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I have blogged about this experience before, but the story never included the Togolese Tresses. So, it's time for a little rehash. If this looks like a story you've read before, that's only because it is. But, it's the story behind the one portrait that I drew from my mural project with the U.S. Embassy in Lomé, Togo.
When the mural was over, I spent an additional week in Togo's capital. I made it a point, every day, multiple times a day, to stroll the neighborhood where I stayed in Lomé. I knew it was the only way to get any kind of feel for the neighborhood, a little taste of Africa. I wasn’t sure how successful it would be, but the longer I walked, the more familiar the people were with the white man who wore a straw fedora in their midst.
I thought the best moment of my walking tour was going to be at the front porch of the woman who sold hand-crafted brooms, baskets, fans, and other kitchen needs. A man there took an interest in me and explained all of the items I didn’t recognize. Well, there was one item, mysterious balls of clay, whose purpose he couldn’t communicate to me. (The women at my hotel completed my Togolese education.) I feared they might be balls of swamp dirt like in Liberia. For some reason, pregnant women felt the need to lick them and eat them. Nothing good can come from that kind of country medicine. But, no, these clay balls were used to clean up, or touch up, clay coal pots (which are kind of like an African hibachi). If your clay coal pot is dirty, scratched, or chipped, these clay balls are the go-to solution to fix them up. Wet the ball and dab a little more clay on whatever needs fixing. After my brief explanation of the hand-crafted goods, I was even allowed to photograph to my heart’s content. That doesn’t always happen in big cities. space
The following day, I returned to take a few more photos. As I walked away, there was a beautiful white mural design on a red/orange wall. I thought, “As soon as the two men behind me pass by, I’ll take a photo of that wall.”
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They didn’t pass by.
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They invited me to come through the gate and beyond the mural that I liked so well. In this part of the world, homes have walls topped with broken glass or razor wire. You’re only supposed to enter if you are welcomed. For just a second, I hesitated. Should I follow these guys? This has been disastrous for other travelers around the world. But, they knew about my mural and my friend Jean Koumy. And so, I stepped into the courtyard to discover an artists’ wonderland. It was a communal gallery that displayed the work of several artists in the courtyard and in the interior of the home as well. Both of the young men were artists. And, I finally discovered the reason why I was roaming the streets of this neighborhood for so many days!
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It was a minor event on the street to have the white man show up to make cookies. The gate was opened wide, children streamed in, and a couple of them even helped around the coal pot where we prepared the batch. And, that's when I spied Miss Togolese Tresses. I never spoke to her. She just posed with her friends during a moment of our chocolate cookie celebration. And, it was the best portrait I found during my two weeks in Togo.
We had so many cookies. There were too many for just us artists. The children were fed and then one of the artists took a plate full of chocolate deliciousness out to the street to share with more people in the community. I left my friends with enough supplies to prepare several more batches. The artists just needed to supply their own oats. Better to supply them than sow wild ones, eh?
When we finished the dessert, we sat around a circle as the sun went down. It was a good opportunity for some music. I don’t sing. I don’t play any instrument. I rarely even listen to music, but I felt like I was the luckiest person in all of Togo for this concert. One man played guitar. A second grabbed a drum. Percussion sounds were added by a narrow end of a spoon on a beer bottle, the wide part of a spoon with my mug, and a bottle opener to a piece of metal. And, they all sang. It appears that Africans spend a lot of their lives singing, dancing, and making music. Nobody had to practice anything. There were no mistakes. Nobody had to start anything over. They blended every note with perfection. It was simply a magical moment to be savored from my time in Togo.
Sharing my chocolate no-bake cookies is an easy way to show a little American kindness to the people who cross my path. Those cookies are always delicious. However, as usual, I find it impossible to out-give Africans with kindness. Before I flew out to Ohio the following day, they had to bring me back one more time to their artists' haven for a proper African meal. Like I said, I could never outgive them.
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This was one of my neighborhood stops when I shopped for no-bake cookies ingredients.