That Time When I Was A Dowry Offering…
In January 1990, I was twenty-two years old, a Peace Corps agriculture extension volunteer. I lived in a small hut made of mud and edingwe (small trees strengthened by brush fires). My village of Mutelo was located on the high savannah plateau of the Bandundu region of former Zaire. Mobutu Sese Seko Wa Za Banga was the corrupt and brutal dictator of the country at that time. Everyone, including me, tried to predict when the other shoe would drop for the country. It finally did, but that’s a story for another time. Aside from the monthly visit to the parish by the catholic priest Pere Hagen Mueller, I was the only muzungu (foreigner) for about 75 kilometers in all directions.
Most days in the village, I felt like an alien who dropped from the sky as the locals tried to make sense of me and my presence there. Some guessed I had done something wrong and was being punished by my government by being sent there. Others thought God was punishing me because why else would I come to this forsaken, unforgiving land? I never quite convinced them that I was here by choice. Still, over time, I just became part of the scenery and the ebb and flow of village life. The rhythmic thud thudding of the large mortar and pestles crushing corn into meal; mothers laughing and gossiping in the shade as they laboriously hulled small mantete (squash seeds) with their teeth for the evening meal. This was the daily rhythm of life.
My whiteness afforded me the acceptance and respect of a man in their culture. I was treated to the things that only the men had the privilege to consume, like kola nuts eaten with rock salt, malafu ya ngasi (palm wine), and game meat reserved for men. I didn’t enjoy any of these things. I can still taste the extreme bitterness of the kola nuts and smell the funk of the palm wine, the thought of which still turns my stomach. They nicknamed me ‘dikopa mosi’ one cup. After one cup of the obligatory palm wine, I turned my cup upside down on the table, signaling that was my limit. One of their cultural norms I cherished most was the respect shown when someone did not want to eat, drink or do something. One could simply say, “it’s against my ancestors,” and there were no more questions. Ever. It felt like a superpower.
I was also fully embraced by the women. They taught me the ways of village life, confided to me about men’s troubles, and prized my shampoo when we all bathed at the river in the evening. The women held a firm belief that it would make their hair straight and soft like mine despite my assurance that it wouldn’t. They were always disappointed but never gave up hope in the potential of the magic shampoo. Bathing in the river just before sunset with the women, girls, and babies was my favorite time of the day, following a hot day in the fields. There was always playful, joyous splashing and singing while people and clothes got clean. So I lived my life among them, the misplaced muzungu. The villagers took me into their lives and community. They looked out for my welfare as one of their own. I had never felt as secure as I did there in this intimately interdependent community.
Life in such a village presented challenges to daily existence. With no electricity or running water — firewood needed to be collected for cooking and water hauled from the spring for drinking and cooking. Food had to be grown or bartered for; the only market available was a small one once a month that happened after church mass with very little to be purchased. I learned quickly to buy large quantities of rock salt, bar soap, and canned tomato paste when I went to the regional capital of Kikwit. With these items, I could barter for the things I needed with the villagers. Left to fend for myself, my entire day would be spent gathering the basic essentials of survival. I would be unable to do the agricultural extension work I came to do. Enter Saakul to my rescue.
Saakul came from another village to live with me as my domestique. His task was to tend the home front, hauling wood and water, cooking, cleaning, and helping in the garden. He was also a poisonous snake killer and troubleshooter extraordinaire. Generally, all of this was considered women’s work. Still, it was different since it came with room, board, and a monthly salary. Saakul slept in the kitchen, a separate hut next to mine. The kitchens were built as standalone structures because of the smoke and risk of fire. The chief’s fine of setting one’s kitchen on fire was one goat, so we were careful with our cookfire; goats in the area were few and pricey.
Saakul was tiny in stature. My 5'8" frame towered over him. He made up for what he lacked in height in incredible strength and determination. His megawatt smile, ‘can do’ attitude and general good humor brought companionship and security to my life. He was about my age (Saakul didn’t know how old he was) and had a girl back in his home village he wanted to marry, Bibishi. Saakul and Bibishi already had a baby girl, Sandrine. Sandrine, at the time, was quite ill with malaria and parasites, losing weight and on death’s doorstep. When I learned of this, I sent Saakul back to his village with the money needed to get her the medicines that would hopefully ensure she lived and grew strong.
While in his home village, Saakul spoke to the elders and asked their permission to wed Marie. By tradition, a dowry needed to be offered to Bibishi’s family. The eldest maternal uncle, the ‘ngwashi,’ oversees marriage arrangements for his nieces in his society. They apparently drove a hard bargain now that he was the only man in the region working for a muzungu. It seems the bride price might have increased. They asked to meet me and vouch for Saakul’s employment before they decided on the dowry price to be paid.
