Africa's Last and Least

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Scraping By in Ouagadougou

In Burkina Faso's capital city, Fanta Lingani begins her day before dawn. Like many women in West Africa, she struggles to afford food for her family but takes little nourishment for herself.

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The food crisis has not yet led to famine, and in places such as Burkina Faso, people generally appear relatively healthy. The WFP and other agencies have pumped in millions of dollars' worth of aid and food, and markets generally are well-stocked -- just prohibitively expensive. But for poor people, food is increasingly difficult to come by, and many families sometimes eat as little as one meal a day. Aid agencies worry about the long-term effects of dramatically reduced diets.

As the crisis continues to build around the world, perhaps its most pervasive effect is the ache in the stomachs of millions of poor women like Fanta Lingani.

Sweeping for Pennies

Lingani, who sleeps on a concrete floor, began one recent day at 4 a.m. and dressed quietly in the dark. All around her, children slept on the cracked floor under a tin roof, common conditions in a country that ranks 176th out of 177 on the U.N. Human Development Index.

A year ago, Lingani might have started a small fire to boil herself a cup of weak coffee. But even that is now too expensive.

Such sacrifices led to food riots in February in Ouagadougou, the capital, and towns across the country. Hundreds of people were arrested after they set fires and smashed government buildings to protest rising prices. But for Lingani, the struggle is quieter, and harder by the day, and it starts before the sun comes up.

Lingani, who said she is about 50, walked across the dirt courtyard past the two-room hut where her husband was sleeping in his own double bed, with a thick mattress. The dirt street outside was muddy and steamy from an overnight rain shower.

After a half-hour walk on the black-dark streets, she reported for work and pulled on the long green smock of the Green Brigade, a city program that pays poor women the equivalent of about $1.20 a day to sweep streets two mornings a week.

Lingani picked up a pair of small straw brooms and pushed a wheelbarrow onto a wide, deserted avenue. In the orange haze of streetlights, she bent over at the waist, so far that her bottom was higher than her head, and started pushing red dust into little piles.

The "shssssh shssssh" of her sweeping was the only sound, except for the crowing of a few roosters and occasional laughter from men at an all-night bar down the road.

She worked a section of road about 150 yards long, while a dozen others in the all-female brigade swept along. A tanker truck sped down the street, kicking up a cloud of dust into her face and blowing away her little piles. She coughed, pulled her pink head scarf across her face and swept the same dust all over again.

Lingani swept until the sun came up, pushing her piles onto a small metal dish, then dumping them into a wheelbarrow and finally into a pothole on an unpaved side street.

By 7 a.m., she'd finished her section. But she had to wait an hour for a male supervisor to show up and check her work. In two weeks, she would get her monthly pay of less than $10.