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March 04, 2006

In memory of Muusa

I followed Muusa's older brother Boureima, the village leader, past the sheep to the millet-stalk shelter, where he placed a low, wobbly stool outside the entrance. I perched precariously on it, conscious of the sun beating down on my head, and peered inside. The cool shade of the shelter looked dark in comparison to the glaring sun outside. On either end of the traditional Fulani bed, perched like bookends, were two older Fulani women, Muusa's mother and mother-in-law. Behind them, stretched out on the bed, and half-hidden by one of the bookends, I could just make out the shape of the lower half of Muusa's widow Jelika, with their two-month old girl lying by.

'Salaam aleykum,' I greeted them.
We went on to ask after each other's health, family, children and village. Then there was a pause.
'Mi nani kibaaru Muusa,' I said. (I heard the sad news about Muusa)
I spoke about how I had been looking forward to seeing him again, and how the news of his death had shocked and saddened me.

*

I had first come to know the people of Yengerento years earlier, and we had often visited each other. Whenever we visited they would welcome us, often killing a goat in our honour. They listened attentively whenever I shared the message of Christ, and were always respectful and interested, but they continued diligently in their Muslim prayers five times a day. It was Muusa who seemed most interested, and he used to come regularly to Gorom to visit us. After a few years he prayed to give his life to Christ. He couldn't read, and being the only believer, twenty-five miles from the nearest Christian, was hard for him. He was nervous about sharing his faith with his family. They saw him come to meetings in Gorom, and Fulani Christian gatherings elsewhere, but they never bothered him about it.

Slowly Muusa was growing in faith and becoming part of our little family of Fulani Christians in Gorom. He got on particularly well with Yusufi and Hamadou. In 2003 we went to Yengerento at the villagers' invitation to spend three days preaching the gospel and showing the 'Jesus' film. That was my last time in the village.

During my time in Britain last year I heard that Muusa was ill, but it was a shock when I got to Gorom to hear that he had died.

*

I tried to encourage the women with the assurance that Muusa's life was safe in God's hands. The older women in return, with Fulani stoicism, said that's the way life is and when your time has come, there's nothing you can do about it. 'Crying does no good - it was the will of God.' Jelika just lay silently, almost invisble, in the background. Finally I gave them the little present that I had bought for Muusa and his family - a shirt, some toiletries, some children's clothes and a toy dog. I added a bit of money to help with feeding the children, and then I followed Boureima back past the sheep to where the men of the village were drinking tea.

Muusa left eight children. Seven were his own: Aisetu, Hamsetu, Amadou, Ibra, Oumarou, Mariama and Hajata. The eighth was his grandchild, whose parents had both died: Aissa. Now Boureima, with six of his own children, would have responsibility for an extra nine people. He seemed unfazed by the challenge. As he said, 'Muusa did well; he sowed a lot of seed.'

Shortly before we left, for the twenty-five miles back to Gorom-Gorom, four-year old Mariama came out to say goodbye. She was dressed in one of the children's outfits with the toy dog tied on her back like a baby.

Tags: africa burkina burkina faso gorom-gorom travel fulani death sahel

Posted by Keith at March 4, 2006 09:11 AM

Comments

Posted by: Steve Hilsden at March 5, 2006 07:28 PM