So my host family treated me like royalty.  How could I possibly pay them back?

I immersed myself in the family.  While the rest of the group had nightly group “milk parties,” I seldom came.  I enjoyed just sitting with the family on the grass mats.  Or running around with children, tossing them into the air.  Or riding the family’s new horse, “Black.”  Or conducting mini English lessons by lamplight, drawing pictures and labeling them in English or singing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” or 50 Cent’s “Go Shorty” (they adore American rap) repeatedly to help the young school girls with pronunciation.  And I never really thought twice about it.  My family gave me such genuine pleasure; they were so loving and encouraging that I could only hope to be the same.

I did, however, have my favorites and was unable to mask my heightened admiration for a select few.

I have to say that Amadou was my favorite of the elder brothers.  He was just so supremely earnest in his generosity and his attempts to converse with me.  His French was just about as limited as my Wolof, but we were able to communicate, though a bit painstakingly at times.  When true moments of understanding occurred, he would crack the biggest smile and nod his head vigorously.

Thioro, Amadou’s wife and my namesake, was shy, always averting her eyes to the ground.  She spoke no French, but would often just sit in my room.  I would attempt conversation and though she was always a bit hesitant at first, I would soon have her talking, mostly correcting my Wolof.  She cooked most of my meals and did my laundry and I came to regard her as my surrogate mother only to learn, towards the end of my stay, that she was twenty.  My age. 

She has two of the most beautiful children in the world.  Arame, a four-year-old beauty of a girl, and the round faced Alioune, age two.  We were inseparable and they became known as my children to the rest of the family.  Alioune, perpetually sick, would often crawl into my bed with me or fall asleep in my arms.  However, on his more lively days, he would not let me put him down.  I would swing him around in circles until I was ready to collapse, but when I attempted to put him down, he would cling to my neck with his little hands. 

Arame, fair skinned and doe-eyed like her mother, was simply gorgeous (I began to understand that maternal conviction that one’s little girl is the most beautiful little girl in the entire world).  She was clearly quite bright and full of piss and vinegar, as my grandmother would say.  She would always waltz right into my room, and later my hut, and crawl into my lap, or up on my shoulders, or over to my back….  I called her “my monkey” and she soon started repeating the name, “my monkey, my monkey.” She came to understand that the name was ascribed to her so that when I asked, “Ana my monkey?” (Where is my monkey?) she would point to herself, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips.  I actually entertained notions of smuggling her back to The States so she could always be my monkey.  I figured that my mom would raise her while I was in college and then we could have big adventures together, my little monkey and I. 

Then there were my three adolescentish sisters, Pindas, Arame, and Aminata, who provided constant and entertaining companionship.   At dusk, if I wasn’t busy with org. ag. stuff, I would go on long walks through the fields.  The girls noticed and soon started coming with me.  We would gossip about the other members of the group; I would tease them about boys; they would sing popular Senegalese songs for me.  Sometimes they would pick a small watermelon that we would toss between us as we walked. They were my English pupils, constantly awing me with what all that they retained.  They would excitedly recite all the parts of body in English while all I could remember was mback (back) and bop (head) because the words’ not so vague resemblance to their English counterparts. 

When I moved into my hut, Pindas and Aminata became my roommates.  Long after the rest of the compound was silent, we would stay up, the girls braiding my hair, or taking pictures with my camera, or testing my Wolof.  They also loved to grill me about my life in The States and we began assigning Senegalese names to my parents and friends.

And the last character I feel deserves some attention was the magnanimous Mama Soda.  Stone-faced and solemn, Mama Soda was more than a bit intimidating.  She was clearly the family’s figurehead, but she was reserved in her leadership.  She carried a disapproving air about her, and I only witnessed her laugh her big hearty laugh when she was playing with her grandchildren.  We became close, however.  And though she was not quite as demonstrative as the rest of her family, I could sense that I had gained her trust. 

Organic Agriculture decided to include the village’s two women’s groups into our work.  We invited them to our nightly workshops and though the first workshop was packed, the second day only one woman returned, Mama Soda.  As her husband had died, she had taken over his fields and knew a thing or two about agriculture.  She was clearly revered by the other women and when she spoke, everyone listened. 

On our last full day in Nder, the group held a community wide meeting to explain our activities and thank the villagers.  Mama Soda decided to speak.  The meeting had gone on for some four hours, with babies screaming and little kids running about.  Most of the attendees had drifted in and out, but Mama Soda stayed seated for the entire time, listening attentively.  We had just finished our thank yous to the villagers when I heard Mama Soda’s resonant voice.  I gave her my full attention, not expecting to understand the vast majority of what she said, but then I heard my name. 

“Is she talking about me,” I turned to Ronald.

“Yes,” he gave me a goofy smile.  “She says you are good.  You are a good girl.  You love the children and the family and…” Ronald stopped as heavy sobbing broke out.  It was Mama Soda.  She dabbed her eyes and tried to speak but was unable to suppress her sobs.  Suddenly all eyes were on me.  I realized that I was the cause of her tears and ran over to comfort her, repeating what I had been taught to say to bawling babes that were always being placed in my arms, Loyjoy, Soda? Nepil.  Nepil. (Why are you crying, Soda?  Don’t cry.  Don’t cry.)

I took her left hand in mine and squeezed it tightly, a Wolof gesture indicating an acquaintance will never be forgotten.