 In
the early sixties Togo, West Africa, had very few modern conveniences.
The capital, Lomé, could boast only one paved road and was
one of the only two towns in the country that had electricity. Togo
is only 45 miles wide and 165 miles long. I lived in the town of
Dapango, the largest town in northern Togo with a population of
several hundred. Dapango had one small general store where you could
buy flour, sugar, millet, powdered milk, soap and a few other basics.
There was an open-air market that offered a limited selection of
produce, goat meat, and live poultry. Cooking one of the senior
chickens required at least an hour in a pressure cooker.
One day while doing a little exploring I lost my bearings. I was
no longer sure whether east or west would take me home. I needed
to find a village and get some directions. Twenty minutes later
I spotted a distant grouping of round mud houses with thatched roofs
about a hundred yards off the trail I was following. I drove the
jeep towards the village, following a narrow walking path. Word
had spread of my coming and a group of villagers gathered to greet
me. The children sang the old chant used by Togolese children to
mock the French colonists from whom the Togolese had so recently
won their independence: “Yo vo, Yo vo, bon jour, ca va bien,
merci.”
In English we greet someone with “how are you?” with
only the expectation that they will respond “fine, how are
you?”, and not actually tell you how they are. It is expected
you will respond “fine.” This was all-too time consuming
for the French colonists who preferred to move things along by not
waiting for your “fine, how are you?” Favoring to jump
ahead to the final “fine”. The Togolese, not so pressed
for time, found this very funny and if they spotted a yo vo, they
never failed to sing their chant: “white man, white man, good
day, how are you, fine.”
There seemed to be some disagreement over the exact direction one
should go in order to find Dapango, until the village chief arrived.
With great authority he pointed due west. Immediately everyone in
the crowd pointed due west, myself included.
The chief’s name was Kofi Kongo, and he invited me to a glass
of Chakpalo. Chakpalo is a palm wine and a close relative of the
Mexican drink pulque, at least in consistency. We settled into two
old wooden chairs in the shade, sipping the palm wine and talking
in French, Eve and German. Kofi Kongo had learned his German before
World War II when Togo was a German colony. I had learned mine from
old German U-boat movies. My French was—is—bad and I
had mastered about fifty words in Eve. Never the less we managed
to discuss goats, crops, Elvis Presley and what assholes the Tuaregs
were.
I never actually knew a Tuareg. They would come from the north to
trade in the Dapango market, proud with the knowledge they had once
ruled this land. After the 1960 coup de etat the Tuaregs were told
to stack their rifles in Dapango while they were in Togo. They galloped
into town and roared to the police station where they placed their
weapons on the ground. When they were ready to leave Togo they retrieved
their rifles at an even faster pace than they had relinquished them.
Tuaregs were handsome people, especially on horseback.
I was told that Tuaregs kept slaves and that a slave could earn
their freedom by standing motionless one hundred yards distance
from a battle line of mounted Tuareg warriors. Armed with lances,
the Tuaregs would charge at the slave screaming battle cries. The
purpose of this charge was two-fold: Part one is to scare the shit
out of you so that you will run away and therefore remain a slave.
Part two’s goal was target practice, getting the spear as
close as possible without killing the valuable slave. If you stood
still, didn’t run away and the Tuareg missed, you were set
free. Even if this was not true, imagine someone making it up about
you. I never did ask Kofi Kongo what his particular objection was
to the Tuaregs.
The crowd had gathered a few more people and they all sat in a half
circle a respectful distance away. At one point in the conversation
the chief leaned in close, our heads nearly touching. “Is
it true,” he asked in a soft voice, “that white men
put their mouths on the genitals of women?” A silence hung
in the air for a moment, and then quietly, I admitted that this
was true. Kofi Kongo sat back in his chair expelling a long whistling
breath. He sat in silence a while contemplating the nature of the
white man. Then he leaned back in and asked if I had ever done such
a thing. I lied and said I had not.
As we finished our Chakpalo, we both threw the dregs that had settled
to the bottom of our glasses onto the ground. I listened carefully
for Kofi Kongo to mutter the names of his ancestors but no luck.
Jean Pierre, a university student, had once told me that when finishing
your Chakpalo you should mention the names of your ancestors as
you toss out the remaining sludge onto the earth, as a gesture of
respect to your thirsty predecessors. Sadly, I had no ancestors
that could appreciate a shot of Chakpalo sludge. So I asked Kofi
Kongo if this is why he spilled the last bit of his Chakpalo onto
the ground, to which he replied, “No, I just don’t want
to drink that awful crap at the bottom.”
Kofi Kongo stood up and motioned for me to follow him. The crowd,
sensing something important was about to happen, followed us in
a loose procession, the kids running up ahead, then doubling back,
then running ahead again. We walked amongst the round mud huts,
each with one small window equipped with a wooden shutter. For the
Togolese indoors was indoors and outdoors was outdoors.
Americans, generally speaking, like big windows so as to see and
appreciate the outdoors while we are indoors. When we are outdoors
we like to bring some indoors with us: a deck, a roof, lights, furniture,
and maybe even a stereo. When the Togolese are indoors, there is
no evidence of outdoors. When they are outdoors, they cannot see
into their house. The two worlds, indoor and outdoor, are separate.
When we arrived at Kofi Kongo’s quarters the only evidence
of his status was that his mud house was much larger than the others.
Kofi stood to one side and motioned for me to enter his home. I
stooped and stepped through the doorway. It was cool inside, refreshing
and dark. The small window was open, and like a track light, it
lit the treasure Kofi Kongo had wanted me to see, sitting like throne
in the center of the room. I was startled and confused. I wanted
to get a closer look but was reluctant to walk in my boots on the
mats and rugs that cushioned Kofi Kongo’s hard packed dirt
floor. As if reading my thoughts the chief put his hand in the small
of my back and urged me forward.
I approached slowly, hearing the theme music to “2001: A Space
Odyssey” in my head. I saw the apes at the monolith. I reached
out and touched its smooth white surface. It was the biggest, most
modern refrigerator I had ever seen. It was a Kenmore. Its black
electric cord was coiled neatly to one side.
“Are you going to get a generator?” I asked.
“No,” he answered. “No gas here, no cars.”
He used the old French word for car, chariot.
“But someday,” he explained, “there will be electricity
in this village, and when there is, I will be ready.”
*****
A boy in the 1950’s, if he had any self-esteem at all, had
to carry a condom in his wallet. It would go in the corner part
of his wallet that held his folding money. The wallet was carried
in his back pocket. His usual routine of sitting in class, sitting
with his friends in his bedroom or their favorite pizza place, sitting
doing homework (maybe), sitting in a car while cruising the strip,
and sitting watching television, basically guaranteed that the concealed
prophylactic would make a clear impression of itself on the outside
surface of the wallet. When he whipped his wallet out of his back
pocket in a manly and confident fashion to pay for his pizza at
the counter, the girl at the cash register would know just how hot
he was, hot and ready for action.
Of course it was the 50’s, and there wasn’t much action
of that type to be found. Fear of pregnancy and the scorn of her
classmates, who would mark her as a slut, made going all the way
too risky for the average high school girl. As the condom dried
and cracked, resting unused in the corner of his wallet, it became
something of an icon, its original meaning of little import.
The boys would never lose faith. They would spend many hours imagining
the day they would use that condom. Although not yet named as such,
this was New Age visualization at its most intense, and absolute
proof that it doesn’t work. Undaunted however, they never
threw away that condom. Like Kofi Kongo, they knew that someday
electricity would come.
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