I was out in front of the hotel considerably earlier than eight in the morning. That’s how it is in Africa. Unless you’re a local or dying to go partying every night, an average African settlement doesn’t necessarily beckon with night life. On the face of it, everything closes up quite early and a lone wolf like me usually has little choice other than to retreat into the hotel room. And being early in your hotel room usually translates into being up early next morning, too.
The Ouahigouya morning was cool, probably the best part of the day in terms of weather. The temperature couldn’t have risen to more than 20°C. So I left my stuff on the inside of the entrance gate, to keep them in sight, and soaked up the cool air outside on the Avenue de Mopti.
Quite honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure if Abdulaziz would show up. Taught by all my experiences during my stay here in Africa, from my point of view, this particular agreement I had with him could go either way. I saw the odds as equal. I knew I had no reason to worry because I had in advance left myself ample time should things at some point demand urgent intervention and change of arrangements. But I wouldn’t have bet my bottom dollar on the young lad.
And I would have made a mistake.
Because to his credit, ten minutes after the hour – which in African terms practically amounts to Swiss-like punctuality – Abdulaziz showed up on his motorbike. He kept his promise and was ready to take me to the gare routière.
And yet, in spite of the fact that in Ouahigouya there are no taxis in the textbook definition sense, and you need to enlist the likes of Abdulaziz for help in terms of local transport, the town ranks as the third biggest in the country. Right after Ouaga and Bobo, in fact. The sources as to its population vary and some put it above one hundred thousand, whereas others put it below. Not that it matters much. Certainly not if you are not a town mayor but just a foreign tourist passing by.
But it seemed that it carried certain fame around, as a kind of legendary city, a capital of the one Yatenga Kingdom which, of course, later disappeared from the face of the earth. It would seem that recent history has not added to this fame to any considerable extent and probably the most highlighted event of newer times was the notorious Christmas War, between Mali and Burkina Faso, over a strip of land which saw its culmination in a bombing attack of Malian forces on the main Ouahigouya market with a large number of civilian casualties.
Fortunately, twenty three years on, at the time of my passing, not only the Yatenga Kingdom, but also all visible traces of that armed conflict had long evaporated from the area.
Abdulaziz and I didn’t waste any time. Same as this guy Sonadair the day before, Abdulaziz wrestled with my bag until he got it under control in front of him and I straddled the bike from behind. And then, dangerously swinging and wobbling, we set out towards the gare routière.
Well, kind of. Much as it is third biggest Burkinabe town, Ouahigouya is no Osaka or even Osijek. I had covered a nice part of what was significant in town the day before on foot so now I couldn’t possibly fail to notice when Abdulaziz swung off the Avenue de Mopti into a wrong side street. I told him so.
„I want to show you my house,“ he answered simply.
Well, we still had plenty of time, so I didn’t complain. If it would be a pleasure for him to show me where he lived, why not?
Just off the Avenue de Mopti the setting turned rather dirty. Well, of course, I’d seen worse things in Mali, notably in Mopti. Pigs in the streets rummaging through piles of garbage was not something that came as a shock any more. They seemed to be, just like goats, a constituent part of urban landscape in this part of the world.
Abdulaziz invited me to his home. Politely, however, I declined his invitation. I told him that I had to make it to the bus and that I wouldn’t like to miss it, much as I appreciated his invitation.
„Next time,“ I said even if we both knew that next time would hardly ever come. But then again, you could never know.
However, Ouahigouya got one up on Mopti after all. Hardly fifty metres away from Abdulaziz’s house, along one of those roadside ditches that served the purpose of municipal sewers, which to a western eye were an obvious source of and explanation for so many diseases here, there was a small flock of ugly, bald-headed, humpy, black vultures, picking at leisure through another one of ubiquitous piles of garbage. Abdulaziz never popped an eyebrow. And even occasional passers-by seemed to treat those birds as nothing beyond the ordinary. I was clearly the only one who saw them as a wonder. I asked Abdulaziz to stop by for a few seconds. He politely waited until I took the pictures and then we finally went to the station.
And there, as we sat on a bench inside a roof-covered space that served as a waiting section, I realised that poor Abdulaziz was shivering. His teeth chattering, he was freezing in the morning air that was obviously too cold for him. Much as I was amused by this, he was amazed at how I could feel pleasant and comfortable with only a T-shirt on. Well, we did seem to have somewhat different metabolisms, after all.
He had obviously decided to keep me company until the very departure of my bus. So I asked him a logical question:
„Do you work?“
What I meant was whether he had a working place where he’d have to go to.
„Yes, when I can find work,“ he answered.
Now, I was a bit confused. I had understood the night before that he wasn’t a waiter in the restaurant where I had eaten, but somehow I took it for granted that he was there one of the regular maintenance staff or something. It turned out it wasn’t quite like that. He explained to me that he didn’t have anything like a steady job and was instead working wherever there was a demand for an electrician. Which were usually just odd assignments here or there. I asked him how often that was.
„Usually once a week.“
„And how much can you get for it?“
„Two, maybe three thousand francs,“ he said. And then added:
„If it’s a very good job, then five thousand.“
I couldn’t believe my ears. We were talking about three or four euro per job. Eight at most. And that was supposed to last him for an entire week. What kind of world are we living in? I knew this was Africa, but felt honestly sorry for this young guy. Now we both knew he was quite lucky that he’d made an acquaintance with me. Whatever paltry money I might have given him for the bike ride, it was going to make a huge contribution to his monthly budget. And I understood why that guy the day before had been so eager to leave me his phone number at the hotel reception.
„And your house? How much do you pay for it?“
„Seven and a half thousand francs a month.“
OK, in absolute terms this was a ridiculous amount. Ten euro. But for someone who on average makes four a week it was a huge item on the list of expenses. So I asked him another question that logically came to me:
„And do you have money for motorbike? For the fuel, I mean?“
„Sometimes,“ he smiled.
„And when you don’t?“
„Then I leave it at home.“
I asked him what he usually did at home. He said he liked watching TV. He loved football. He asked me if I loved football, too. Of course, majority of Europeans love football at least to an extent:
„ I love Barcelona,“ he said proudly. „And you?“
I tried to explain to him that we in Europe tied ourselves emotionally to clubs in a different way than people who followed European football on other continents. I tried to explain that many, if not most, of European clubs went back a long way and carried along a lot of history and tradition which vastly transcended flashy weekly performances of big stars in most expensive and consequently strongest European sides. They throw around huge sums of money, but they can’t buy off a supporter who was brought up on love for a certain club because his father was a supporter of that same club. And because supporting that club makes a statement in many ways, gives you a certain sense of belonging like none other, its results clearly affect your mood on a given day and so many things which unless you’re a true supporter you’ll never understand. So, being a Croat like me, and supporting, say, a „Barcelona“, that was unthinkable.
So I asked Abdulaziz if there was any local club he might like.
„Yes,“ he said. „U.S.Y.“
„Where are they from?“
They were from Ouahigouya.
And so, on we talked. He told me that he had a family, parents and a few siblings, who were all living in a village somewhere in the Ouahigouya region and that he occasionally went to see them. He said that his life was not easy, but in this village it would have been even more difficult so he was clinging on here. And he hoped things would look up. Maybe soon.
I wished they would, with all my heart. Good, simple people like Abdulaziz deserved every bit of it.
And then it was ten o’clock, and time for me to leave Ouahigouya.
