Sunday

This entry is for all of you who worried that I would turn into a stick frame while living in Mali. 

Breakfast everyday is a type of corn porridge, which my dad saturates with sugar.  One day I was ahead of schedule, so when he offered me more porridge I decided to make him happy and eat it.  But first he and his daughter went out to the butiki to buy another baggie of sugar.  My dad dumped the entire thing into the leftover porridge!  And then he sat there and watched happily while I gorged myself.  I literally sloshed my way to school.  Nearly every day since then, I’ve been expected to eat the leftovers from everyone else’s breakfast.  My dad guilts me into it.  He says, “I go into town and everyone says, ‘Sirafa, why aren’t you feeding Damadje?  She’s so skinny!”  Being called fat is a compliment here, since being bigger shows you have the wealth to buy a lot of good food.  So my dad tells me every day that I have to eat a lot so I can get fat.  I think the sugar in my porridge and the sugar in my tea will take care of that even without all of the other food.  But in case anyone isn’t convinced yet, let me tell you about my day last Sunday.

Some weekend days I escape Mountougula.  I go to a neighboring town to visit other friends and have a drink in the bar.  Last Sunday I decided to stay home with my family.  I started the day by eating my normal giant portion of sugary porridge, plus a few miniature bananas from a giant batch my dad gave me.  Then my mom and I went to the market.  We bought all the ingredients for the day’s menu, and she bought me 2 oranges and a treat of a type of fried dough called falani.  (It was fabulous).  Back at home, I spent the morning “helping” her cook lunch.  By helping, I mean I watched and occasionally dozed off on my stool.  And she peeled one of my oranges for me so I ate that. 

Shortly before noon, my mom, her 2 kids, and I left to make the 40-minute trek to the women’s garden.  My mom packed up the entire lunch and balanced it all on her head, only steadying it with a hand when we walked under low-lying trees.  When we arrived at the garden, everyone was there: Badini and her 2 kids, Salif, my grandmother, and Moussa, who was supposed to go to Bamako with Madu but somehow ended up at the garden while I was at the market.  My mom had just carried lunch for 10 people on her head for 40 minutes. 

After a rice and vegetable sauce lunch, I was sent to go lie on a mat in the shade while everyone else worked in the garden.  I protested that I wanted to help, but Moussa repeatedly told me that my toubab status meant I couldn’t work.  Somehow being my main sidekick got him out of most of the work too.  We spent the afternoon lying on mats in the shade, chatting, and napping.  My other orange was peeled for me at some point.  I woke up in the late afternoon with Moussa snoozing next to me and read for about an hour before it was time to go home.  Badini and her kids had already left to go home and start dinner, and Moussa left to escort my grandmother to the mango grove.  (Side project?)  So it was just Bintou, Lemin, Ma and I heading home.  Along the way, Bintou stopped to buy fried bean mush from a woman along the side of the road.  Basically it’s fried dough wrapped around bean mush.  It also exists in millet, rice, and corn form.  I’ve only had the bean and millet form.  I’m not a huge fan of the former, but I love the fried millet!  My mom bought 2 bags: one for her and the kids, and one for me. 

Shortly after we arrived home, my dad pulled in on his moto.  He’d gone to Bamako and brought me back a bag of fried bean mush.  An hour later we were eating dinner – toh – and after dinner I was given a hunk of bread stuffed with french fries, with extra fries in a bowl.  It’s funny how now that I’m in Mali, I’m finally experiencing the Sunday that I always wanted in the US but never had time for – relaxing, talking, reading, and eating lots of treats!  So there you go.  Sometimes I feel like all I do is eat.  So please, don’t worry!  (But always feel free to send me cookies!)