6:45 a.m. on the dot. I hear the drums announce a meeting regarding my school renovation project. As I walk with my counterpart, the village griot, and his older brother, the chief of the village, I can't help but feel an air of importance. I am a foreigner and a woman about to enter the realm of male dominance. The hut I enter is the biggest hut I've ever been inside. And it needs to be to house 35 men, adorned in their grand bubus, islamic caps, shawls, and walking canes. Every piece of mud earth is hidden beneath cow hides and goat skin, giving off the scent of sweet death, which is alluring to the swarm of flies that bounce from our bare feet. As the men give their praises to Allah I notice that the men don't find the flies a nuissance as I do. I immediately feel insignificant among these men. Their faces and eyes, reminding me of dinosaurs, exude wisdom of lives that have seen and done so much. Even their weathered feet tell stories of their farming lives or their countless journeys in the bush. I am nothing.
I wonder if I should have worn a head wrap instead of a french braid, if my shirt's short sleeves are too revealing, or even if the pants I was told to change into are too informal. But my insecurities drown out in my counterpart's deep throated, "Namun" after each statement, signifying that the speaker was heard. I manage to keep up with the council's agenda, even exchanging a few benedictions to follow the formalities. After the last, "Amina" and all eyes have been averted to the next in the circle I don't feel insignificant anymore. I was invited after all.
This meeting was to discuss my work, but sitting here among the village elders made me realize this was more than that. This is the old meeting the new, tradition opening to change, the past allowing the present , fast-paced world to reside next door. I am proud of these men, the protectors of their village, for welcoming a stranger like me.
