If the Elephant Eats Your Grandpa...

If proverbs are a good way to teach moral lessons to kids, they're a great way to teach language to a foreigner. Since my family found out that I love proverbs, there has been a steady stream of them, from the mouth of the kebas (old men) to my notebook. Many of them I will be using in a radio show, comparing Malinke proverbs to American ones. I'm highlighting a few of them here, along with a story - rather inconsequential, I'd say - from my Peace Corps service that demonstrates at least one interpretation of the proverb's meaning.

Dubeng nininna ning fitiroo benta.
If you're looking for shade, wait for the sunset.

It had already started raining slightly when my mom asked if I could accompany my two little sisters - Tunkho and Hawa - to Kedougou so they could visit their grandfather before he went home to Paris. I jumped at the chance. I liked my grandfather and I loved my little sisters, so how fun would it be to take them into the big city of Kedougou?! Hours later I found myself sitting in a hut, still in Diakhaba, with the chauffeur who would take us into town when the rain stopped, drinking tea handed to me by a man who every so often would shake his head and tell me I didn't understand Malinke, since I had trouble catching the meaning of his cryptic proverbs. So when the 3rd round of tea was finished, I turned to my sisters and said "Let's go." Rain or no rain, we would get to Kedougou. Waiting under the mango tree on the side of the road - protection from the sun and rain - I hailed a passing pick up truck. "I be taxala Kedougou?" I asked. He nodded and motioned for us to climb in the back. The three of us climbed in - my two little sisters in their new fancy blue velvet dresses - and behind us an old woman. When she was only halfway in, the truck began driving and I had to grab the woman around the waist and pull her the rest of the way in. Funny that the driver was in such a hurry, considering we didn't get very far - about 10km down the road - before the pick up broke down. We would sit on the side of the road for about an hour. Because of the recent rains, there wasn't much traffic. The men went off into the bushes to urinate. One woman, the one who almost toppled out of the back of the truck, went off in search of what she called "a medicine tree." At long last, another car came by and agreed to take us the rest of the way. Just as we were climbing in - my sisters, wide-eyed, as they were already further out of the village than they had ever been - I saw the familiar white van with the blue stripe around the base - the Diakhaba to Kedougou van - chug on by. The chauffeur smiled and waved.

This picture has nothing to do with the story that was just told.

 Ning samo i bemba muta, nin xa tuwulengo jee, i siborana.
If the elephant eats your grandfather, when you see the termite's mound, you'll run away.

"Did you visit Cissokho today?" my cousin Soma asked me one night. It was after dinner and I was sitting around with him and my best friend, Fode. Cissokho was a traveling marabout, a fortune teller of sorts, constantly wandering the road between Kedougou and Diakhaba and beyond. He carried a walking stick and dressed in more layers of clothing than seemed needed. He was also one of my favorite non-village people, so I was happy to say that I had seen him that day. "Yes," Fode picked up where my cousin had left off, "but did he give you a gris-gris (a small leather pouch worn for protection)?" I shook my head no. "Oh no," Fode continued. "You're in trouble." Knowing Fode's playful sense of humor, I knew he was going to try and scare me. I was also resigned to letting myself be scared by this tag-team of mischief-makers. Soma this time: "You know, if you don't have a gris-gris to protect you, a sorcerer is going to transform into a cat and enter your room tonight and eat you." I was about to respond when something distracted the three of us. It was a cat, skulking quietly out of my room.

Sisse dingo men se yele a naa koto men xa kan xa kee dungungo ti, woo se lon cabrina i naa i le te lun menna.
The chick destined to become a cock still rides around on its mom's back when it's a baby.

Toure was from Bamako, where he lived with his two wives. He often had to take leave of his family, though, due to his job. Toure was a truck driver, transporting gas from Bamako to Dakar, which then would be shipped to other parts of the world. He also came from a marabout family and so, on the eve before a long departure, he would read his own fortune in a series of intricate marks on paper, to know what to expect on the road ahead. On this one particular evening, Toure saw in his fortune that he would be spending some time on the road with a toubab (foreigner). So it came as no surprise to him to find me on the side of the road, somewhere outside of Tambacounda, trying to hitch a ride. Toure was affable, he was friendly and generous. His apprentice in the passenger seat had a small propane gas stove between his feet that he used to make tea for us. The ride was a long one - I was going from one friend's village a ways outside of Tambacounda to another friend's village somewhere near Kaolack. Toure refused to accept money for the ride, and even insisted on paying for my meals along the way. "This is how we do it, where I'm from," he explained. "You're my guest. I'm sure if I went to America, you'd do the same."

In which it was foretold that I would catch a ride with Toure that day.

Jio gando fula, woo me nyokona sumaya.
If two cups are full of hot water, they can't cool each other down.

It was going to be a hot day, I could tell, so I set off early for the village next door to mine. It was a cute little village, made up of eight compounds. I had to meet with the local health care worker and, while there, I hoped to enlist the local school teacher's help in recording some proverbs for a radio show I was going to do. But Lasanna, the teacher, was hesitant to help me, explaining that proverbs were the domain of the keba. "Sit under this tree," he instructed. "I'll be right back." I sat under the tree, looking out at the village. A few women were gathered, pounding shea seeds into oil. Another group of women formed a line from the water pump, carrying buckets of water on their heads. And in the middle of the village, a broken-down car, left by a group of Guineans who had come to the area in search of gold. The village had re-purposed the car as a gathering place, as it made for a good bench. Then, from the fields across the road, I saw a group of kebas, with farming tools slung over their shoulders, walking towards me. As they got closer, I could start to make out their conversation - they were already arguing over which proverbs were the most important for my radio show. The sun shone brightly as I pulled the recorder out of my bag.

Real kebas wear kuufies.