The Poisonwood Bible

I read this fabulous book called "The Poisonwood Bible" set against the backdrop of Belgian Congo during its turbulent times in the mid 20th Century. The decades that followed as it fought for independence from Belgian rule, the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, its first elected prime minister, and its slow and painful path towards reconstruction. If you haven't read the book, please find it and read it, especially if you are of African descent. It is written by Barbara Kingsolver.

In the book, a Baptist minister takes his family of five - wife and four daughters - to the Congo to, according to him, bring the pagan and lost souls of the Congo people to Baptism and Jesus, and thus teach them and save them in the process. Well, it turns out that the trip isn't at all what they expected. Their supplies and even their bible didn't save them from the transformation that they underwent and the experiences they witnessed. It is a very moving story. It is amazing how the entire experience plays out through their eyes and through the eyes of the simple but profound people of Kilanga among whom they lived for about 18 months. None of them left there the same. And none of them were ever able to shake the Congo off their backs again...it is almost as if they didn't have the option. The story is written through the eyes of the children, each one telling her story as their lives in Central Africa unfurled before their eyes each day. The children said that the whiteman came to impose on Africa, but they soon found out that they had failed, because just like its jungles that grow wild and have a life of their own, Africa too has a life of its own and all you can do is get swept into the tide and hold on the best you can.

One of the children who ended up staying in Africa much longer than the others was quick to notice that there is a world of difference between the games they, as American children, played and the games a Congolese child of 9 or 10 played. While an American child will play "Hide and Seek", "Mother, May I", and other games like that, a Congolese child will play real life games like "Find Firewood", "Recognize Poisonwood", "Build a House", and such. Life was real and full of responsibilities for a child even at that age.

More and more, I am realizing that the books I enjoy the most are books that dwell on real-life experiences or based on real life, and especially those that deal with Africans and their association with the West and Europe. It always gives me something to reflect on. The book: "Do They Hear You When You Cry" is another one of those.

By the way, when I returned "The Poisonwood Bible" to its owner, John Tolleson, and told him how much I enjoyed it and that I planned to buy my own copy, he gave me his copy as a gift. I was very grateful. He is a very nice person.

Post Script:
So much of this story relates to my life while growing up in Cameroon, West Africa. As a child, you learned quickly to be responsible. If you grew up in the city, it might be a little easier for you, but whenever you went to visit grandparents or relatives in the village, you were quickly brought down to earth again. I remember the days when we'd visit my father's village, Bafut. It is situated in a beautiful, lush green, hilly part of the NorthWest Province. I still picture us fetching water from streams at the bottom of treacherous hills. I would struggle with the weight of my modest-sized kettle of water, while children who had lived in the village all their lives and were half my age carried pots almost bigger than themselves as we labored back up the hills. There was always enough to eat though.... Cameroon is one of those countries in Africa blessed with abundant food and good soil. But preparing the food...aha, now that was another story!! It often entailed fetching the food from the farms, fixing it for cooking (cleaning the yams or plantains, skinning the meat, shedding the corn, etc), making the wood fire in the smoke kitchen house, and then sitting in the kitchen around the fire while the food cooked and smoke swirled all around you. Bathing was also an experience; usually this was in the stone bathroom or by the river in a certain, particular area, so as not to contaminate the drinking water portion of the river. The latrines too were another story...a scary one. Usually, my sister, my brother and I will stall until we could no longer hold it in our bodies, then we had to go. The latrines were basically several plantain stalks lined up in straight lines with holes bored after every three or so stalks. So several of us could use it at the same time...although that was a part that my siblings and I never got used to. It was an interesting experience. Short of making any reader hang their mouth in awe, I won't go on to describe the almost indescribable feeling as you heard your s**t join the others at the bottom of the not-too-deep pit.

Anyway, enough of that. But life in the village was nothing but memorable, in a very fond way most of the time. People help each other, whether it is with cultivating the land or erecting a house; they share freely; they call on each other and stay all night long when a loved one dies; they celebrate every joy and sorrow together, usually births, deaths, or even a good harvest; their hearts are wide open...to give and to receive...as you can imagine; they completely trust each other you hardly hear of a neighbor stealing from another. Life is really very simple, if you think about it. A family gets up on a typical morning, and knows exactly what the day would be like from the first crow of the rooster till the sun sets behind the distant hills. Sweep around the yard, go tie the goats, let out the chicken, start the morning fire for some late morning left-overs. The children then go fetch wood and water, playing and teasing each other on the way, and picking fruits and nuts. The men go clear the fields while the women go to their farms, fetch food and return to start their fires for the afternoon meal....and so on until the animals are led back in at dusk and the pot is again set on the fire for the evening meal. Of course, there are fun dances and festivals in the village square every now and then. These are so fun. Everyone is there and there is much food and dancing and drumming. The town crier or the talking drum usually informs people of upcoming events. Church and village meetings are on Sundays. Life there is really not complicated at all. Now, after all these years, I realize how much we took that sincere, down-to-earth way of life for granted, and I remember those days now...sometimes with nostalgia.

Fun is, I never for once wondered how my Persian sisters and brothers who stayed there with us for a while really faired. I knew it wasn't easy, but now I realize that I never understood just how difficult it was for them. Not having their mindset, I took it for granted that it was just a process and they'll soon adapt. But to what extent different people are affected by such experiences, I didn't stop to think because the life was so normal to me.

But, much like the Price children put it, in the novel I was telling you about, you can't just dismiss the experiences you have in Africa. It stays with you and it affects your perception of things one way or the other. My American and Persian friends too have told me as much.