Bilambiliba

Today marks the one year anniversary of the death of Mr. Djagri, my Togolese counterpart in Kpatchile, Togo. As I was walking home today I was thinking about all the things I wanted say about this day, about what happened and about my regret.

It was a Monday morning when the first person arrived at my house to bring me the news. It was Mr. N'Ghantche, president of the cantonal village development committee. I remember being shocked but not surprised. Mr. Djagri had been sick since March, about six months. Every time I saw him, I asked after his health and learned about what new medicines and healers he had seen, none very effective. Unfortunately, without proper medical facilities, staff, medicine or money available, my counterpart continued to seek help, in my opinion, in all the wrong places. I urged him to go to Kara, the regional capital, and go to a proper hospital, relatively speaking. He eventually did, but not until it was too late.

The last time I saw Mr. Djagri alive, he was sleeping in a dim room on worn out couch cushions. He was so skinny and had lost so much weight that his rib cage was clearly visible and his arms were the size of my wrists. Normally, he was already a small man. He reminded me of a black Robin Williams with a baseball cap, popping peanuts into his mouth and a cute little chuckle. I recall my gasp at seeing him that last time on the floor, and I knew then with certainty that he was going to die soon. This was the first time I had ever been exposed to anything like that. I urged his family to get him help, but they told me by that time they had no more money left. He needed some kind of surgery that he could only get in Lome, Togo's capital, and even then there was no guarantee that he would survive.

Two more people visited me that day to tell me Mr. Djagri had passed away and each time it got harder and harder to hear. The family buried him that morning in a grave directly in front of his house, covered in cement. I missed the burial, which at the time, I was upset, but in the end, it was probably better that way. The Togolese do not really express sadness openly, so when I arrived at the memorial and openly wept, a woman approached me, tried to pull my hands away from my face and tell me to stop crying. I got angry and pushed her away. That day I did not care about cultural norms. I was going to have my grief and express my sadness whether it made other people uncomfortable or not. I mostly just sat there with my head in my hands and cried while the villagers talked and drank and ate. It didn't seem that different from my own culture. Just before I left, I noticed that the family had a picture hanging next to the entrance of the house, and as I walked by I saw that it was the picture my friend, Jamie, had taken of me and Mr. Djagri in the marketplace, drinking calabashes of Tchouk. I walked away as a new set of tears emerged.

I spent the rest of the day on the floor of my house crying and sleeping, sleeping and crying. Mr. Djagri was someone I had known for two years. He had welcomed me into his village and his home. He helped me set up countless meetings, some productive some not. He was my translator, and when I was upset about work, he was my sounding board. He was always giving me food even though he probably could have used it more than me. He did the best he could. He did too much; I think he was on multiple committees and a full time farmer and Tchouk drinker. I wept that day partly because I could not believe he died and partly because I felt like I failed him. I should have taken him to Kara. I had the means. But, I didn't. I have no excuses. My host family that day told people that I was "sick" that day to keep them from bothering me.

I must have purged myself that day since the next day I felt remarkably better. Life moves on. Mr. Djagri passed away on September 28th, 2009. He widowed three women and orphaned twenty-two children. This is why I do not support polygamy. In the aftermath of his death, one of his oldest sons, Emmanuel, came to me repeatedly to discuss his struggle to find the means to finish his last year of university. In the end, I gave him the rest of the money he needed to finish school, and I am very happy to have at least done that. I think I owe it to his father.

I sometimes think that even those closest to me do not fully understand all that I experienced when I was in Africa, so this is my way of sharing my story and allowing myself to heal and move forward. I hope to one day go back to Kpatchile and see Mr. Djagri's family again and maybe lay some flowers on his grave. May he rest peacefully.