Awa's crime and punishment

Awa, my homolouges daughter, is around 20 years old, I think. She claims she’s 22, but everyone else says she’s either 16, 18, 20, 17- no one seems to know for sure- which is not uncommon for Malian women. After spending many months with her, I think she might have a slight learning disability. She’s nice enough, and does the cooking and cleaning for Irene’s household. She can be bothersome at times, talking to me like I’m a baby in really simple Bambara, but really she’s alright. However this past week, she has not been herself. Even since Irene yelled at her for hitting Denise, her little sister, she has basically shut down. She claims she is sick, and boy she looks it. She refuses to eat, refuses to work. Therefore, Irene has been cooking my lunches and with her work, sometimes I wait one, two, three hours for food. I try to help, yes, but they only entrust me with very simple tasks. Mashing onions. Then I’m done. Awa stays in her room, laying in bed, all day, except to go to the negen. And when Irene would usually shove her baby to Awa, she now gives him to me to watch. I’m concerned about Awa, and encourage her to see the doctor, which she does, but will not ask her mother for money to pay for medicine, so basically it is worthless.
So I spent another long afternoon sitting around Irene’s house thinking about what I haven’t done this week. Well we found a few more of the lost malnourished babies. I did some boring computer work for my supervisior, but was also able to teach him and some teenage boys how to enter the medical records in our “new” (ie 1998 PC). Alright. Donni, donni. I took out a piece of paper and began writing a letter to home, speaking of the “small accomplishments” that despite all the obstacles keep me going. Just then, a motorcycle pulled up. It was my homolouge’s brother, an English teacher who she had been anxious for me to meet. Really though, his English was no better than my Bambara, but we enjoyed some good conversation in over lunch. Irene stops eating and asks him to “Explain in to her in English.”
The man turns to me. “Awa is very bad. She doesn’t work.”
“I think she is sick.”
“No. She is not sick. She is hungry. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t work. She is very bad. Her mother is mad.”
“I understand.” I do. She is probably sick, but she has had a bit of an attitude. Refusing to eat or do her usual work is not really admirable but let’s put things in perspective here. She’s somewhere between 16 and 22, she hardly has a 4th or 5th grade education, she is stuck at home all day watching over two small children and cooking. Her big plan, she once told me, is to start making biscuts and selling them at the health center. Then, she will save up enough money to buy a bicycle in which she can ride to go to school in Dio, about 5 miles away. So far, I haven’t seen any biscuts. But she usually takes pride in her cooking- my lunches, though rice and sauce everyday, are tasty enough. She usually as a smile on her face. Until lately.
“I have come to correct this,” the uncle says.
“I understand.” Oh, I thought naively, this is just like they taught us in cultural class. When two people are not getting along, a third party comes in to settle the disagreement. The uncle had ridden his motorcycle from Kati, and before lunch, he had a good stern talking with Awa in the presence of her mother.
Wait a minute.
“So it’s good now? It is corrected?” I asked.
“No! It is not good!”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am going to beat her!”
I look at Irene, who does not understand the English, but understands that he has just explained it to me. After lunch, we talked some more. I was thankful that though his English was sub-par, we could have a private conversation. I spoke carefully, telling him that this was not what we do in America and that I didn’t agree with it. Yet he insisted that this was the only way to get her to behave. I didn’t want to offend the Malian way, but I do not want to see my friend hurt and I do not think this will change her attitude. Now he’s in a predicament.
“I respect you,” he says, “and I want you to respect me. But I must do this. But then you will not respect me.”
“And I,” I said, “if I am the reason that your action is prevented, and Awa does not begin working again, Irene will loose respect for me.”
“This is true.”
So I talked to Awa, she barely listened through trembling tears while the rest of the CSCOM staff laughed at me for paying attention to her. Receiving no response from the girl that had already surrendered to her punishment, I asked her uncle, “If you would like me to leave, I understand.”
“No. I am going to leave,” he said.
And with that he gave Awa another stern talking to, and then pulled me aside. He expressed his respect for me, and his understanding of why I did not agree with his actions. He then invited me to his classroom to give a lesson one day in the future. We shook hands, he mounted his motorcycle, and was off. He’s really a good guy, I thought. Irene gave me a tender smile, and nodded her head in approval. I went back to my letter; it’s the little accomplishments.
My only concern after that was that Awa was not going to shape her act up, and that I was going to be the one to blame. But nevertheless, Awa was back to her old self the next day, which happened to be the feast of Tabaski. Her, I and Sali, the nurse’s assistant, a fun loving, pretty girl my age who has become a great friend, all went to the “donke yorro” (dance place) - which was a high school classroom transformed into a sort of dance club. Though I felt like the dorky exchange student, dancing by myself in the corner, I was happy to see Awa shakin her booty around the boys, with her goofy, drooling laugh. Things were going to be back to normal. And though I do not totally understand her emotional trouble, or am not totally convinced of their resolution, at least she returned to her character without having to be physically beat into it.