Lesson of the Young Rooster

Written by: Toussaint Romain, Fearless Volunteer, YMCA of Greater Charlotte Diversity-Inclusion-Global Committee

I have never seen a young rooster before. But there it was standing prominently on a heap of trash in this African desert pecking in search of worms. I guess food is food, no matter where it comes from.

Still, as our convoy pulled up to this remote African village after a four-hour drive, the startled young rooster spared no delay and took flight into the compound we came to visit.

I followed it with my eyes before noticing the most captivating sight ever. A sea of sun-kissed faces gathered underneath an ebony tree. These were Muslim women whose clothing, like the proverbial coat of many colors, brightened up this desert: the brightest oranges, yellows and reds you could imagine. Their rich skin color epitomized their deep connection to this African land. It was simply beautiful.

It didn’t take long for our group of YMCA leaders to enter the compound. We approached the ebony tree but not a single Muslim woman looked over at us. They were staring intently at something in front of them, but I could not see what it was. 

As soon as I turned the corner, it jumped out at me. I saw an oasis of children sitting neatly in the courtyard, which was by the ebony tree. This courtyard had been transformed into a classroom and these Muslim women were watching their children in class. I remembered when my mother used to do that to me when I was in primary school.

I turned my attention to the children who ranged in age from 5 to 15. They wore Muslim outfits underneath their school outfits and sat in rows while facing their teacher. There were about 6 to 7 rows and what seemed like 20 children sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in each row. Their teacher was a young 16-year-old male who took his teaching role seriously.

While our group tip-toed around that corner, I decided to sit among the pupils on the ground. I crept into a row of students hoping to maintain my inconspicuous presence. It was to no avail as the children around me giggled and laughed and pointed. “Toubob” one whispered. (“Foreigner,” he called me.) Another student couldn’t resist the temptation. She jettisoned her hand towards me and said “Good morning, sir” in a petite voice, stained with a French accent. Despite the fact that it was 4pm in the afternoon, I accepted her handshake and whispered “good morning” as well. She snatched her hand back in sheer joy as the other kids looked on with amazement. She had made contact with a toubob. It was fun.

But the fun was short-lived. The 16-year-old teacher turned around from the chalk-board and gave us a stern look. “L’Attention!” he said, before returning to his grammar lecture. The children did as he wanted but continued to smile at each other and at me. Its true: children’s smiles are universal – all kids share that same smile no matter where they are.   

As they returned to their lesson, I looked around at their courtyard-classroom.  I saw the same young rooster walking by the children, but no one paid it any attention. I looked up at the walls surrounding us. They looked tattered like a war-torn middle-eastern setting.

Still, this was not a scene from war-torn Afghanistan because no war had done that to this village. It was the result of sheer poverty. The village was falling apart because the villagers could not afford to maintain it. This was another universal truth in Africa, it seemed.

And then I did what most parents should never do…I allowed that one forbidden thought to enter my mind. I thought “what if this was my kid?” Because that girl over there smiles just like my daughter, so what if my daughter had to go this school? Before I realized it, the damage was done. That one single thought had pushed me over the edge and my threshold had been reached. This was Day 4 in Africa and I could not suppress my feelings any longer.

I quietly excused myself from the courtyard and returned towards the van. I sank my head into my hands so that no one would see the tears I was fighting back. I was overwhelmed by what I was seeing and how I felt.

As I walked out, our driver Malick Diof asked “sick?” Before I could answer, a familiar voice rang from behind us “no that’s not car sickness brother, that’s something else.” Michael DeVaul had been watching my downward spiral or at least he recognized my staggered jolt from the classroom and quickly pursued me with interest.

“Brother Toussaint, this is why we are here. To find schools like this and to invest in them” Michael said. “I know it doesn’t seem fair to see them like this, but this is why we are here.” He leaned closely to me and continued to say additional things. I acknowledged it but said I needed to some time to gather myself.

I walked away and found myself by that heap of trash again. And there was that wretched young rooster following me this time. Disgusted, I turned and walked the other way. There I found a group of young boys playing soccer. They waved at me to join them but I smiled and declined. It was very sobering to watch them play. I was struck again by a confluence of emotions.  

I returned to the classroom after 10 or 15 minutes and the headmaster was speaking. She had welcomed my group to her school, but told us that in truth this was her home and that she had been opening it up to the children in her village for years. In many ways, her home had become the staple within the community. She was keeping her village together.

This headmaster mentioned that all she needed was 100 XAF per student to provide school supplies for the entire year. That converts into 20 cents in US currency. 20 cents could provide pens, paper and learning materials for an entire year for one student. 20¢.

 

I couldn’t resist. At the most opportune moment, I grabbed this women by the hand and out of the view of everyone else, I emptied out my wallet. I had enough cash to pay for 100 children for the next several years and I wanted her to have it.

But please don’t mistake the moment. I was not doing this to be the American savior. Rather, I did it because I felt so ashamed and guilty for so many reasons but in particular as a black man. I hung my eyes from this woman and after I handed her all of that money, I cried on her shoulder.

But she looked at me and recognized the internal struggle that I was having.  As the village matriarch, she sensed that this visitor needed her. So she embraced me and said “its ok, its ok, its ok” over and over again. She ended with “God bless you” and then smiled at me. Again, the universal smile. I don’t know if you’ve ever cried on grandma’s shoulder and then felt immediately revived once she smiled at you, but that is how I felt at that very moment.

By now our group was packing up to leave. As I followed the pack, a 30 something year-old-male ran over to me. “Une photo avec toi” he asked in French. (“A photo with you.”) “Sure.” But the funny thing was, he didn’t have a camera. So I asked one of my group members to take it. We took the picture and then afterwards this man grabbed his shirt and pointed to mine. “Changer de chemises?” He wanted to switch shirts. I was initially confused but I obliged him. We switched shirts. He smiled at me. Again that smile penetrated my heart. His smile did something to me.

 

 

 

 

I didn’t realize it immediately. But this man didn’t want the picture for himself. That picture was for me. To remind me of something I haven’t quite figured out yet. He took my shirt not because it was fancy. But he took my shirt to remind that a part of me will always remain in that village.

I am connected to them.

From the children’s smiles, to the matriarch’s smile and my brother’s smile, they each reminded me of the Senegalese “teranga.” They each welcomed me home. So before I left I am sure you can imagine how I hugged each of them tightly and for as long as I could.

In the end, I returned to the van and as I got on I saw that young rooster, once again,  pecking at the heap of trash. But this time it looked up at me with a large worm in its mouth. It had captured a prize from beneath the surface.

It was then that Michael DeVaul’s final words rang with clarity. “Remember Toussaint, where we see scarcity, they see abundance.” Its all beginning to make sense. Where I saw trash, that young rooster saw fertile feeding grounds. Where I saw students lying in trash, filth and lack, the matriarch saw education, hope and opportunity. In other words, don’t look at the surface. Look deeply within. Hebrews 11:1, no?

There is still so much more to understand about my first trip to Africa but for now, I’m grateful for the to have had this moment of clarity with my African ancestry. I shall call it the Lesson of the Young Rooster.

Written by: Toussaint Romain

November 24th, 2017