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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Lingani, standing in a crowded neighborhood market, had just asked the woman for 30 cents' worth of baobab leaves.

"No, it's fine," Lingani said, handing over a few coins.

The vendor shrugged and stashed the coins under a sack of tomatoes covered with a beard of small flies. She handed Lingani some change, which she counted carefully.

At the next stall, Lingani bought four small onions. As she turned to leave, the seller tossed in a fifth with an understanding smile. Lingani caught her eye and thanked her.

Moving through the churning mass of people, Lingani bought a bag of dried fish, a small plastic bag of salt, two small cubes of beef bouillon and a bag of potash, the paste made from ashes.

In 10 minutes, her shopping was done. She had spent double her budget of 75 cents.

After the half-hour walk home, with the temperature already above 90, Lingani and Zagre started plucking the baobab she bought at the market, saving the leaves and throwing away the thick stems.

For an hour, the two women methodically pounded the rough leaves in a wooden bowl, then dumped them into a pot boiling over a wood fire. Then Lingani added the dried fish and some of the ash flavoring.

"Of course we would prefer something else," she said. "But it's the cheapest thing we can buy, and we can afford enough to feed everybody."

Two hours after she started cooking, Lingani scooped out six bowls of flavorless food. The first was for Zorome, delivered to his hut. He ate it alone, then said he felt as though he needed a nap.

Others were set aside to be shared by the children.

The last bowl, slightly larger than Zorome's, was to be shared by 10 people: Lingani, Zagre and eight small grandchildren. Lingani took two bites before letting five hungry toddlers finish her food.

Near the front gate, half a dozen children sat in a circle. They had built a play fire out of pieces of bark. On top they had placed a plastic cup, overflowing with street garbage.

They were pretending to cook. "We're cooking rice with meat!" said a beaming Ousmane, 6, the head chef.

His father, Zorome, watched the game and laughed. He was asked if he would eat again today. Yes, he said, Lingani would make him a little rice or porridge for dinner that night.

Nearby, his daughters and granddaughters heard him and exploded. "What are you talking about?" they said. "Why are you saying that? We have no food."

Zorome smiled sadly and admitted his lie.

"When we have food one day, we have to tighten our belt the next," he said. "But it is very hard for a man to admit when things are not good."

Lingani was still sitting next to her empty food bowl. She had stopped the children from finishing one last lump of corn mush, about the size of her fist.

"The small children will be crying in a couple of hours, so we have to save it," she said. Her voice was small and soft, and she didn't look up from the red dirt. She said she felt "very sad."

"I'm thinking too much," she said.