Beni truths

A few truths gleaned from daily life in Beni

It’s a good morning every day.  If you’re white and walk anywhere around Beni’s neighborhoods, you’ll be greeted “Goodt mawhrning!” and “How are you?” (with a distinct and sudden rise in the voice at you). All the kids in Beni know the first lesson in the school’s English curriculum, "Everyday greetings." Even if they are too young to be in school. It doesn’t matter whether it’s 6am, 12 noon, or 6pm. Every child between the age of 2 and 12 will holler out from across the road, “Goodt mawhrning! How are you?” Some afternoons I go through my little American tantrum and respond, “Good afternoon,” or “Good evening.” But it’s a futile exercise. The first lesson in any foreign language curriculum is greetings. And besides, what’s so bad about being reminded that regardless of the time of day or my own sassy irritation, that it really is a “Goodt mawhrning” for someone?

Out of peanut butter this morning!

The first piece of bread from the loaf really is the best. Even if it’s bread made that morning and bought in the Matonge Market at noon. 

If you think you know how your day is going to go, you don’t really. At 9am this past Monday I was named “deputy Rector” for a day, or two, or maybe three? With three members of the Management Committee out of the country (doing Ph.D. work) and the Rector out of town for a couple of days, I suddenly found myself with the responsibility of “keeping things going, administratively.” Surprise!

Preparation? No. Previous experience in higher education administration? No. Command of the French language? Definitely, NO. Full understanding of the policies, protocols, and procedures of running a Congolese university? No. Dressed appropriately for the role? No (at least not on Monday—it was “casual dress day” out of my closet, sleeveless shirt and skirt barely below the knees). Prepared to greet a visiting delegation from a Congolese NGO (whose name I still don’t know)? No. “Ja’m appelle Mary? Vous-appelez vous?” Thankfully, Kizito, master of all things PR, carried the conversation. (I wouldn’t blame him for something like, “Yes, please smile and be gracious to Mama Mary. She’s doing the best she can. She’s a pathetic representation of a Rector, but it’s all we’ve got today. Come back next week and you’ll meet the real thing.”)

But the buildings are still standing. No one has resigned. Students have been coming to class. And my UCBC colleagues have rolled with this punch, filled in the gaps of my ignorance, and laughed right along with me.

Best fries in the world

There’s nothing so bad that Gabby’s peanut butter or Mama Furaha’s fries can’t fix. I didn’t grow up in a family that depended on food for comfort. Why is it, though, when I’m stressed, fatigued, frustrated, sad, worried, _____ (yes, fill in the blank), I go to food? And here in Beni, it’s Gabby’s peanut butter, ground by hand from fresh peanuts (locally grown and organic) or Mama’s frites, hot and fresh out of the oil, crispy, golden and oh-so-perfect.

Just one of many

Goats are God’s good humor. How can you not smile at a goat or three or more? These wide-eyed, stiff-legged bumblers are Beni's dandelions. They show up everywhere they belong and don’t. And where yesterday day there were three, tomorrow there will be five new ones. You're supposed to hold them in some disdain and ignore them (or in the case of dandelions, pull them out). But, truth be told, goats are curious little critters in all color combinations--speckled black and white, brown with black markings, grey and dappled. Four-month-old kids butt heads in a show of bravado, reminiscent of high school football players chest-bumping after a touchdown. Does trot down the road, ahead of their petulant, bleating youngsters. Every morning there is the “Marco-Polo” call of kids who have just realized that breakfast just trotted off the compound. And each evening the  "Marco-Polo" game repeats as mama goats head home and their youngsters scramble to keep up.

Baby basil

There is always a surprise in the Beni Cracker-Jack box. And they are there for a reason. To remind me to smile at the daily joys in life and laugh at my own too-serious antics to maintain what? A semblance of order? Control? One from yesterday: A tiny sprout of basil growing in a crack in the pavement. I had dead-headed the basil plants a few days ago and thoughtlessly crumbled the flower heads. And now, a cute sprout takes advantage of Congo's great growing power.

Voila!