While I’m glad to be back in village again, I was greeted today by the saddest smiles by the people I care about most.
“J’ai perdu mon papa.”
I received this text message from my friend Olivier the other day while
I was out drinking chocolate milkshakes in Yaoundé.
Dealing with death is difficult and awkward enough in English, I had no idea what to say in French. Luckily, due to a horrible cellphone connection, I was saved from trying to be sympathetic with my pathetic french skills, and instead I carefully
constructed a text message letting him know I was thinking of him and his
family.
Olivier’s family is my
family here in Sanguéré-Paul. His
mom, Tabitha, gives me a gigantic bear hug every time I return from a trip. His sister, Christine, frequently comes over for hot
cocoa or invites me over for tea. His
little brothers Jamamu and Jamtu hang out and draw pictures in my living room while I work or read. Jonas and I are in
never-ending tickle fight. Even baby John (the youngest at a year and a
half), will waddle over and greet me with a smile. Oli’s paternal grandparents are my neighbors,
and his uncle, Raymond, is my landlord.
In less than five months, this family has become my family. I could be 100% down in the dumps and know
that if I just walk two minutes down that dirt path, I will be greeted by smiles
and kindness that will literally make me forget that there are any troubles in the world, let alone my own life. We’ll cook together, eat together, lie around
and stargaze, and exchange stories until finally someone has to walk me home,
guided by the flashlight on my cellphone.
Heck, sometimes my visits involve me simply sitting on a bench while
Tabitha bounces John on her knee. Even then, I’ll leave with a smile on my
face, guaranteed.
I never met Oli’s father, Michel. He was in prison throughout my entire
service, and from what I’ve heard, for most of the past several years. Over the past few months, he has been nothing
but a burden on the family. There are
days when Tabitha can’t even afford to feed her own children yet once a week,
they have to find a way to send food to the prison for Michel to eat. Tabitha and Olivier struggled to pay
for various tests and medications that they cant afford as Michel’s condition
worsened (with what was diagnosed as tuberculosis and asthma).
When Oli told me that he lost his father, sure, I was
sympathetic. But honestly? I felt relieved. While being sad for the family, I felt
relieved that Tabitha would no longer have this economic burden of her jailbird
husband. I felt relieved to know that
the next time he is released from prison, he will not be able to beat her, as
Oli informed me was the norm. To me, it
seemed that while tragic, Michel’s passing would help Oli and Tabitha in the
long run. This death would not only
relieve Michel of his suffering, but relieve his family from theirs as well.
It was only today upon my return that I learned the true extent
of the consequences of Michel’s death.
Tabitha’s family is about to be split apart. Now a widow, it will be even more complicated
for Tabitha to provide for her children.
Having no blood-relatives aside from her children, she no longer has
ties to Sanguéré-Paul. Her
late-husband’s family will no longer play a role in her own life, though her
children will be divided amongst them all.
After this semester of school, Christine will be sent to live with her
aunt in Chad, Olivier and Jamamu will move to Garoua to live with their uncle, Jamtu
will stay here in Sanguéré-Paul with the grandparents, and Tabitha will take
her two youngest, Jonas and John, to her own family’s village: Kaelly in the
Extreme North. This is not to forget the one younger daughter
who is already living with some other relative, this daughter I have never met
and is rarely mentioned.
My landlord informed me of all this and I nearly started crying. He does not seem too upset by the
death of his own brother, but rather worried about what will happen to all of the
children. Being Michel’s only brother,
it’s culturally his responsibility to take care of all of the children left
behind. Raymond already has nine kids of
his own. He simply cannot afford to take
care of another six. Yet the children
staying here with nobody to support them in school, and the mother staying here
with no familial or financial support – it just won’t do anybody any good.
I was incredibly naïve as to think the death of a jailbird
wife-beater could be a relief to a family.
Life is different here. Family
ties are crucial. The death of a father
breaks down these family ties, and potentially uproots the entire family.
Olivier did not just lose his father. Tabitha did not just lose her husband. They are all about to lose each other, and
I’m about to lose them all. My heart is
broken over the fact that my closest friends, my Cameroonian family, is being torn apart. Though I will not be able to visit Tabitha,
John, and Jonas in the Extreme North, I will be able to visit Olivier and
Jamamu often in Garoua, and I will most definitely continue to have coloring sessions with
Jamtu and be sure to spoil him with all of the best care-package candy. However, the day that Tabitha leaves and the
day that Christine gets sent away: those
are not days I am looking forward to.
Until then, all I can do is show my gratitude for the kindness this
family has shown me and cherish my daily visits, stargazing, and story
exchanges, even if it’s all accompanied this time with somber smiles.
