Hiya,
I returned to a Badou that was preparing for a couple of
national celebrations: le Jour d’Independence et Le Premiere Mai (or Labor Day
as it’s known to us across the sea).
I spent that week loitering around town – mostly shooting
the non-existent breeze with Bide and Ourkoabe at the former’s boutique. I
shared in on some Tupperware gossip – who, what, when, with whom. We were also
getting ready to host Kat’s mom who would be paying us a visit in a few days. The
ladies were really sweet and anxious about preparing an appropriate welcoming
for her.
But before this meal arrived Independence Day on April 27th
and Badou went balls to the wall. The schools, social groups, citizen clubs
(political parties, farming groups, karate club, and all other sorts) filed out
to march in front of their local and regional political leaders and an
anticipatory Badou crowd. The schools had been practicing for a week. I was pumped,
naturally; I had enjoyed the exhilaration of parades in my day – proudly
donning my D.A.R.E. t-shirt in 5th grade for Danbury’s Memorial Day
Parade. And so I was ready to see a raucous mass of people drifting from the
Mayor’s office to the Lycee across the market to the Catholic Church. At this
time, I was talking to my friend about how much it might suck to march in the noon
sun, a comment that seemed lost on him. ‘We’re only walking across that patch
of route in front of the lycee so that the Prefet can see us.’ Ah bon? The morning
arrived and I sat with Kat and her mom behind the village chiefs, the Prefet,
the mayor, and some other honored guests. For the Independence celebration, we
received some friends from across the border. The Ghanaian Prefet and his
accompaniments were celebrating with us – so we looked xxtra chic. The
groups were beautiful and the event allowed me to pull out my dormant camera.
The most memorable moments include: a women who was carrying a basket full of
Badou produce – bananas, avocadoes, mangoes –on her head that she deposited at
the Prefet’s feet; the breakdancers and karate club that put on two-minute
full-out demonstrations for us, including head tilts and 360 kicks on uneven
pavement; the girl scouts that were carrying the flag and the twin boys that
were leading the boy scouts with the most serious facial expressions I’ve seen
on a pair of 8-year-olds; and, always the show stoppers, the Zedmen (moto
drivers), who poured out from the four corners of Badou to show off their pink
and yellow Aviators, fur trimmed windbreakers, and their ability to drive
sidesaddle on their bikes. Here’s to you.
That afternoon, we joined the Kabiye party. The Kabiye are an
immigrant, but large, ethnic group in Badou originally from Kara, a northern
region. Bide’s husband is the Kabiye chief and an invitation was extended to
their fave estrangers in town, wink-a-dink. The traditional dance is called
‘Kamu’ and depending on whom you ask this either happens only once a year
during a very special occasion or whenever the hell you want to have a good
time. According to an unknown informant, it’s a celebration of the earth, which
might explain why everyone – from grandmammas to 4-year-olds – wave branches
around and some are draped in animal skins. Every Kudjo, Koffi, and Adjo was
under the deeeep influence of Tchouk; covered in Talcum powder; and getting us
to dance. There was a crowd of kids hovering around our chairs in hopes of
being captured in a picture. One man asked that I give him my watch as a cadeau.
I gave him my quizzical-eye-brow-raised face and asked when-EVER did he wonder
what time it was?? and then I returned to my calabash. The two less inhibited
souls – Kat and her mom – joined the dancing. Are you surprised? I didn’t
dance? I know, I love to shake like a child spazzing out but I am still
incredibly self-conscience at these parties. Mais, ca va aller. Give me a
little more time and pass me the tchouk calabash more frequently – I’ll be
covered in Talcum, with branches in my hair like the best of them. Plus, I
reeeeallllyy need to show this town that I can, in fact, shake, cumbia,
merengue, Poulet, etc. etc. like it is nobody’s business. And with the sounds of these drums and
stamping feet ended le Jour d’Independence. Happy Birthday to you Togo J 