In the Belly of the Elephant (39 page)

“
Bismillah!”
I lifted my fork.
Begin
.

After dinner, we sat around the campfire with Kisu while Mbulu washed the last of the tin plates. Silver light surrounded the tents. The thorn trees threw ink-black shadows as clearly as if cast in daylight.

A three-quarter moon sailed the sky among scattered wisps of cloud. I cupped my chin and stared at the same moon that had shed its skin so many times in Dori. “Look at that craggy old face.”

Kisu raised his head. “The Masai say that the sun once married the moon. One day the sun and moon fought, and the moon struck the sun on the head. The sun, too, damaged the moon.

“When they had done fighting, the sun was ashamed and did not want human beings to see his battered face. So he became dazzlingly bright. People were unable to look on him without first half-closing their eyes. Old woman moon, however, was not ashamed. She allowed human beings to look at her face and see that her mouth was cut and that one of her eyes was missing.”

There she was, Old Woman Moon, shining in the sky with all her imperfections. She shone down on me with the same face she had shown me for two years in Dori, telling me that I could be like her. I would be like Old Woman Moon. I would go home to Idaho, let my family see my flaws, that I had no job, no relationship, none of the things they expected. But I had stories of where I’d been. Of life and death, of wealth of character in the face of poverty, of optimism and generosity even in the worst of times. I’d let my family see that I had a few expectations of them.

And suddenly, I yearned to stand in the shadow of the Tetons, to hear the trill of a meadowlark in a field of grain, to feel snowflakes on my face.

Kisu continued, his voice soft and lilting. “The sun, feeling remorse at their fight, now follows the moon in the same direction for many days. After a time, the moon gets tired and allows her husband, the sun, to catch up and carry her. He carries her for two days, and on the third day, she is left at the sun’s setting place, a thin smile to show her pleasure.”

The crescent moon, still edged with the light she gathered then gave back during her wax and wane, reminded all of us who looked upon her to give back what we gathered. And even though the moon goes dark for a day or two,
Bismillah
! she begins again, a thin smile on her face at the chance to start anew.

To start anew. “
Ensha’allah!
”
I whispered.

All the times Hamidou, Nassuru, Laya, Fati, and Djelal had said, “
Ensha’allah
.” Not a passive acceptance of the here and now, but a hopeful one.
Hamidou, Nassuru, and Fati all believed that if we just waited long enough, worked hard enough, prayed and didn’t give up, paid attention to the day and lived it, then tomorrow would be kinder and more merciful.

Kisu finished his story. Our group of bedraggled world travelers talked until the moon set and the stars brightened. The far-off roar of a lion stopped our conversation. I lifted my face to the sound. One by one, the British couple, the Italians, the Scot and finally, Trish and Bob drifted off to their tents.

I walked to my tent and crouched outside the flap. Kisu passed, placed a lighted kerosene lantern ten feet away, then moved on to set up a wide circle of lanterns around our cluster of tents. Mbulu threw wood on the fire until it was a healthy blaze. Two tall figures emerged from the trees, separated, and walked to each end of the campsite. Starlight illuminated their high foreheads and glinted in their eyes. They stood with one leg bent, leaning against tall, slender staffs. They were Masai.

Still distant, the lion roared again. The Masai shifted their weight and turned in the direction of the sound. I breathed in the night air, so rich with life and death. The only things between me and the lions of Masai Mara were a thin canvas tent, a circle of kerosene light, and these African men of the Serengeti. It was enough.

Epilogue

July, 2006

I worked in Washington DC and Connecticut for three years until my soul called me back to the West, where I’ve lived ever since. I did go back to Africa. When I told my Dad I was returning once again, he told me to follow my dreams.

From 1983 to 1999, I returned for short-term assignments in family planning, AIDS education, and small business development for women in Burkina Faso, Tunisia, Nigeria, Cameroon, the Gambia, Senegal, Mali, Uganda, and Tanzania.

World events—U.S. actions in Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq that took place while I was in Dori—put us on a course that led to where we are today. Moderate Islam, the kind I experienced in Upper Volta, now struggles with a growing movement of militant fundamentalists. America’s image overseas still goes up and down.

I dream almost every night. Most of my dreams are of Africa. I am in a village, in a house with whitewashed walls, but the rooms are crumbling, filled with spiderwebs, abandoned. I don’t know why I keep having this dream. I still regret that I didn’t bring Laya and her children home with me. Maybe that’s why I dream of empty rooms. Or maybe it’s because there is still so much left to do in Africa.

Over the past twenty years, many countries in Africa have made strides in democracy, sustainable development, and human rights. But the continent continues to be plagued with AIDS, genocide, and war. Today, about 160 million Africans live inside or near a war zone in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Sudan, and the Congo, where conflict has killed 2.5 million people since 1998. There are an estimated 200,000 orphans in Rwanda. Where there is war, all work, all progress is undone.

I was never strong enough to put myself in the middle of a war. But there are those who are—Doctors Without Borders, The Red Cross, and The Red Crescent. Over 40,000 other non-governmental organizations (NGO’s) are working on projects in education, health, agriculture, human rights, and small business development in over 165 countries. They are fighting poverty, injustice, and despair.

Nineteen thousand children die every day in African countries from preventable diseases such as malaria, dysentery, measles, and meningitis. Worldwide, 17 million children die from malnutrition and starvation each year. Nearly half the estimated 515,000 women who die annually from pregnancy or childbirth are African.

For those of us who cannot manage elephants, there are ways. We can do something. If everyone in the United States gave even as little as five dollars annually to an NGO, we could prevent disease and malnutrition. If everyone paid attention, participated in our democracy by demanding action from our government and voting, we could slow the pace of war.

Over the last ten years, thirteen countries in Africa have achieved an 80% immunization coverage against diphtheria, whooping cough, and tetanus, and measles has declined by nearly two thirds globally. In Africa, Guinea worm infections have dropped 88%! Imagine if we each gave fifty dollars, or a hundred. Imagine if we each wrote our congressmen and women and held our government accountable.

I am not a member of any religion, but I still pray.

The world will be a better place. It won’t happen in a single day, but it could happen in our lifetimes. If we work hard enough, don’t give up, and pay attention. If we all listen to one another and will it, we can make it happen.

Ensha’allah!

When I came back in 1982, I called Steve. He was still single. In 1986, I took him to Dori to meet Laya. She gave us her blessing. Steve and I have been married for twenty years. We have two fine boys and a dog.