Allahou Akbarou

As normal, she awoke seven minutes before the cry of her alarm. For whatever reason it was always seven minutes. She could accept this as a sacrifice. She was content that after only three weeks in country she could sleep through the first call to prayer, you know, the one at five AM. The first day in her village was the only time this immunity failed her. Granted, she was not accustomed to the loud speaker that screeched and crackled. If, “Allahou Ahkbar…” were the words she were to wake up to she would have much preferred to hear her neighbor’s deep, flowing voice like in Hamdallaye.
She flopped over, momentarily surprised when she didn’t hear the creak of her Hausa bed beneath her weight. Then she remembered, “I’m in Kollo now. I have a real house and a REAL bed”. A sleepy smile crept across her face. She most certainly did not miss having to set up her bed every day. Chalk it up to American laziness following her to Niger. However, sleeping outside had fascinated her for at least the first few weeks in country.
In Hamdallaye, she would carry her mattress out of her hut and place it on the twin sized Linkin’ Logs set also known as a “Hausa bed”. She would unfold her sheet, lay her pillow down, and throw anything else in that she didn’t want to try and hold when she would eventually squeeze under her mosquito net. Most days she was diligent about performing this task before night fell and the insects emerged. Crickets were the worst. They would fling themselves recklessly onto her half raised net, her clothes, and (wretch) her hair.
After the masa incident her third week of training, crickets were public enemy number one. She had ventured to the market that rainy morning craving the millet griddlecakes with sugar AND tonko. With her prize in hand she walked up to the training site, her mouth watering the whole way. If she had been in America she would have devoured the bag on her walk. But, in Niger, eating while walking was considered a faux pas most likely due to the social nature of mealtime.
She finished most of the masa in the refectoire but took the rest with her to French class. As soon as she put the cake into her mouth she knew something was different. She pulled the stiff, prickly culprit off of her tongue and examined it. Wedged between her thump and pointer finger was the leg of a cricket!! “Please let me find the rest of this,” she repeated rapidly in her head. Sure enough, a legless cricket (most likely steamed to death) lay at the bottom of the plastic bag. She looked to her teacher for sympathy. The woman was scared of caterpillars for goodness sake. Yet there was no sympathy to be found. In its’ place was a stifled smile. She had nearly choked on the one thing the teacher was not afraid of. Go figure, the irony tickled her pink. Maria was not scared, she said, “Because we eat crickets here.”
Chuckling at the memory, she turned onto her back and sat up, the fan blasting her in the face. In two swift sweeps she gathered her hair, having slightly dampened from perspiration during the night, from her neck and into a hair tie. Mornings were her favorite part of the day, even more so during the month of Ramadan. She would walk to her inspection, the heat would be minimal, and her villagers would be in full swing. Their stomachs were still full from having gorged between 4:30 and 5:30 AM. Fatigue wouldn’t set in until at least eleven when the heat began to oppress.
With each day she was more confident with her greetings. “Mate ni kani? … Mate gaham? … Mate goyo? … Mate fu?” She loved the way they threw the greetings together, barely waiting for the response of, “samay samay” (fine, fine). It felt like a competition and she was just glad she could finally be a contestant. If only she had a 100 CFA piece for every time she’d heard, “kala suuru” (have patience). In reality, language was the largest barrier. As an education volunteer she needed French but as a member of her village she needed Zarma. Her situation was a little more complicated than most. At the start of training she had been a Hausa speaker. Once again, this change in plans turned out to be a worthwhile sacrifice. But it was the times when she couldn’t find the words in either Zarma or French when she suffered in silence, literally. These moments, even though rare, deeply affected her identity … my identity.