At 1:30am I awoke to a few raindrops on my face and arms. I am slowly learning to not react with anxiety to this situation. Every time it happens I am irritated for a slightly smaller period of time. I gathered my cell phone, head lamp, and shoes, pulled the four rip cords on each corner of my mosquito net, folded my mattress in half and carried it into my hut.
Five or so hours later I woke up and headed to the market to meet a few friends, after which we headed to David and Mark's house, otherwise known as Issa and Omar. We were told we would leave their house at 7:30am for a baby naming ceremony, a baptism of sorts. Along with Nigerien tradition we actually left at 8am and travelled as a group 400 meters across the road to David's first mother's relative's house, a veritable compound, with 20-30 mats rolled out all surrounded by chairs in a large square. There were already some very distinguished looking elderly men seated at on end of the square. We, the four men, were directed to sit next to them, which we did reluctantly. Soon thereafter we were directed to walk over to a room where the new baby was sequestered. Apparently only women typically go in and see or touch the baby, but our foreignor status cleared that cultural obstacle. The baby was very hairy, long, straight hair. After leaving the dark quarters of the women and baby, we sat again next to the older men. Here is where things got interesting. Being the first in the line of chairs that the distinguished gentlemen were occupying, we started shaking the hand of each new, well-dressed, elder entering the concession. When twenty or so people had come and twenty handshakes had been given, we were approached by the Chef de Canton, the traditional head of the village. We quickly stood up, shook his hand, and greeted him in Hausa. He responded in wonderful French. David and I looked at eachother and knew we should change chairs to sit with slightly less distinguished guests. We were consequently much more relaxed and comfortable. All the women were shuffled off into quite a small area near the baby, which must have been quite crowded.
Man, woman, and child shuffled in, some shaking our hands and exchanging greetings in Zarma, Hausa, and sometimes French. A pile of gifts started to grow in the middle of the square: bags of dates, bars of soap. A master of ceremonies was al the while spouting out phrase after phrase, pacing around the square religiously. I would catch and 'Allah' here and an 'Amin' there. Eventually he started repeating one phrase loudly and I suspected it was the announcement of the baby's name. I was unsure if this was the case and was deep in thought when the master of ceremonies snuck up on us and asked us for offerings for the new child. David, to my left, gave 1000CFA (2$) and I grabbed for my coins. As is scrambled in my pocket he waid something like "et les Francais...," thinking we were French. I gave him some coins and giggled, enjoying his misconception about our outrageous origins.
Soon things started to quiet down and the men were either laying their hands one on the other on their laps, facing upward, or holding them up, palms inward. It was a grand silent prayer. There was a wonderful silence and we couldn't help but give the child a small blessing of our own. Everyone was in their own head - in a box with God as it were. Soon after the prayer some dates were distributed and they were delicious, dried just enough to be chewy like sugary candy.
I learned quickly that in this culture, being in a chair means you have some sort of heirarchical respect, if only for being a man. Younger people always move and give up the chair, and women always give chairs up for the men as well. It is overwhelming at times and always thought-provoking.
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