Raining Ash

I sat outside as the scorching sunshine covered the vast savannah.  I was waiting for the community so my Counterpart and I could begin our community dialogue on childhood diseases.

Cracking sounds filled my ears and for a hopeful second I thought maybe rain was beating upon the tin roofs.

Pieces of black ribbon seemed to occupy the smokey sky and that is when I realized that it was not string but rather ash.

There was a fire. 

The woman at the health center said that the fire was controlled as some man in a neighboring village purposely set it to make hunting the Anyeri, swamp rat, easier. 

“This way the rats will have no place to hide.”

My first thought was, “A controlled fire in the African bush?  This will be interesting.”

I could smell smoke.  I could see flames.  The fire was just across the dirt road, where tens of od lums, huts, took place.  These huts are constructed of mud, local bricks, and dried grass that make the thatched roof.

A fire’s perfect appetite.

The dialogue was well under way when smoke filled the area and ash covered every possible surface.

Something was not right.

A couple of words were exchanged in the local language and without thinking twice a woman in attendance ran out in a panic.

Her hut; her home; her everything was engulfed. 

Some community members watched from afar.  Some ran towards the flames but with what intention?  The borehole is conveniently a kilometer away.  By the time they pump the water, fill it in various jerrycans and buckets and run it to the home it would be too late.

There is no fire department to race to the scene to help prevent the inevitable.

All that was left was to watch.

Within minutes the thatched roof imploded and the flames continued to burn the inside and the surrounding grass. 

The surrounding community members whose huts neighbored hers stood outside fanning the flames away with scorched tree branches.

Sixty minutes later and the flames turned to smoke.  Soon the village was consumed in a grey hue, which it wore for the rest of the evening.

As I left, the village becoming a distant image in the rearview mirror of the truck I could only think about that woman.

Where would she stay the night?

Where would she eat from? 

Did she have pictures lining the curved walls like most other homes do? 

Her memories are lost forever in flames set ablaze and carried by the wind.

A tradition od lum, with onlookers watching the flames, seen to the left