Having spent Friday evening with a colleague who took me in her car to the big supermarket where they sell all sorts of stuff Western people like, and afterwards eating an Italian pizza, and having wasted my Saturday reading a book and taking a swim and not even stepping out of the gate once, I was starting to fear that I was going to surrender to expat life completely. Luckily, my friend Seydou came to the rescue, dragging me back into African reality.
Is it possible to feel nostalgic about Africa while living in Africa? Perhaps it is. Sometimes I feel I have ended up in a world which seems to have little to do with Africa. I see bits and pieces of it, but it’s like watching a movie: I see what I saw when I was in West Africa before, but I’m not part of it; it’s another world which exists next to mine.
Driving through Ouagadougou on the back of Seydou’s moped brought back Africa again. We drove on Ouaga’s red, unpaved streets, avoiding potholes filled with water, looking at the people selling all kinds of stuff along the street. We stopped somewhere along the road where, underneath a shelter, three guys where sitting. Apparently, they are from the same liberal party as Seydou. On the table, which was old and rusty, stood a bowl with meat, and the place was swamped with flies. No one seemed to mind terribly.
We all got into a car (I didn’t really understand why, but I trust Seydou and I was happy to be in some social activity with solely Burkinabé) and got out again at some dodgy nightclub. It was very large, with lots of seats and tables, and only a few customers, who every now and then tried to start up a conversation despite the loud music. I noticed that almost all customers where men; most of the women inside worked there. I felt a little bit underdressed, not having any golden jewellery, and wearing a conservative blouse and comfortable trousers, instead of vacuum-tight jeans and a tacky top, but I liked being there anyway. In between the Ivorian beats, I tried to interrogate Seydou about Burkinabé politics and Islamic faith. Despite speaking baby-French, I managed to show off my knowledge of their politics once more. I tried to ask where all the women where. As far as I understood the answer, they where cooking.
Then, we drove to the party office of ADF/RDA, which was not very impressive, but we did have an interesting exchange of ideas about what liberalism is. Afterwards, Seydou took me to his home, which is a tiny room inside some sort of compound. There were also families living there and everyone was very friendly to me, and flies were once more abundant. Normally, young people (which means anyone up to 35 and not married) will live with their parents, but Seydou is originally from Ivory Coast and his parents still live there, so he lives alone. Part of the neighbourhood was a shanty town, with no electricity, nor running water.
Having been dropped off at my house again, I looked into the mirror and saw that I looked ridiculous: my face was covered in dust. For a moment, I felt pleased to have been stepping out of my disturbingly clean, cool, safe little world. Then, I washed off the dust, went to the Western-style supermarket once more, took a serious swim in my pool, ate some Dutch pancakes and sat in my chamber extérieure, typing on my laptop, well-protected from flies, or mosquitoes, or anything else that might be considered too much to bear for “our sort of people”.
Is it possible to feel nostalgic about Africa while living in Africa? Perhaps it is. Sometimes I feel I have ended up in a world which seems to have little to do with Africa. I see bits and pieces of it, but it’s like watching a movie: I see what I saw when I was in West Africa before, but I’m not part of it; it’s another world which exists next to mine.
Driving through Ouagadougou on the back of Seydou’s moped brought back Africa again. We drove on Ouaga’s red, unpaved streets, avoiding potholes filled with water, looking at the people selling all kinds of stuff along the street. We stopped somewhere along the road where, underneath a shelter, three guys where sitting. Apparently, they are from the same liberal party as Seydou. On the table, which was old and rusty, stood a bowl with meat, and the place was swamped with flies. No one seemed to mind terribly.
We all got into a car (I didn’t really understand why, but I trust Seydou and I was happy to be in some social activity with solely Burkinabé) and got out again at some dodgy nightclub. It was very large, with lots of seats and tables, and only a few customers, who every now and then tried to start up a conversation despite the loud music. I noticed that almost all customers where men; most of the women inside worked there. I felt a little bit underdressed, not having any golden jewellery, and wearing a conservative blouse and comfortable trousers, instead of vacuum-tight jeans and a tacky top, but I liked being there anyway. In between the Ivorian beats, I tried to interrogate Seydou about Burkinabé politics and Islamic faith. Despite speaking baby-French, I managed to show off my knowledge of their politics once more. I tried to ask where all the women where. As far as I understood the answer, they where cooking.
Then, we drove to the party office of ADF/RDA, which was not very impressive, but we did have an interesting exchange of ideas about what liberalism is. Afterwards, Seydou took me to his home, which is a tiny room inside some sort of compound. There were also families living there and everyone was very friendly to me, and flies were once more abundant. Normally, young people (which means anyone up to 35 and not married) will live with their parents, but Seydou is originally from Ivory Coast and his parents still live there, so he lives alone. Part of the neighbourhood was a shanty town, with no electricity, nor running water.
Having been dropped off at my house again, I looked into the mirror and saw that I looked ridiculous: my face was covered in dust. For a moment, I felt pleased to have been stepping out of my disturbingly clean, cool, safe little world. Then, I washed off the dust, went to the Western-style supermarket once more, took a serious swim in my pool, ate some Dutch pancakes and sat in my chamber extérieure, typing on my laptop, well-protected from flies, or mosquitoes, or anything else that might be considered too much to bear for “our sort of people”.
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