At 6 AM one day the phone rang. I rolled over, groggy, irritated and confused, and ignored it. Eventually it stopped. Then it rang again. And again. Finally I dragged myself out of bed to answer it.
Me: “Hello?”
Caller: “Alo? Alo? (garbled attempted English)”
Me: “Hello? Who is this?”
Caller: more unintelligible words
Me: “Who is this?”
Caller: “Niger! Niger! Allela!”
Me: “KAI! Ga Farida. Wa ne ne?” (NO WAY! This is Farida. Who is this?)
Turns out it was the mayor. The day before I had called my friend Rabi, to greet her. I had told her that Margie had died and that there had been a problem up in Tahoua with the Embassy people (“mai rishin hankali” she called the terrorists – literally, those who lack common sense). So the mayor, having heard that she had talked to me, decided to call and check in, and to greet me on my loss (I no longer speak English properly. I know that is NOT how you would say that, but I don’t know how you WOULD say it, so…). I told him I hoped that I would be coming back after Christmas, but that I couldn’t be sure yet. I told him to greet the whole village for me, and he sent lots of blessings, and said that everyone was asking for me. Speaking in Hausa while standing in my room in Quincy was a very odd feeling, but a good one. It was SO sweet of him and made me really happy. It was even worth waking up at 6am for…
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