In the Belly of the Elephant Read Online Free PDF Page A

modulated the key and added discord, forcing the themes to argue in minor tones. The last measures rang out in a finale of perfect harmony, ending with a simple chord that embraced the beginning notes of all four voices.
    I opened my eyes again to my father’s words: Your own kind . As far as I knew, my father had never known anyone who wasn’t white or Christian.
    “Sorry, Dad.” I crumpled the letter into a ball. “One voice just isn’t enough.”
    A truck horn beeped outside my gate. Three p.m., the daily afternoon sieste over, I stuffed papers and books into a large basket and headed out the gate to catch my ride back to the office. Hamidou was driving and I asked about his nephew. The little boy had received his tetanus vaccination and was doing well, though the worm had not yet completely exited the wound.
    A few minutes later, I walked through the doors of the main office into a loud conversation between Djelal, Adiza, Nassuru, and Fati. Djelal, a tailor turned administrator, had often vocalized his frustration over Save the Children’s policy of hiring American directors for their overseas programs. He was the assistant director for the Dori office and an obvious candidate to take Don’s place as director. A large man, made even larger by his boubou , a square-cut, floor-length robe made with yards of blue cloth, Djelal gesticulated as Adiza, Fati, and Nassuru listened quietly.
    “Just because some African in Cameroon has misused agency funds,” he said, “why should we have to prove ourselves before Home Office will hire one of us to be director?”
    I hesitated just inside the door as he proclaimed in a loud voice that Home Office’s plan to replace Don with yet another American was another example of colonial white arrogance.
    As soon as Djelal saw me, the conversation stopped. The group turned as one to offer afternoon greetings, then Djelal went into his office and shut the door.
    The spacious entry room of the main office had two double doors, one leading to the side, the other to the central courtyard that separated the two buildings in the office compound. Avoiding eye contact, Nassuru hurried out the door to the courtyard. Adiza adjusted the elegant sculpture of cornrows that made up her latest coif, raised an eyebrow, and followed Nassuru. Fati smiled and laid her hand on my arm.
    I sighed. The reality of the situation was a combination of both Home Office and Djelal’s points of view. It was necessary but it wasn’t fair. Americans weren’t always upright citizens either. One agency had caught their American director running a brothel as an “income generating project.” Seemed like every extended family had its shady entrepreneur.
    At any rate, Djelal didn’t bother to hide his dislike of every white person on staff and I was no exception. For the first time in my life, I was being punished because of the color of my skin. So, I worked with Djelal when necessary and avoided him when possible, as he did with me.
    I crossed the courtyard to the second building that housed my office and sat at my desk under an open window. The bucket bath was long forgotten as sweat dripped from my armpits and pooled in the small of my back. Ignoring the urge to lay my head on my arms and sleep, I opened my drawer and gathered pen and paper. The office had one manual typewriter that required formidable finger muscles, and a French keyboard that mixed up the q’s and a’s, the m’s and w’s. It was easier to write longhand.
    For the next hour, I wrote up project descriptions. The writing took my mind off Rob and the heat and reminded me why I was there. The women of Sambonaye had asked for more cotton to spin into thread, which they would weave into blankets for their families and sell in the market during cold season. The goal was to sell enough blankets to reimburse the cost of the cotton and generate extra income for themselves. Various studies had found that when women had more control over the family