Postcard Story from times gone by

We're sick today. Xavier woke and his little body wretched beside me. I ran him to the bathroom, but not before he puked on Bob Marley (I was wearing Meshon's new Bob Marley t-shirt). He fell back to sleep off and on, wretching periodically for some time. Luckily, by 10am he was asking for toast and has been doing quite well. He's still has some tummy upset but I'm hoping it will all pass quickly. He really doesn't get sick much; for that I am thankful. In any case, I'm not much in the mood or state for writing. So here is a little tiny story I wrote in Senegal. It's a true story. Sadly, it didn't win me a postcard story competition. I hope you are all feeling well and at peace.

The Unk and the Ants Unite

Women wash clothes–scrubbing each inch of colourful fabric against their knuckles,–peel onions, braid each others’ hair and visit. Brilliant fabrics dry on clotheslines, children play with old tires; all the while the sun beats down. Leaning against the cement wall sitting cross-legged on the mosaic tiles, I find the heat almost bearable as a gentle breeze blows through the centrally located courtyard, though most days sweat still gushes from my pores. I have been in Sénégal for almost two weeks and have gone from drinking five litres to three litres of water each day.

I notice a gecko, called unk in Wolof, on the wall opposite me. The unk is scurrying about catching flies and other insects, one moment deathly still, the next in rapid assault. The reptile’s keen eye catches a glimpse of something trundling through the sand and in a flash it attacks. For a moment I think the gecko has decided that the bug is too large and has simply flipped it over. Feeling sorry for the overturned creature and striving to play the role of rescuer, I slowly walk the short but scalding stretch of sand to right it.

Only now do I realize that the odd bug, some kind of centipede perhaps, has been injured. One quick nip and the gecko has removed some vital part of the creature’s form, some appendage that kept it upright.

Why did the gecko leave it to suffer? Why didn’t it gobble it up entirely? Often when faced with suffering creatures I become the merciful killer and crush them; this time I leave the bug to die as it may, on its back, legs flailing beneath the intense heat of the midday sun.

I return to my seat against the wall as a young girl named Amicole runs past yelling, “Bonjour toubab!” The children all gleefully refer to me as toubab and some of the adults also call me “white skin.” I wonder if my volunteering as a teacher here is helping or is it futile, perhaps even harmful. Am I here for selfish reasons? I am experiencing another culture, much invaluable knowledge gained, I hope, but to what end?

Madame Awa approaches. “Salamalekum,” she greets me.

“Malekumsalam,” I reply.

Are you at peace? Yes, I am.

I glance back across the sand to discover that the doomed centipede is anything but at peace; its helpless body completely enveloped by an army of ants. As they continue to consume the live flesh of the flailing bug, I hear the vivacious laughter of school children returning. I take a gulp of water and prepare myself for the onslaught of play.