Our Community

I'm posting this 200-word essay for Patrick, who wrote it in response to a prompt that was published a few days ago on the Korongo Blog. The prompt: Write about an object that holds meaning for you. Writers were told to keep it short (200 words or so), to keep their fingers moving, and to let the words flow and jot down whatever came to mind. —Sara

A BRONZE STATUE

About 1 foot high, the bronze, featuring a Mossi shepherd, triggers the memory of a night train trip between Abidjan in Ivory Coast to Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso in 1989.

The trip is sponsored by the president of Ivory Coast offering a generator to the head of state of the other country, and I have to act as the personal envoy presenting the gift. It is an eventless night trip and I sleep, rocked by the train. The A/C is blowing full blast, and I arrive with a cold!

A meeting has been arranged the same day with the recipient. I do my duty. I’m not paid, but my expenses, yes. (I sold the machine with a comfortable profit!)

I should return to Abidjan 2 days later in the morning, so the following day, I visit Ouagadougou. I rent a cab for the day—it’s cheap in Africa.

I roam the little capital city of the country. It looks like a bush town, very dusty. I go to the colorful market…

My driver, who became a friend after a couple of hours, suggested to stop at the nun’s restaurant, L’eau Vive, cheap and delicious.

After our lunch (I invited my driver/new friend), he suggested to visit a friend of his, a bronze artist. —Patrick Texier

Below: A little video I made a few weeks ago. This conversation between Patrick and me began with a question ("Where did that statue come from?") and led to a story. It pays to be nosy. When we met, in 1997, Patrick was a safari guide and I was a journalist. We were climbing a volcano when he said his knee was bothering him. I said, "What's wrong with your knee?" That question led to "Our House in Arusha," my first book. A quarter of a century later, I am still asking questions, and he is still answering. —Sara