This was my last year in Tégéso, and soon a war would ruin the place and separate me from it forever, but that time was my favourite. I spoke the language, I practised the customs as well as I ever would, and I lived in the village as a member of it. I was a man and a hunter. I’d grown my own fields, proven myself to the Worodougou in every way I could. The reason I had come to the village—to find drinking water—felt like an old and confusing dream. I had gone here and there with Mamadou and taught people about Aids, promoted vaccinations and prenatal care, but really, I was simply there, my heart beating, my lungs taking in air, growing older as the sun rose and fell. I wondered if I had Aids. The stars looked wonderful to me at night. One day, maybe soon, I would take my place among them.
One afternoon, the witch doctor and I went hunting for mongoose, which we both liked to eat. We crawled into a dense thicket in the forest where the leaf litter was a damp and warm humus, full of worms and grubs: what mongoose like to eat. We sat with our backs to an old termite mound, held our shotguns, waited. The hours turned toward evening, and nothing came. The sun set, and still we stayed where we were. Then in the dark of night, I heard the flick of his lighter, smelled the cigarette smoke. I lit one, too.
“Adama?”
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