books, books books and more books

Half past eight on the dot and Bakary and I roared up to the school playground, screeching to halt under the shade of a neeme tree.  Ten lines of children curled like snakes across the sharp stone yard, standing in the mornings heat, smartly dressed in their green and white, singing the national anthem with gusto.  As we stood and watched a few stragglers peered uncertainly around the corner of the building.  How late were they?  Would they be reprimanded?  They scuttled to add to the adders’ length.

Nearly the holidays, teachers and children were smiling.  Today was a match day that is to say a day of continuous playtime and little learning, much like any other. Tests completed and marked, reports written everyone was relaxed to the point of horizontal.  Smiles, greetings, handshakes and two teachers left the school yard for I know not where.  The headmaster was overjoyed.  We were to tackle ‘the library.’

Dressed in florescent pink African garb, complete with embroidered prayer cap, he was delighted with his work of the previous Friday when he had, as promised, organised children to man handle box upon box of books into our new domain.  Swishing elegantly amid the cockerels, chickens and goats he imperiously led us to the building, unlocked the padlock and opened the door with a flourish.

Inside, we spied through the murky gloom and settling dust, hundreds of books piled randomly in turrets on battered tables, wobbling splinter laden shelves and dusty floors.  There was the occasional sign of human life with a sporadic poster or label, but far more promise of mice (let’s be hopeful and assume not rats) termites and lizards.  Oh hum where to begin.

Pete was despatched to get a dustpan and brush, whilst I began

nearest the door and light, to sort. I beavered away to be joined by my intrepid partner as we delved the depth, binning some of the worst gnawed texts and finding some delights, fiction, non fiction, childrens, adults, university professors.  One table cleared and mountains of books slowly began to emerge into some semblance of order and there was space enough to move two benches.

We’d been spotted.  A small cluster of children appeared at the windows and door.  “Toubab, toubab give me book.”  A group of 5 girls came in, fascinated by so many tomes, colours and pictures.  They were not used to handling books, having the opportunity to choose, or to reading.  Not one of them could decipher the cryptic text of even the most basic story despite chanting religiously after their teachers day after day.  It was a joy to watch them devouring the new experience, but work had to continue and we left them to it.

The quiet hum outside became louder and noisier as word went round.  I opened the door. Chaos ensued as the small gathering of children swelled to a mass of hands and faces, pushing and shoving.  Eventually with a lot of hand gestures we managed to exchange one group for another.

The morning progressed, and we became wiser.  Suspicious looking shapes under t-shirts were queried and books returned.  There was no shame or remorse despite our best explanations. Hands and arms uncoiled through the netting to purloin texts until we moved them from temptations way.  For them it was just an opportunity to own something with a few pictures.

Three hours later, a small dent in the castle of manuscripts, covered in dust and grime we shut the doors and windows to return another day.