Chapter Excerpt - “The Receiving Line”

In the Abidjan depot, women hurriedly sell breakfast
to passengers as the bus pulls away

As dusk approached, the sound of the drums alerted us to the start of the performance, so we made our way in the direction of their sound. I was led to the center of the village by the two or three children that were hanging on to each of my arms. They had been attached in this way since we’d first arrived. Funny, because I think if this had ever happened to me at home, I would have shaken them off like pesty flies. Here, it seemed so very charming, and I felt somewhat honoured to have this entourage. When I would stop with Mikhael to observe or talk with someone, the kids would trace patterns up and down the backs of my hands with their fingers, following the lines of my prominently blue and bulging veins. They could not see the flow of blood so vividly in their own skin. It must have seemed quite odd.

When we arrived in the square, the first dance had already begun. A dozen or so women dressed in white shirts or sarong wraps and dark skirts, some with white paint on their faces, were moving slowly but rhythmically in a circle. Six or seven men were lined up along the back, beating on the hourglass-shaped djembe and elliptical kponlogo drums. I didn’t know what it all meant, but it seemed like an introductory number of sorts, kind of like the background music that plays before the lights go down at a theatre show. It went on for at least ten minutes; long enough for many of the villagers, more than a hundred, I’d say, to arrive and find a perch from which to watch.

Immediately noticing a row of benches towards the rear of the area, I started towards them. Mikhael redirected me, however. It turned out that proper etiquette required that I pass through a receiving line of the village elders before taking my seat at the back of the square. I began at the far end, and one by one, each rose to shake my hand and exchange a greeting of sorts in their local tribal language. I was unusually unsure of myself as I made my way through, and kept my head bowed in deference, both out of respect and the exercise of caution.

There were times in West Africa when I performed the social act or action that seemed expected of me, even though I wasn’t entirely sure of its intent or implication. On this occasion, however, it was crystal clear to me that the elders were not there to greet and welcome me to the performance. Their body language was different than what I had seen before when being introduced to someone. They were very serious, and stood upright and still. I was most definitely the one making the offering, as if to say thank-you for allowing me into their village. These were the people who held the power in this community, I realized afterwards, and not just in a figurehead or ceremonial type of way. They had real power.

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