This woman was older, but not too much older, than the other women in the market. She was beautiful in a non-traditional way: her eyebrows tattooed on with greeny –black dye, and forehead marked with designs in the same ink. Her voice was commanding, and she was speaking to me.
“Va.” She said as she waved her hand in the air. She’s speaking Ewe I reminded myself.
“Va? Come?” I said. And I did. I stood in front of her mesmerized by the fluid movement of the deep lines in her face. She said something else, the wrinkles wrippled, I heard the word konan. She must be asking my name I thought.
“Unkonane Adjo.” I said. Her lips parted, the lines on her face moved upwards in a brief moment of togetherness, a smile. She spoke again, pointed down the market row, and I told her the names of each of the other girls I was with. I repeated the names until she could say them, and corrected my name to Adjovie (little one born on Monday) when I recognized one of the girls was also born on Monday (and is older than me). She loved this correction, and chuckled. And then she said
“Unknonane Bockboa.” I practiced saying it, and struggled with the pronounciation. That was it. The others were walking away, I waved to her, and turned to leave. Bockboa turned to the woman beside her, and I overheard her say “il faut y aller pour-“.
I swivelled on my heel. “You speak French?!” The past few minutes of struggling through conversation, the way in which I’d marvelled at the simplicity and beauty of that moment in the market when there was no common languge, it all went swirling around in my head as she smiled again.
“Well, a little.” She said.
“Me too, a little.” I replied.
“I used to lived in Cote d’Ivoire.” She told me.
“I used to live in Burkina Faso.” I said. She let out a loud cry.
“Burkina? Oh, oh.” She said. She was nodding vigorously. “My husband is from there. Those countries are so close.”
I smiled. “It’s so nice to meet you Bockboa.”
“See you tomorrow.” She said.
As I left the market each vendor (not that there were many) turned to me, and whispered ‘goodbye adjo’. Some spoke to me in Ewe, others in French. A few shook my hand.
And I marvelled at this world we live in. I can’t explain it, except to tell you it’s beautiful. And we’re all a lot more alike than we are different.
“Va.” She said as she waved her hand in the air. She’s speaking Ewe I reminded myself.
“Va? Come?” I said. And I did. I stood in front of her mesmerized by the fluid movement of the deep lines in her face. She said something else, the wrinkles wrippled, I heard the word konan. She must be asking my name I thought.
“Unkonane Adjo.” I said. Her lips parted, the lines on her face moved upwards in a brief moment of togetherness, a smile. She spoke again, pointed down the market row, and I told her the names of each of the other girls I was with. I repeated the names until she could say them, and corrected my name to Adjovie (little one born on Monday) when I recognized one of the girls was also born on Monday (and is older than me). She loved this correction, and chuckled. And then she said
“Unknonane Bockboa.” I practiced saying it, and struggled with the pronounciation. That was it. The others were walking away, I waved to her, and turned to leave. Bockboa turned to the woman beside her, and I overheard her say “il faut y aller pour-“.
I swivelled on my heel. “You speak French?!” The past few minutes of struggling through conversation, the way in which I’d marvelled at the simplicity and beauty of that moment in the market when there was no common languge, it all went swirling around in my head as she smiled again.
“Well, a little.” She said.
“Me too, a little.” I replied.
“I used to lived in Cote d’Ivoire.” She told me.
“I used to live in Burkina Faso.” I said. She let out a loud cry.
“Burkina? Oh, oh.” She said. She was nodding vigorously. “My husband is from there. Those countries are so close.”
I smiled. “It’s so nice to meet you Bockboa.”
“See you tomorrow.” She said.
As I left the market each vendor (not that there were many) turned to me, and whispered ‘goodbye adjo’. Some spoke to me in Ewe, others in French. A few shook my hand.
And I marvelled at this world we live in. I can’t explain it, except to tell you it’s beautiful. And we’re all a lot more alike than we are different.
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