Affiong

When I was younger I was privileged to spend several years living in a village in a rain forest in Africa. The story below and others from that time are published in the collection, "Night Studies: Stories of Life in a West African Village."

Once again this morning I forget to walk carefully around the bedroom door and accidentally stub my toe on it, causing four Agama lizards to tumble down onto my shoulders. The Agamas, both the orange and blue males and the smaller brown females, persist in sharing my bedroom and go to sleep every night on top of the door. The morning shower of lizards is harmless except to my peace of mind. My only consolation is that this event seems to shatter their nerves even more than mine. If I were to react as they do I would run screaming into the kitchen.

When I limp into the kitchen, however, my impulse is to run out of it screaming. It is full of ants. They are coming in under the back door, a river of them a half-meter wide oozing up one wall and along the kitchen counter to where I foolishly left a half-dozen smoked fish. These are completely buried beneath a thick coating of ants. Luckily the small kerosene stove and the coffee supplies are on the table. I advance carefully into the kitchen because army ant columns are always guarded by ferocious warriors that will sink their enormous front pincers into anything that moves. I rescue the stove and coffee and take them out onto the front step. While I sit on the step and drink my first cup I wonder about spraying the lizards with a solution of smoked fish.

Across the playing field, Udong Community School is still quiet as the first rays of the morning sun strike it. I am looking forward to the day. Here in Akai Isong village, a few degrees north of the equator in southeastern Nigeria, there are no telephones or typewriters, but to prepare our students for entry into the outside world our school is offering Office Studies. I have been able to obtain twenty old typewriters from our embassy in Lagos and since I am the only teacher who can type, Office Studies has been given to me and is my first class this Monday morning. Before the arrival of the typewriters two weeks ago we could study only telephone. I trained the carefully selected class of twenty thirteen-year-olds to hold their left hand up with the thumb in the ear and the little finger angled towards the mouth. Then we learned "Hello, may I help you?" and "Just a moment, please," and other such useful phrases. This lesson spread quickly to the whole student body and during breaks, students were often to be seen standing around with their hands in the appropriate position 'talking telephone' to each other.

Nde has a particularly delightful and solemn way of intoning "To whom do you wish to speak?" that causes me and the whole class to laugh. Her best friend, Affiong, does telephone perfectly but has a problem with her little fingers when typing. The rest of her fingers work fine but when it comes to asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj her little fingers persistently wander off to other parts of the keyboard with a will and life of their own. She talks to them, but to no avail and last week I resorted to holding them down on the correct keys. This worked as long as I maintained pressure on them but as soon as I released them each one lifted delicately up and began wandering around again. Today in telephone we are graduating to, "I'm sorry, this is the Smith Lozenge Company, you must have the wrong number." In typing I am planning to introduce, "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog." It will be interesting to see if the freedom to hit the p and q keys will bring Affiong's little fingers any relief from the tyranny of the a and ; keys.

"What's that?" asks Etim, pointing to the ant-covered lumps on the counter. He's only eleven but is always my first source of information when I need help with local problems. He has stopped by on his way to the stream for his morning bath.

"Smoked fish."

"They will go when they have finished it," he says, authoritatively. And indeed, during our absence at the stream, the number of ants diminishes by half. When I am ready to leave for school, the river of ants is only as wide as my leg and the bones of the fish are visible above the seething mass.

At the school, something is wrong. I hope it is not the principal on one of his rampages to cast out evil. From time to time he becomes convinced that the students are possessed of the devil and that his mission is to beat it out of them. This usually is inspired by his discovery of some new place where the students are hiding out to make love during breaks. But today when I enter the staff room he is there with the other staff and looking very sober.

"There will be no classes today," he tells me. "One of our students has died."

"Who?" I ask, trying to think if any of my students has been absent or sick lately.

"That little Class Two girl - she was in your typing class - Affiong Obong Ntekim."

I am stunned. Affiong with the wandering little fingers, dead.

In response to my protest that she was fine in class on Friday he informs me that she was suddenly taken ill with fever on Saturday and died on Sunday, yesterday. She is to be buried today in her village, Akai Ubon. As soon as the students have assembled we will set off to walk there.

I go home and change into more suitable clothing and by the time I return the students have gathered. Assembled in front of the school, they are subdued, but the only overt signs of grief are tears on the faces of a few of Affiong's classmates. We all file out of the school compound along the path to Akai Ubon. I am surprised at how little organization it takes. Everyone seems to know what to do. The principal explains that they do this a half-dozen times every school year. "Children die very easily here," he remarks.

The giant silk cotton trees tower gracefully over the path and we wind our way past their great gray buttresses deeper into the forest. The students, who usually make a lot of noise when they move in a group, talk quietly today and the birdcalls seem loud and plaintive.

When we arrive at the thatched house of Affiong's family, our greetings are lost in the hammering and sawing of coffin construction and the keening of the mourners. Affiong's mother and father sit surrounded by family members, lost in grief. I am taken inside the house to view the body. She lies on a table in the parlor, looking just as she did on Friday, a composed, good-humored expression on her face. Her hair is still braided in the latest style - many long spikes standing out from her head like a starburst. She has been dressed in her best cloth. Her delicate little hands are crossed on her chest. What suddenly makes her terribly dead to me is the bits of red earth that have been crumbled over her, some on her body and some on her face.

Her body is placed in the rough wooden box and it is nailed shut with heart-wrenching finality. When it is carried out into the compound the students are led in a hymn by the principal.

Around the throne of God in Heaven,
Thousands of children stand,
Children whose sins are all forgiven,
A holy, happy band.

When they begin the glorious chorus to this hymn their voices swell and separate into parts with girls and small boys singing high and big boys singing low. But the open weeping is too much for more than one chorus. Everyone is crying and wailing now and after a few words from the pastor the coffin is lowered into the grave near the house. Some students throw themselves on the ground and others rush towards the grave screaming and crying. Everyone is shouting and weeping and struggling as the earth is shoveled into the grave.

The evening passes slowly. I am too morose to seek company and so I sit and try to read. But Affiong's sweet child's face continually rises up in my mind and her silvery laughter rings in my memory. Eventually I put the book aside. There is nothing to do with such feelings of sorrow and loss but to continue to breathe, and have faith that they will pass. I wander restlessly around in the house. In the kitchen, the ants have gone and nothing remains of the fish but bones on the counter. I sweep these into the garbage and check to make sure I have left nothing out that will attract another visit.

As I prepare for bed I hear a light knock on the door. It is thirteen-year-old Effiong and his brother, little Etim, bearing a sleeping mat. "Our mother sent us to stay with you," says Effiong. "She says it is not good to be alone at night when you are sad. Bad juju can come and attack you."

They spread their mat on the bedroom floor and within ten minutes of their arrival they are both asleep. I watch the slow rise and fall of their chests, listen to the soft sigh of their breathing and feel peace returning. I am suddenly sleepy. Their mother is very wise and kind. I turn the lantern low before climbing into bed, and remind myself not to kick the door in the morning.