Insh'Allah

From my salon, I saw Dadda Abbo and her daughter Radjao picking mangoes at about four in the afternoon. Dadda Abbo had a bamboo pole that she was using to dislodge the mangoes that were out of her reach, and Radjao was collecting them in a plastic bowl atop her head. I walked out to greet them.

"Bendi na?" I asked in Fulfulde, since Dadda Abbo speaks no French. Are they ripe?

For reasons that have never been explained to me, Radjao, who is perhaps ten years old, is already proficient in basic English, and since my ability to speak Fulfulde is still limited, I speak to her far more than I do to her mother. "Yes," she said. "Take them." I took one, then another, but she wasn't satisfied until I had four plump yellow-red mangoes arranged in a pyramid in my hand. I thanked her profusely, exchanged the typical greetings with her mother, and returned to my house, where I sat at the dining table and read, savoring my newly found freedom after the end of classes.

Radjao passed by the house again about two hours later, just as the sun was beginning to set. Her little sister, Nenne, was loaded on her back. Her eyes were red and her faced had fallen. "My big brother has just died," she said.

My mouth dropped open. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

For a moment, we stood looking at each other, not sure what to say. "Goodbye," she said forcefully, and began walking toward Diddi's house.

Diddi arrived at my door a few minutes later covered in a veil and, still unsure of what had happened, we went together to Dadda Abbo's house, which is just behind mine. Her husband and children were crying outside and I could hear cries coming from within. I peer inside the house, unsure if it would be impolite to enter. "Nastu," her husband said. Enter.

Inside the main room that also served as the bedroom, Dadda Abbo and another woman were holding each other and crying. Another woman was seating on the floor, emitting a small "eee" has she rocked back and forth. Because there was no light, it took me a moment to realize that it was Diddi.

Other women arrived, some alone, some in pairs or small groups. Each went to Dadda Abbo, took her hands, and immediately starting crying, some trembling, some falling to the floor, some crying out. Each time, I could see another wave of grief come over Dadda Abbo, and her tears would begin anew as she repeated, "Kai, Allah am." No, my God. For a moment, I was angry at the other women, convinced that they were insincere and overdramatizing, but Dadda Abbo's grief was real, and if these women allowed her to express it more openly, I couldn't fault them.

At one point there were about a dozen of us in the room, only illuminated by a flashlight. The ritual repeated, the crying recommenced, and I finally gave in. I pulled my knees up to my chin, covered my face with my veil, and silently wept at my own inefficacy. I came here with the idealistic and naive hope that I could help the people of one village, but the mothers of this village still have to bury their children. I have accomplished nothing.

We had been there for perhaps an hour when Diddi returned home to pray, but I stayed on the floor, unsure of protocol or how long was appropriate for me to stay. Those in the room discussed the young man's death in Fulfulde, but I was able to catch the words and "chauffeur" and "accident."

A small old man sitting in the corner responded only with "Insh'Allah." If it is God's will.

Following another woman, I said goodbye to Dadda Abbo and returned home long after the sun had set. I met Diddi at the fence that separates our houses.

"So it was a car accident?" I asked quietly, not wanting my voice to carry to the mourners.

"He was in a car and was in an accident with a semi," she said.

For the second time that day, I didn't know what to say. Diddi made her way back to Dadda Abbo's.

"Please," I said, and she turned back to face me. "Tell her that I'm sorry. I don't know how."