Microphones and dietary dilemmas

It is Monday morning and I am at my desk, having ridden through what I can only describe as a Scottish morning – mizzle and grey, but warm.  My clothes and hair are damp.  The light level is low.  Sounds of dripping all around.  Not what the rainy season is supposed to offer, but here farmers are managing on what they get, and all the fields are full of maize, millet, rice, peanuts, okra, potatoes, sorrel, and beans of various sorts.

Yesterday I realised that I am a part of the Diébougou scene now.  I arrived at a restaurant as an extra guest for a christening meal, and the band – who traditionally hector new arrivals in a sort of patter-song way – named and shamed me as I sat at my table.  Several people I know came by.  The director of the women’s centre and I exchanged warm nods and mouthed ‘Ça va?’s at each other.  I knew four of the young women at my table.  All communication was largely mimed as we had the band, very loud, in the courtyard with us, and the vocalist was miked.  Deafening.  Five drums, a balafon and a shekere.  And a man with a mike, did I say?  I realised I recognised his voice because it was the very band which keeps me awake often as not.  They play sets of about half an hour, stop for a fag break of five minutes, then off again.  They are all Rastas and I wonder where they get their dope and their energy.  I reprise my newly written Rule No. 1 – ‘Never give a Burkinabè man a microphone’.

The new rule was formulated quite recently and reinforced last week by the evangelical church over the road which hosted a week’s camp for young folks from other towns and cities.  They ranged from about 14 to early 20s – they camped out in the local high school, and used the church all day and all evening for services, rallies, dances, concerts, rehearsals … you name it, they had it – all with tam-tams and microphones. Bless you, darlings, the mike?  Must you?

My ‘adopted’ children and I came to a point of no return yesterday over our meal.  They added the usual tablespoon of salt to a salad…. I had adjusted to the 2 Maggi cubes plus added salt in the delicious but deadly sauces, and even to the bananas, sliced and deep-fried … but salted salad was just a step too far.  We had a chat.  From now on, no added salt.  Everyone can add their own.  I shall try to keep them to a single Maggi cube – about 41% salt and the rest is MSG.  I hope they don't refuse to cook...

 

And clearly I am growing intolerant.  Ahhh.  Grumpy old womanhood.  Embrace it, Shona!