A morning of work in Fatna’s garden was long overdue. I had been visiting her at her compound
practically every Monday since February, toting with me my Arabic dictionary,
some English sentences scribbled down onto folded notebook paper, and a
colorful picture book for the kids.
My visits to her house had become one of the more constant parts of my
shifting schedule here in Mundri.
Her home was a place where I quickly felt comfortable enough to behave
as part of the family, helping grind g-nuts, prepare greens, and wash my own dishes. The next-door children were finally
becoming accustomed to seeing my white face and blazing red hair as I parked
under a tree reciting Arabi– they were now coming up to me and touching the glossy
pages of the book I held, talking to me in their sweet, simple Arabic. My lessons at Fatna’s place were such a
blessing that it made sense for me to pour out some of that blessing onto her
family. There seemed to be no
better way to show I cared than to help out in their garden.
For
those who aren’t aware of what African agriculture is like, each family has its
own garden—sometimes shared with a couple of other families—and this garden is
the top priority for these families.
They work their whole schedule around clearing, planting, weeding, and
harvesting these plots. Children
will skip school, mothers will leave church early, even men will pick up a
shovel to help ensure the success of the various crops planted. Some gardens are comparable to the size
of suburban horticulturist’s garden, taking over a small backyard space. These plots tend to be right beside the
family compound. Most people,
however, have a large garden that is further out into the bush. These plots can be up to an acre in
size and require a commendable amount of time to maintain. Many people in Mundri have built small
huts near these remote gardens, giving themselves a place to sleep when they
spend full weekends doing digging and planting. These gardens are a community project and people are
expected to help on their neighbors’ land if they want to receive help in
return. Fatna and Yogo’s garden is
a smaller one on their compound in town, but it still requires a lot of work.
Their
compound is just off of the main road, down a steep, short hill. Surrounding the living space are the
gardens of maize, pede pede, and g-nuts.
I found, a couple of weeks ago, that the location of these gardens,
while convenient, has proved to be problematic. The accumulation of rain water floods downhill off the main
road and settles into their gardens, swamping vegetation, mucking up the soil,
and spilling over into their huts and living space. I found one tukul slanting over, about to collapse, while
streams traversed the compound. I
squirmed to see little babies splash around in these mucky streams and quickly
diverted their attention when I saw them attempting to put some of the water in
their mouths. Everyone on Fatna’s
compound was suffering with a painful, relentless cough, a result from having
to live in such a swampy environment.
My first thought was about how Fatna would have exams the next week and
she didn’t need any distractions while being tested. Then, my mind turned toward the garden. The recent onslaught of rain had
flooded the g-nut garden; if the crops weren’t taken out of the heavy ground
soon, they would rot and the family’s major source of protein for the year
would be gone.
I
showed up around 9:30 on Saturday morning and apologized for being 30 minutes
late; of course, no one noticed or cared.
They were just happy to have me there to help. The neighborhood kids smiled and watched as “Jonifa Ria” set
out to be a “big help.” As soon as
I sat in my chair, it sunk over in the mud and I fell back onto the
ground. Nothing like some
physical humor to make people laugh even more at the kawaja. Yogo did the hard work of cutting the
plant out of the soaking ground. I
merely took piles of branches and searched out the healthy g-nuts to pick and
toss into the bucket. I got into a
steady rhythm, remembering to use the proper form like I had learned during
last year’s harvest. (Hold the
branch in your left hand and pick quickly with your right. Fill up your hand completely before
tossing the g-nuts into the bucket.) Yogo’s older mother (who has to be at
least 80 years old) had been there since dawn, sitting in a broken-down wooden
chair and picking nuts like a champion.
She watched me to make sure I got the technique down, and then proceeded
to give me ample verbal affirmations of, “Aiwa! Aiwa!” and “Ita arif tamaam!”
After
a mere hour of work, the sun came out from behind the low-hanging clouds and
bore down upon our heads in full force.
The women decided I was too delicate for the sun and moved me inside a
tukul to wait to be served a meal.
So soon? What about all the good work I was going to do?! Was I not an important part of the
garden work force?! I was disappointed to be treated like a special guest when I
felt like part of the family; however, you really can’t reason with the
stubborn hospitality of a Moru woman.
Fatna and I ate a delicious snack of chopped tomato and onion on
bread. Then we sat under the shade
and chatted with the rest of the women on break. Doe-eyed Dani (Yogo’s
two-year-old grandson) was in town from Juba and was running around with
his long time buddy Ataba (one of the most flirty little toddlers in
Mundri). It was thoroughly entertaining
to watch the two of them play with whatever random objects they could
find. They particularly liked
stretching out a long rubber band and toting it over their shoulders like
strong men.
I
was soon begging the ladies to let me continue working. They only allowed it under the
condition that I pick g-nuts in a shady spot. I sat with Yogo’s uma (mom) and continued with the task,
occasionally stopping to say a phrase or two in Arabic. When the work for the day was done, I
sat with Fatna and listened to her read from one of my picture books. It was encouraging to hear an increase
in her speed and fluidity, and I was happy to hear her say that English was one
of her stronger subjects. I’m not
too worried about Fatna—her mother keeps her accountable to her schoolwork, and
she has a sensible head on her shoulders. However, I still get that protective, older sister mentality
whenever a teenage boy passes through the compound and lingers longer than
necessary.
I
guess I just need to trust that God has it all under control. I need to believe that He will keep my
teenage friends in His hands, that He will protect and provide for my
neighbors. He will use me when I
show up, but it will be He who does
the work—not I. How many times do
I need to remind myself that I’m not the hero in the story? If anyone, I’m the weak, helpless side
character who is repeatedly blessed by the kindness of others. This couldn’t be more apparent than
when I left Fatna’s house that day with a gift bag of g-nuts two times the size
of the amount I actually picked.
"A friend loves at all times..."
-Proverbs 17:17
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