A few weeks later, Saakul and I set off on foot to his village to meet the elders. It was about a 25-kilometer walk on a footpath as there was not even a dirt road. Saakul and I conversed in Kikongo, the commercial language of the region, and he told me stories as we walked.
About halfway there, we arrived in a village that was eerily quiet. There was no one to be seen. Very unusual. I asked Saakul if the village had been abandoned, and he laughed aloud, stopped walking, and said, “mademoiselle, look closely at the houses .”I took a closer look, and in the cracks between the walls and doorways, I could see the whites of many eyes peering out at us. I was confused. Whenever I traveled through a village, curiosity always brought people out to see the muzungu. I was a novelty. In fact, over time, villages far and wide knew who I was. When I passed through on my Honda dirt bike, children would scream with glee, ‘Denisha, Denisha!’ and chase me down the path as fast and as long as their little legs would carry them. ‘Denisha’ was the nickname given to me as they had trouble pronouncing ‘Leslye’, and it came out more like Reshree.
Saakul called out to them in their local dialect, laughing, and told them it was safe for them to come out. People began to tentatively open their doors and come out and made their way gingerly towards me as if approaching a poisonous cobra. Saakul whispers to me, “they think you are a ghost!” At that moment, it dawned on me that they had never seen a white person before, a muzungu. Saakul spoke to them in a calm, encouraging voice, letting them know I was harmless. I was soon encircled by about 80 village women and children, touching my hair and clothes. They felt my skin quickly as if they might get burned and looked at their hand afterward to see if they suffered any ill effect from touching me, or perhaps if some of my whiteness rubbed off on them. I burst out laughing. Then they all laughed, hooted, and jumped up and down. It was a moment in time I will never forget.
We continued on our way on the footpath and made it to Saakul’s village at dusk; dusty, tired, and hungry. I sat around the fire with the male elders that night as they debated the bride price. I didn’t speak their dialect, and Saakul was too nervous about translating for me as he did not want to disrespect his elders. I observed the expressions, the heated and theatrical negotiations in the firelight — back and forth over what was a fair bride price for Marie. Animated voices escalating with looks of mock offense at what was being offered — it was all part of the lively process. I was there as Saakul’s insurance policy — living proof that he had a muzungu employer in his back pocket and that carried clout. Since I had already provided money to help his daughter heal and grow stronger, he had proven he had the means to take care of Bibishi and Sandrine. The negotiating continued late into the moonlit night. A decision would be made, but not just yet.
I was shown to a small hut where I would sleep for the night. There was nothing in the space but the handmade frame of a bed with knotty sticks laced together with rafia grass as my mattress. The nights were relatively cool on the high savannah plateau during the dry season. It was a cold and incredibly uncomfortable night with no blanket or covering for warmth and the knobs of the sticks digging into my body. Still, I was grateful to be up off the floor and away from slithering pit vipers or other deadly creepy crawlies that might make their way in. My constant companions at night were my flashlight and machete to ward off any uninvited guests of the night. Sunrise could not come soon enough for my aching, cold body.
Before we departed that day for the long walk back to Mutelo, Saakul happily learned that Bibishi’s ngwashi had accepted the bride price and had blessed their union. I don’t recall all that was included in the dowry. In addition to me, there were some goats, traditional brightly colored pagne cloth for Bibishi to wear as a married woman and some money. Bibishi and Sandrine came to live with Saakul in my kitchen a few weeks later. Life became more lively and full.
I now was part of a little family. We shared our meals and laughed about the going’s on in the village. Sandrine was a little over a year old when she came with her parents to live with me. She didn’t like me. Over the dinner table would stare at me with an angry face, shake her fist at me and scold me in angry baby gibberish. I was confident she knew exactly what she was saying to me. Still, the adults could only laugh at her entertaining display of disdain. I often wonder about Sandrine and how her life unfolded in this tumultuous country of Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo). The people of DR Congo have faced civil strife since I was evacuated with my fellow Peace Corps volunteers in September 1991. Is she still alive? If so, how is she faring? Does she recall the muzungu she was always mad at? I can still see her little angry face and shaking fist.
Our past shapes our present. We are forged from our cumulative experiences by the people who pass through our lives, for a moment or a lifetime. Every trial and triumph are the building blocks of our being. Finding gratitude for the people and experiences, pleasant or unpleasant, helps me better understand who I am. My two years in Zaire as a Peace Corps volunteer were one of the most formative and foundational periods of my life. It shaped my career and continued studies and made me a better person. It was there, living in the untamed wilderness in the heart of Africa, that I learned to surrender to what is. I understand that a force greater than me loves me very dearly, for I should be dead many times. I learned to listen, observe, be present, and accept.
