I was
biking somewhat fast, though the rain-induced craters in the tiny dirt path
were keeping my speed in check. I wasn't really in a hurry, but at the same
time I wanted to be there as soon as possible. It was a long bike, through the
dry brush, on increasingly tiny dirt paths. In between the nothingness there
were a spattering of tiny villages – were I stopped and asked for directions to
my destination, assuring that I hadn't missed a turn off. I could tell I was
getting closer as I started passing large groups of students who were making
their way there by foot. I knew I was approaching the house when I saw tons of
bikes and motorcycles parked along the dirt path and hundreds of people, many
of them students.
I parked my bike and said hi to my students, then went on to
greet the elderly men seated in front of the house. I made my way to the
backyard where I found the women – hundreds of them – ancient, middle-aged, and
young. I was directed to the mother who was seated among her friends. I knelt down and took her hand and gave her my condolences. She started crying and
wailing the way women do when they are grieving. It is a terrible sound, yet I
was glad to be among these women to share in our collective grief.
It all
started just a few weeks ago. The school administration informed all the
students that one of their classmates was sick, and students contributed money
to give to the family to help pay for medical bills. I was surprised to hear
who the student was – a girl in Terminale,
who I had taught the past two years in 11th and 12th
grade. She was one of the best students in her class and was even elected
“Minister of Health” in our student government. When I prompted my principal
for more information he told me that the student had “gone crazy.” Apparently
she had started speaking incoherently, lost her memory and would tear her
clothes off or have other strange behaviors. The school administration shrugged
it off, saying that it was a case of sorcery – someone had put a spell on her.
They didn't seem too worried about her. A week or so later some students went
out to her village to visit her and said she was doing much better, talking
normally and was able to recognize her friends. That was the last thing I heard
until two weeks later another student told me there had been a death of a
student. I was utterly shocked and in disbelief.
The next
day at school, the school administration informed the students of the death and
cancelled school so that everyone could attend her funeral. On talking more
with some other teachers and students the only other information I could get
about her sickness was that she had been having headaches for many months, had
lost some weight and wasn't participating in school activities as much as
before (due to her extreme headaches). One friend who had visited her said only
that she had a fever. Apparently after momentarily being better she got worse
again and had stopped eating and talking. Her family brought her to traditional
doctors (aka witch doctors) but to no avail. They then brought her to two
regional hospitals both of which apparently said they couldn't treat her. It
was on her way to Conakry to the best public hospital in Guinea that she died.
As I sat
among my female students in the backyard of this student’s house, I heard her
friends reminisce fondly of her. I, too shared my experiences. She was one of
the best students I have had, and participated not only in class but in
extra-curricular activities. Last year we had worked together to plan a huge
ceremony for our school, and I had traveled to a neighboring city with her to
get materials for the ceremony.
In sitting with the students I also overheard
their gossip. No one seemed interested in what sickness she had, but rather who
had put the spell on her. As a scientist of course it miffs me that we’ll never
know what she actually died of, but as my students reminded me, “this is
Africa,” implying that the only cause of death was sorcery.
As we
waited, more and more people came – elementary, middle and high school students
flooded the yard in their school uniforms. Once the body had arrived from
Conakry they brought it to the Mosque next door. The other students and I went
over and took our shoes off and briefly entered the mosque to see the body.
I've been to many funerals, but I had never done this before. There, lying
peacefully and covered from head to toe, almost embalmed, in white cloth, was my
student. We said our goodbyes and went into the mosque courtyard to pray.
Then, one
of the most powerful and sad things I have ever seen happened. The prayer was
finished and the men were ready to move the body to the cemetery for burial. In
honor of their friend, their classmate, it was the guys from her class that
asked to carry the body. I stood watching as my former students carried the
dead body of their classmate to her grave. All of the students started crying
and screaming at this site, knowing it would be the last time we would ever see
our friend, Binta Sy.
May her
soul rest in peace
