BFF

I suppose if we had grown up together in the late 80s in small town Alabama, Ramata and I would have been blood sisters. Or at least I would have written her a note that said "Would you like to be my best friend? Check 'iyo' or 'o'oo'."

But we didn't grow up together. In fact, Ramata and I only met two years ago in small village Diakhaba. Which is why it was such an honor one night when she came to my house and presented me with gifts of cloth and jewelry. My host dad Sina explained "Ramata's asking you to accept her as your best friend. What you do you think?"

I accepted with an effulgence of energy, donning the jewelry and prancing around the compound showing off my new gifts.

I don't know exactly what it means to be a best friend here. I do know that I went through a series of good friends in village, and all of them either moved away or got married or faded into the hazy background, like the mountains of Guinea. But Ramata and I are bonded by ceremony, and ceremony means something here.

I bring her coffee and popcorn, visit her new granddaughter at the hospital in Kedougou. I cook with her and take naps next to her in the heat of the day. When I was sick for days with a stomach bug, Ramata brought me a special breakfast every morning and said she couldn't eat or sleep from worry. When I leave Diakhaba in a few weeks, she's warned me she won't be able to accompany me to the road to say goodbye because she'll be crying too much.

Mme nterri musoo nyinya, foo nse fakha.

Ramata and Fatoumata