mamadou


matou et la petit aichatou















lala




















bintou et mamadou

Malidenw (Mali's children)

One (kelen). Today I spent a few hours with my friend and Malian professor Lamine. Lamine loves teaching his two little boys about manhood, proving to people that Malian men can cook, saying things are funny without laughing, laughing at things that aren’t funny, and reciting Malian proverbs. I decided to shoot a few videos of him saying and explaining his favorite proverbs – which I would include here if the internet connection was better. One proverb Lamine told me was “Tegedenw goni kelen te se ka bele ta” meaning “One finger can’t lift a stone.” The words translated literally are “hand children one no can stone lift” – and this reminded me of one of my favorite things about Bambara – the use of the word “denw”.

Two (fila). “Denw” (pronounced day-oon) means “children”. It’s the plural of “den” (child) which kind of sounds like “dang” if you take off the ‘g’. “Denw” is used all over the place to describe the “children” of something. “Tegedenw” (from the proverb) literally means “hand children”… fingers. “Kalandenw” means “learn children”… students. “Yiridenw” means “tree children”… fruit! Pretty cool, no? Beyond making the language a bit easier to decode, the frequent integration of “children” is one of the things I find really beautiful about Malian culture.

Three (saba). This goes hand in hand with the idea (here) that every child is the child of everyone. Chez nous, our families are separate. I have my mom and you have yours. Here, any adult can yell at, pick up, hold, feed, or even slap any child (and they do this a lot). On the Sotrama (the Malian minibus), a woman entering with three children will hold one on her own lap, while two complete strangers will pick up the other two children so they don’t get tossed around during the ride. It’s pretty incredible.

Four (naani). I have learned that Malian children will either shriek with excitement or run for their lives at the sight of a white person. This makes walking down the street in Bamako a pretty eventful experience. Beyond stares, kids here will not rest until they have done at least one of the following: (1) screamed “tubabu!” (literally meaning “French person!”) at the top of their lungs, (2) run up to you and cautiously touched your skin (usually your hand), or (3) run away in fear to the closest thing they can hide behind.

Five (duuru). As I walk down the red dirt roads in my rubber flip flops and ankle length “pagne” (wrap skirt) – my thoughts linger between adoration and frustration at the children chanting in my direction. The fact that I can make them laugh and jump up and down just by waving at them or greeting them in Bambara is pretty great. But when it’s about 10,000 degrees out and you’re hot, dirty, and fed up with the constant marriage proposals from random men you’ve never met (really), the last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself. At times like this, the screaming and chanting feels like someone has just picked up a handful of dirt off the ground and rubbed it into your face. Bah!

Six (wooro). Many people would gape at the sight of a 4 year old girl carrying a baby on her back, a bowl of mangos on her head, barefoot, crossing a busy street – but this is a common sight here in Mali-ba. It is hard to see. The children here are amazing.

Seven (wolonwola). Despite the endless and inevitable chanting of “Tubabu! Tubabu! Tubabu ye tubabu!” in the streets of Bamako, I find solace in the evolution of the chant when I turn the corner to my neighborhood in Hamdallaye. Almost instantly the “Tubabu” fades and I begin to hear “Biiiiintou!” (my Malian name). I hear it more and more as I get closer to the house. On my block, the faces I see are my little friends. They are full of life, energy, and spirit. We share handshakes, songs, dances and games. We communicate without a lot of talking. They have the capacity to turn my frustration into joy like no one else.

Eight (segin). When I sit down in the courtyard at my house, the neighbor children surround me and show off their favorite songs and dances. I wish you all could see them. Their dances are really hilarious and adorable and entertaining and actually really really good (you should see the way these seven year old girls move!). Mamadou (my five year old host brother) has discovered that when he dances I laugh uncontrollably, so he has been doing it more and more often (I have an amazing video that I will share when I get home). Mamadou has also started a joke with his friends where he comes up to me and says “Cherie n b’I fe!” (my dear I love you) and then he gives me a kiss on the cheek. I think this makes him look cool to his friends. It’s a win win.

Nine (kononton). Malidenw are the heartbeat of this city.

du mali!!

Aw ni tile from Mali!

