In the Belly of the Elephant Read Free

met so many people with such perfect teeth, a state I had yet to achieve after years of orthodontia. Nassuru, a strikingly handsome young man with the dark skin of his Nilotic ancestors and the long nose and high cheekbones of the Berbers to the north, was a high-ranking prince in the Fulani tribe. He was also the assistant coordinator for economic development projects. I was the project coordinator in charge of developing income in the villages. I was Nassuru’s boss—me, a potato-peasant from Idaho.
    In front, Hamidou laughed softly and shook his head, again. Since my arrival, Hamidou had shaken his head at me more times than I could count. A quiet man who smiled easily, Hamidou drove us to and from the seven villages in the northeastern and poorest region of the country where FDC had projects in health, agriculture, and small business development. He was also a member of the Fulani tribe and a devout Muslim, as were nearly all the Voltaique members on staff.
    Hamidou was very kind to me, and I understood why he shook his head. A young woman away from home and family was a bizarre thing in a Muslim land. Like my father, Hamidou had trouble understanding why, at age 26, I was not home, getting down to the business of marrying and having babies. His Muslim expectations were the same as my father’s Mormon half of the family’s (my mother’s side was Catholic). I understood that. What I couldn’t figure out was why Hamidou found me so consistently amusing.
    That morning, we had driven to Sambonaye, a village of mud huts and thatched roofs at the end of a valley that boasted a stream during rainy season. In Sambonaye, we delivered bales of cotton for a spinning project and held a meeting with the village women. The women of Sambonaye were well organized and wanted FDC to loan them seeds for small gardens in order to grow greens, groundnuts, and black-eyed peas to improve their children’s nutrition. The meeting had gone well, and we would deliver the seeds before planting time when the first rains fell in late May.
    Now, late afternoon, we drove west, back to Dori, into a lowering sun. Nassuru hung his arm out the side window. The wind shifted and slapped its hot hand against my face. A scant scent rode on the breeze, a hint of grass and flowers. If the ghosts of seeds slumbered just beneath the baked earth, would the gift of water awaken them? Only one more month, and the rains would come. I refused to consider that they might be late, or not come at all, as I was told sometimes happened in the Sahel.
    In Liberia, when the rains came, the sky opened up and dumped heavy curtains of silver water. The way it had the day I met Rob two years before. Soaked and splattered with mud, he had said hello, looking at me with those robin-egg-blue eyes. I had fallen for him hard; taken the line so fast it went taut with a ZING!
    I waited for Rob’s letters the same way I waited for the rains. He had written several times since my arrival in Upper Volta, telling me he’d been transferred to Cameroon.
    I unscrewed my water bottle and drank. Hot water moistened my throat but did little to quench my thirst. I had been thirsty since the day I arrived in Upper Volta. Water helped, but I was thirsty for love and all the good that came with it.
    “I got a letter from home office a few days ago.” Don turned, his bald head glistening with sweat. A short man in his late thirties from Virginia, Don’s grin had been the first thing I’d seen beyond the custom’s door after landing at the Ouaga airport. “You’ve been listed as a reference for some guy who’s applying for my job.” Don, the type of manager home office sent to straighten things up when needed, would be leaving for Somalia in a month or two.
    I stopped breathing. “What’s his name?”
    Don frowned and thought for a moment. “Rob somebody…Rob Thompson.”
    My heartbeat cranked up and I struggled to keep my face neutral. “I knew him in Liberia. He had a reputation