes and minutes into seconds, and each second passes slower than the last, punctuated only by the beeps on the hour from the cheap plastic watch her brother bought in the market.

they still laugh and playfully tease each other with shrill, mocking tones, but it comes in waves and this afternoon, the sea of voices is calm. they shift positions under the tree when the heat of their legs touching or the sweat in the creases of their knees or elbows becomes too warm. but they are not restless. because that might imply a sense of anticipation, and they are not waiting. they are simply sitting, or lying, or resting. all verbs, her daughter might tell her after a grammar lesson at school, but hardly action words.

the sun is still high in the sky, but the afternoon is waning and there is a breeze rustling the leaves above and cooling the four sisters. they must collect the family's water before the sun sets and the pump is turned off. instinctively, the woman begin to collect the buckets and industrial-sized cannisters once used for vegetable oil and margarine that now hold water for washing, cooking and drinking. she leads the pack with two empty buckets on her head and two cannisters under each arm, her sisters follow. they fill their buckets at the pump underneath another mango tree, sitting on the makeshift stools of concrete blocks meant for the new mosque that now sits unfinished, waiting for village funds. she greets the neightbor in mandika, wife of the shop owner.

'how ah you?'
'how de day?'
'how de chilrun?'
'how de hosban?'
'how de work?'

it's a repetitious greeting that begs a response but not an answer, and the neighbor complies, joining the queue for water. when her first bucket is full, with the help of her sister, she hoists it atop her head, carefully placed on the cloth she's rolled up and looped around to protect her head and balance the load. with her back straight and her neck tall, she walks slowly back. slowly, not because she's afraid she'll spill. she won't. but slowly because there is no need to rush. and when her sisters have returned and all the water a family of sixteen can use in a day has been collected, the evening begins.

she oversees the children bathe, drilling orders of which bits not to forget. then she herself, a single cloth wrapped under her arms around her body, takes her plastic kettle of water behind the family outhouse to rinse herself and cool down, another vestige of quiet, but just for a moment. a clean body deserves a clean outfit and so she changes into a fresh skirt and top with a new tie for her head. this time, she matches. her husband will be home soon.

she sits on the bench outside, preparing tomorrow's porridge with the same rhythmic motion, mixing water and cornmeal, while her sisters prepare dinner. they'll have the same thing they had for lunch, only slightly less. they'll listen to the same cassette, only slightly louder. and they'll laugh at the same silly jokes. 'jai funda' she'll call out to her sister, 'big bottom' and they'll giggle, only with more flirtation in their voices. the boys are back from tending the cattle. everyone is involved now, and boys add a new element to the sister's banter. it becomes a playful us against them - and they are back on the same team.

when the sun sets and the moon rises, the clattering and stacking of the bowls is heard from the kitchen and she appears, her head tilted towards her right shoulder, holding a flashlight in the crevice of her neck, three bowl in her hands. she sets the bowls down in the same order - men, grandmother, women - and they eat by the light of the moon and florescent LED torch. the unfinished rice gets thrown to the dogs and scattered for the chickens. and slowly slowly, dishes get cleared and the bedtime rituals begin.

but tonight, she's tired, so she doesn't stay up for more conversation with the others. she turns herself in and lays to rest, in the same spot as the night before and the night before. the warbling woman from niger and the crickets sing her softly to sleep.

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i told you i had a lot of time this week! if you thought this was long, imagine what the days are like here! so much more to write about, we broke ground on the nursery today, donkey madness, laundry with the cows ..... but it's going to have to wait until tomorrow, because my fingers are tired and i'd like to have a beer.