8 hours of air travel (accra-lome-abidjan-bamako) and one lost suitcase later, i found myself bartering in bambara for a taxi to hamdallaye - the 'cartier' where i once lived during four months that have ingrained themselves in my memory for three years as if they were yesterday. the driver took me across down, across joliba (the niger river), past the elephant statue, along the 'goudron' (paved road) through a city that felt somehow like home. i navigated as if i had never left - "go straight past the harlem store, turn right at the michelin man painting, turn left at the 'coiffure'". a herd of goats ran in front of us and red dirt was rustled from the ground, past women with babies on their backs and buckets on their heads, past men drinking tea in circles to the sunset. 'tu peux me deposer ici... n be jigin yan" (you can let me out here) i said, a few blocks from the entrance. i wanted to walk the final stretch to the house. as soon as i jumped out some kids yelled "ey! toubabu!" (hey! white girl!) and then "Bintou!" from behind me. the voice was Matou - my teenage host sister coming back from the market.

i've had a few opportunities to return to mali in the past 2 years that i've decided not to take because they would bring me here for a very long time. each time that i've deliberated these opportunities, the image that i've replayed in my head endlessly (the image that has made it hardest to say no) was my reunion with my malian family. i've imagined turning the corner to their road and seeing a mix of boys playing soccer, herds of goats, and lots of women and girls carrying things (babies, plantains, wash basins) amidst the mango trees. i think i've imagined this scene a thousand times - i've even dreamed it.

last night that scene was real. i came in to a courtyard full of familiar faces - aida et maimouna (my big sisters), aboubacar, abdallah, et mohamed (my big brothers), matou (my teenage sister/cousin), and mamadou - my little host brother that was 2 when i left. as soon as mamadou saw me he ran up and hugged me although we all agreed ["i hakili be n na?" (do you remember me?)] that he probably doesn't remember me. he's five now and the sweetest, most adorable little troublemaker you can possibly imagine. lala came in soon after - she's 7 now, though she was 4 when i left. she's gotten taller and more shy, but is warming up to me again. there is also a new 'bonne' (house maid) named asanatou and... a new baby! maimouna delivered a beautiful baby girl on valentines day - named aichatou. she's soooo tiny and sooooo cute and sooooo quiet. mamadou loves to shower her with kisses.

what has amazed me the most since i arrived last night is the fact that everything is exactly where i remembered it - both in the house and in bamako more broadly (the map in my head is unbelievably accurate!). i noticed a new wall that was put up next to part of the local marketplace, and a new boulangerie that opened near the goudron - but otherwise its all pretty much the same. this, by the way, makes me really happy, because this place and this culture is so beautiful.

all the neighbor kids are in and out of the courtyard all day - playing mostly with a jump rope, a half-stack of playing cards, and hand games. "biiiiiintou" they call. or "toubabou!" to which i reply "ne te toubabou ye" (i'm not a white person) to confuse them and make them laugh. mamadou still loves kicking things, putting on shoes that are too big for him, and pretending to ride the motor bike. last night he kicked around a plastic bag for like 30 minutes. he's about a foot taller than last time, but has the same face and is sweeter than ever. he talks now and pretty much just wants to climb me all the time so i end up holding him a lot. i love it. aboubacar gave up his career dreams of working in refrigeration and is now training to be a comedian at the local art school. he says he also plays a drum that is like a small djembe and i want him to teach me. everyone still watches latino soap operas dubbed in french and the mud wall across the street still has "hot men" graffiti-ed onto it. many of the kids and adults that have come in are people i recognize and some of them even remember me.

since i have no clothes here yet (all my luggage is somewhere else in west africa), i went to the grande marche (big market) today by moto with my host brother aboubacar. i got a new "tafe" (wrap skirt) to serve as my skirt/dress/towel etc in the meantime, and found myself completely comfortable in the marketplace. i remember a lot of bambara, surprisingly, which makes malians laugh and high five each other. i dont think there's any other country in the world (other than the US of course) where i feel so at home after no time. it's really amazing.

have you ever woken up to torrential rain pounding on a corrugated tin roof? this is one of the most relaxing sounds you can imagine. after a sweaty night (~95 degrees) under a bed net with a fan blowing full force, the rain this morning brought a certain calm and a certain coolness that gave me chills. i laid there for a long time before getting up to wash. in mali, you have to wash your hands and face before you're supposed to greet anyone/say good morning.

now i'm in the cyber cafe i used to come to everyday. later (maybe tomorrow) i will climb the old hill behind my house (lasa / la colline des rastas) and visit the farming cooperative where i once worked. i'm hoping to find some good music around town and maybe take a trip to another city or village for a day or two.

i hope you're all well and i'm thinking of you lots - wishing i could share this special place with more people from home.
love, rain, and rhythm,
bintou