The Slingshot Effect

There have been several films recently about the rippling effects of our actions: The Butterfly Effect, and several years back there was Pay it Forward. I have another tale of repercussions to tell.

STICKS
It’s a quiet evening at the roadside. Like every evening in M’Pedougou, I’m sitting on a bench outside Jakalia’s little “butiki,” leaning against the solid post of his thatched shade structure. In the doorway to his shop, a single fluorescent bulb glares out at the black night, casting a bluish glow on the objects in its path. My host brother Amadou appears under it, carrying the evening bowl of corn toh. I slide out a piece of wood to sit on and pour water into the hand-washing bowl. As I’m looking for the wandering bar of soap, a pair of dogs passes near us, barking and carousing as dogs are wont to do on a full moon.

Before I can register it, Amadou grabs a stick and hurls it with full force at the dogs. And it’s followed not by a high-pitched canine yelp but by an equally shrill howl of pain, coming from behind us. Our heads whip to the sound, and there is Bakari, Amadou’s younger brother. Bakari’s hands tightly clasp his forehead as he emits a relentless piercing scream. My eyes pop out of my head, and Jakalia runs towards him. Unprying Bakari’s small hands, a squirt of blood waters the dusty ground, and Jakalia lets them spring shut. He takes a t-shirt and wraps it around the boy’s head. Amadou fires up the motorcycle and before the toh has even cooled enough to eat, the two brothers are two glowing red taillights in the night, riding to the doctor in the next village.

The dog-intended stick had ricocheted off my leaning post. The dogs, meanwhile, went on about their business. Months later, Bakari still has a scar on his otherwise smooth chocolate forehead.

STONES
There are certain risks to owning a pet, especially in Mali. First of all, there is no Alley Cat to pour into my cat’s bowl, just a steady supply of mice and, if she’s lucky, my neighbor Yaya’s fresh cow milk. Just keeping her fed is a challenge; then there is TB and rabies and worms and Ala knows what else. These challenges, however, are small compared to what lurks in wait beyond the safe walls of my compound: children.

Cats are not typically pets in Mali. If someone has a mouse problem, yeah, they’ll get a cat. But they won’t name it. They laugh when they ask me, “How is Mawa doing?” and I respond “She greets you.” (the standard greeting in Mali is a long exchange inquiring about family members; it is now a joke because my only family member is Mawa, my skinny calico cat). Malians put cats very low on the pecking order.

Thus, every time I go on a trip I say goodbye to Mawa and just cross my fingers that some kids won’t have eaten her when I get back.

When I get back from Bamako after January training, I’m home for a day before Mawa comes bounding in. They didn’t eat her. They just took a slingshot and launched a rock into her eye. The whole side of her face is swollen and oozing blood and puss. When Abdouleye, my work partner, stops by I erupt into a long tirade…. “Why would they do this? What was the point?... If they were going to eat it, that’s one thing… at least it was for a reason, but this?... There’s enough pain and suffering in the world, why do we have to go around creating MORE? All living things feel pain.”

Abdouleye just sighs and apologizes for the kids, saying essentially “kids will be kids.” I retort, “No, kids will be what they are taught it’s acceptable to be. If men beat women and treat women like their slaves, and older kids pick on younger kids, it leaves little kids to pick on the only thing they can: animals. And none of this chain of abuse helps anyone. I once saw a kid tie up the fourth leg of a donkey and then ride it for fun. That’s not okay. Violence for violence’s sake is not okay.” Then the strain of saying this in Bambara wears me out, and I give way to silence.

Now I have a cat who is blind in one eye.

MAY BREAK MY BONES
Kids will be kids. And some kids will start investigating what happens when you try to peck in the wrong direction. Yousouf is my favorite little trouble making 2-year old, just discovering the power of his own voice and of his actions. He still wears a string of bells around his plump belly, which now serve as an alarm system for all those within hearing: first you hear the jingling, then you look around for unfolding mischief.

One night his mom Alimatu and I are sitting and talking next to a low-burning fire in the cooking hut, when we hear mischief erupt. From the next hut over a hot jet of little-boy Senoufo voices shoots into the crisp night air. Alimatu giggles. What are they saying? She listens a bit more, then chuckles, “Yousouf went in and peed on his older brothers.” What?? Yes, he just walked in and peed on them. Pissing in the face of the pecking order. I shake my head. Then another shriek erupts and this time Alimatu’s smile fades. Hamadou comes barreling into the cooking hut, blood spewing from his mouth. He curls down his bottom lip to reveal a bloody hole in his teethline. Sambara, he wails. “A shoe.” Yousouf had defended himself by throwing a shoe at his brothers, taking out two of Hamadou's precious teeth. There is no dental care for Malian villagers. Once a tooth’s out, it’s out.

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The moral of this story: don’t throw things. Be it sticks, be it shoes, be it words. Don’t go hurling things into open space with a vague destination. We have enough pain in this world.