Story request by Rimma Ayzen.
After seven years, this is what I remember. Changes may be made later, but for now:
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I lived with an old Persian couple in Niamey, Niger for a year before college. Everyone calls them Maman and Baba, even government officials when they call the house will ask, “Is Maman there?”
They have been in West Africa for the better part of their lives. They came with another family back before the internet and any real knowledge of Africa could reach their homes in the Middle East. Two women and their children left Iran while the husbands stayed home to take care of business.
They did not speak French, Hausa, Djerma, or any of the local languages. The other mother, Maman’s friend, now lives in the Cote d’Ivoire and came for a visit while I was in Niamey.
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She told me that when they first saw the Tuareg riding their camels down the street, wrapped in turbans and prepared for desert treks, they speculated that they were special police, some clandestine branch of the military or something. In reality, they were just nomadic herdsmen carrying on with the quotidian routine.
Between the two families there were perhaps five children. One of the youngest contracted malaria, and before they could figure out how to reach a doctor or what was going on he passed away. He was five years old.
As far as I know, his mother never left West Africa. Someone once asked her why she didn’t just leave when she lost her son. She said, “I have given Africa my most precious gift, and I will never leave it.”
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