10/14/05

As I step outside into the hangar around 7:30, I hear Ka-Idi yelling. That's hardly unusual; she, Tanga, and Hophyra (one-and-a-half year old Dakassia is still too young) spent most of every day (and night) running around, screaming, and beating up on each other, like little kids everywhere, I suppose. Alternatively, Marc or Valaddi could be beating her, another regular feature of most days. As I push aside the farfar, the curtain-like door of twigs, I can hear (and see) what's going on. Ka-Idi is holding onto Marc's chair, jumping up and down, and singing.

"Frère Jacques/ Frère Jacques/ Dormez-Vous? Dormez-Vous?" She sings. Each time she gets to vous, she practically screams it, making it sound like 'dorMEZ VOO!!' 'dorMEZ VOO!!!' Marc sits and watches smiling, Tanga on the bench next to him.

Watching him interact with his daughters can be so confusing– at times, the cruel, typically Chadian male comes out, ready to beat and abuse at the slightest provocation. Other times, Marc can be loving and affectionate, playing with his little girls in a way I've never seen most parents behave here. I recently learned that Marc was raised from early childhood by Mrs. Duncanson, the wife of the first American missionary to come to Gounou-Gaya, alongside her own sons– he still refers to her as his mother. I'm not trying to suggest that all Americans are model parents, but in general I think we probably have a better way of bringing up kids, and watching Marc interact in a very non-Chadian way with his daughters, I have a good idea where he gets it from. Tonight, the good Marc is out, reviewing lessons with Tanga and Ka-Idi. While Ka-Idi sings/howls Frère Jacques, Marc helps Tanga copy the ABC's on her little hand-held chalkboard. He takes the piece of chalk, and writes a neat cursive 'a.' Tanga copies below him, and Marc writes 'b' next to it– Tanga copies again. They continue till 'e,' when Marc says "very good," and erases the slate.

"Now you do it yourself," he tells Tanga. She painstakingly writes, 'a...b...c...d...e..." on the board- Marc looks.

"Excellent work!" He says– the girls are just beginning to learn to speak and understand French, and for their nightly review sessions, Marc speaks almost entirely en français, the better to help them learn. I watch them, not saying anything, amazed that this is the same man who beat Tanga a few weeks ago when she couldn't remember the letter 'l.' Ka-Idi has stopped singing now, and stands holding onto the arm of Marc's chair.

"Ka-Idi, tu viens," he says, gesturing at the bench where Tanga is already sitting. Come here. She hops over, and sits down next to her sister.

"Stand up!" Marc says.

"Je me lève," Tanga and Ka-Idi say. "I stand up."

"Sit down!" Marc tells them.

"Je m'assieds," they chant in unison. I sit down.

"Regardez au tableau," he says, pointing to an imaginary chalkboard. Look at the board.

"Je regarde au tableau," the girls repeat. I'm looking at the chalkboard.

"Stand up!" Marc says. Saying "Je me lève," the girls obey.

"Now, we're going to work on counting. Go and get some rocks," he tells them. They race off to the pile of gravel, left over from the house Marc just finished. While they're gone, he turns to me.

"They're really doing well," he says. "Tanga is learning very quickly. Ka-Idi just started school this year, and look at how fast she's remembering things." I just smile.

"I'm really glad to see it," I say.

The girls come racing back, each with a handful of pebbles. They drop them on the ground in front of Marc.

"OK, one rock, two rocks, three rocks, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," he says, dropping the pebbles in a row. "Now, you do it. If you do it right, I'll give you some lemonade," he says, pointing at the cup on his table. Tanga goes first.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten," she counts.

"Good!" Marc says, offering her the cup. "Now you do it, Ka-Idi," he says. She does it perfectly, like her sister before– Marc hands her the cup.

"This is Papa's cup," he says, chuckling. "And nobody else's. But you did very well, so you can have some lemonade."

When they finish drinking, Marc looks at them. "Sit down!" He says.

"Je m'assieds," they repeat faithfully, sitting on the bench.

"Regardez le tableau," he says. "Je regarde au tableau," they respond.

"J'écoute le maître," he says. I listen to the teacher. They repeat.

"Comment t'appelles-tu?" Marc asks Tanga. What is your name?

"Je m'appelle Tanga," she says. My name is Tanga.

"Comment il s'appelle?" He asks, pointing at me.

"Il s'appelle Nah-than-yel," Tanga says. His name is Nathaniel.

I decide to get into the act. "Comment elle s'appelle?" I ask Ka-Idi, pointing at her sister.

"Elle s'appelle Tanga" she says.

"Comment je m'appelle?" Marc asks her. What's my name?

"Tu t'appelles Papa," Ka-Idi responds. Marc laughs.

"OK, that's enough for tonight," he says. The girls run over to the hangar, where Valaddi is waiting, boule at the ready. While the girls eat, Marc and I chat- he tries to find Radio Tchad while we talk, but only gets static. Eventually he gives up, and we sit silently in the moonlight. A hair-curling scream suddenly pierces the tranquility– it's Hophyra, who's rolling around on the mat, clutching her right ear and wailing.

"Neeemeh-Du?" Marc yells, running over to her. What is it? She keeps screaming; Tanga says something to him.

"She has an ant in her ear," Marc says, and sprints off to the house. Hophyra cries, terrified. I've come over to see if I can help at all– Marc runs out of the house carrying a needle-less syringe, and a sakhan (water pitcher). He pours water into his hand, sucks it into the syringe, and jams it (as gently as possible) into Hophyra's ear. He presses the plunger, and water runs out her ear and down her neck– she's still screaming, and clutching it. I grab her arm and hold it down– she squirms and tries to pull away, but I'm far stronger, obviously.
"Merci," Marc says. He fills the syringe again and again, emptying the contents into the side of her head– on the third try, I see a tiny black speck pour out.

"Voila!" says Marc. He hugs Hophyra, whose screams have turned into hoarse sobs. A few minutes later she's calmed down, and Marc goes to put the syringe away. It's 8:30, bedtime in Chad, and after saying goodnight to Marc, I turn to head back to my house.

"Thanks for your help," he says.

"No problem," I reply, walking away. For all his faults, it's obvious that he really loves his daughters– he may not always express it, but it's there, and that's what matters.

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