|Aminata is three-weeks and some change old!|
It is late afternoon and I greet my neighbors sitting in plastic lawn chairs around empty pots of tea. “Comment se passe le jeune?” I ask. How's the fasting going? “Ça commence à etre serieux-deh!” one man says. It is getting serious. Shopkeepers and fruit sellers I see later share his tired face. I ask Maiga, the proprietor of a nearby grocery store, how he's doing. “I'm just so thirsty!” he says, “All I want is to drink some water – forget the food!”
On the main road I pass tailor shops where the whir of automatic sewing-machine foot pedals does not stop as they complete last-minute and long-standing orders for the upcoming holiday. Shiny bazin outfits hang in storefront windows and mannequins model the newest trends in wax fabric. I make silent guesses as to how much these outfits cost. How much for the fabric? How much for the tailoring? How much for the intricate embroidery? Abdoulaye tugs my hand and I shake away the thoughts – I don't think I really want to know.
|Fatumata seems to like baby Ami well enough - lots of pointing and saying 'bébé!' (here with Mom)|
|Fatumata won't leave Worokia's side, aren't they beautiful?|
Next week life will resume it's normal pace. Colleagues will not look quite so...well, hungry and the banks will have less crowded masses in their lobbies and parking lots. Music shows and local parties will show up once again on the calendar and we will fall back into the groove of eating in public without fear of reproach and not planning our day around the setting of the sun. That is, until next year.
|If this isn't ingenious I don't know what is. Corrugated iron for making crinkle cut fries?!?!|