10/5/05

Liva shows me a receipt he has in his pocket...

"Received: 16,000 FCFA by Livana Dounplata, Registration Fee, October 4th, 2005." It's from the private middle school at the Lutheran theological seminary next door, the most expensive (and highest quality) school in Gounou-Gaya, aside from the private girls' elementary/middle school where Tanga and Ka-Idi are going.

"Where'd you get the money for this?" I ask him.

"I've been saving it from the money you've paid me," he says. Liva does my laundry, 75 FCFA apiece– that's a lot of laundry to reach 16,000. Assuming he saved everything I've paid him, it'd take at least three or four months to get enough together to cover registration– I'm impressed.

"I still need to pay for the uniform, and I wanted to ask you if you could loan me the money," he says.

"How much is it?" I ask, trying to sound noncommittal– it can't be that much, but I want to make sure before I agree.

"Six thousand Francs," he says, roughly $12– I can do that.

"That's fine," I say. "Come to my house later, and we'll get it taken care of." I don't normally like to lend money, except in special situations and to people I trust. Although we've had problems in the past, and I'm still cautious around him, Liva has done a lot to earn my confidence over the past few months. If he's made the effort to pay his own way at the most expensive school open to him in town, helping him buy the uniform certainly seems like a worthy cause to me.

Despite the odds, some people here really do seem to have a desire to succeed, to do something more with their lives than farming peanuts and cotton. Liva strikes me as one of them. If he didn't care about his future, would he spend three month's earnings on school fees, and another month's wages on a uniform? I doubt it. When you consider that Dounplata, his father, could certainly pay for it, but refuses and has chosen to abandon him and his brothers, it's all the more impressive.

I can't help but draw a comparison with Ertchey, whose highest priority usually seems to be his next bowlful of bili-bili, and who immediately wastes any money he earns. After hauling water for me the other day, he comes to talk with me.

"So, what's up with your lanterns?" He asks.

"What do you mean, 'what's up with them?'" I respond, immediately feeling suspicious.

"Well, you'd said before that since you have two, you might give me one," he continues. That's a lie- I never said anything of the sort, and I've already had problems with Liva asking me for it.

"Ertchey, I never said that," I say, trying not to sound irritated.

"Maybe you don't remember," he says.

"No, Ertchey, I didn't say that, and I didn't forget," I say, making no attempt any longer to hide my annoyance. He can see that this isn't getting him anywhere, so he tries a different angle.

"Well, maybe I could borrow one sometimes at night to study? I'll buy my own kerosene for it," he suggests.

"We'll see, maybe once in awhile," I tell him. "I'd prefer that you buy your own lantern though."

"But maybe a few times though?" he asks hopefully.

"Maybe. I pay you to haul water for me, so you could save up and buy one."

"They're expensive though– a small one is 1500 Francs."

"I pay you more than that every month," I say. "You can afford it, as long as you don't waste your money."

"I guess," he says gloomily, and trudges out of the hangar. I know he could use a lantern, but it's not my responsibility to buy one for him, or give him one of mine. I may be able to help him though.

The next day, I ask him if he'd be willing to do a small project for me– my two canaries, the big reddish-black clay pots I use to keep water bottles cool and as a primitive fridge need cleaning. It's a nasty job, and I'd just as soon pay someone else to do it.

"I'll pay you 550 Francs to wash these," I tell him. He quickly agrees– with that money, he'd already be more than 1/3 of the way to his new lantern. He washes, rinses, and refills each of the two pots, and I hand him the money, which he quickly pockets and heads off.
Later that evening I'm finishing dinner, and Ertchey comes by to collect the buckets and haul water from the pump. I notice he's wearing a new gold-colored piece of plastic costume jewelry, an eagle with a blue rhinestone eye.

"Look," he says, smiling. "I used the money you gave me and bought this," showing off the necklace proudly. "I got this too." He shows me a keychain, a tiny replica of an American $20 bill encased in clear plastic. I don't tell him what I'm really thinking, but simply smile and nod. I think of Liva, and his planning three months in advance– I guess the cliché really is true– a fool and his money are soon parted.

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