Ride Safe (Let Us Entertain You)

Last night my housemate and I were preparing to leave work just as it was getting dark, so we took our bike lights out of our bags as we slung the bags over our shoulders and put on our bike helmets, before saying goodnight to our collaborators. We didn’t get out the door quickly – the two Burkinabe guys who were sitting in the conference room with us were staring at our ensemble of helmets and lights and started bantering with us about our attention to safety. Injury prevention seems to be the slowest public health trend to reach Burkina; although motorbikes are the pride and joy of many folks here, riders rarely wear helmets, and it often seems a luxury if seatbelts can be found in a car.

Once we escaped further good-natured heckling from our collaborators and left work, we rode our bikes through downtown, past the early signs of Christmas (shops exploding with tinsel, 3-foot plastic trees, an occasional strand of holiday lights) mixed in with the usual ever-changing lively soundtrack of music blaring from one shop or bar to another. Just as we were about halfway up the long hill that climbs ever so slightly, but constantly, to our neighborhood, I noticed a teenage boy following me on his bicycle. I slowed down, he slowed down. I picked up the pace, he peddled faster. Although young children (and grown men alike) yell, “Les Blanches!” or “Toubabou!” and wave as I ride up the hill each evening, I thought it bizarre to be followed so closely since most people don’t pay much attention to foreigners (other than a quick shout-out).

Eventually, I saw the boy riding in front of my housemate, looking back every few seconds to make sure we were still there. We were nearing the turn-off to our house when I noticed that young boy of about 10 years was also following us, riding a tired BMX bike and keeping my pace. We continued past our house and rode a little further, to a bar where every stool was taken. We stopped in front of the bar and waited to see what the boys would do. We’d not been standing there for 2 minutes when a man, who looked about 30 and was wearing a tracksuit, walked over to us and asked if all was well. I said that we had been followed on our bikes.

He asked, “By whom?”

I turned around and motioned towards the corner, where the younger boy had paused. The older boy had kept riding and was out of sight. “By the young boy there, and another one, a bit older.”

His eyes followed the direction of my hand and he asked, “That one, there?”

I nodded and said, “Oui, oui,” as is frequently said here, as if saying yes once isn’t clear.

The man yelled, “Hey! Le petit! Come here!” Somehow everyone, everything little here is best described as, or called directly, “le petit”. One can refer to “le petit” in choosing a watermelon or in describing a younger sibling or a child.

The young boy rode over on his bike and stopped a few feet away. The man started talking to the boy in Dioula and then asked a question. The boy looked at the ground, then up at the man, then back to the dirt. He said a few words, glancing at us a couple of times.

The man started laughing as the boy finished speaking and turned towards us. He relayed that the young boy, in response to him asking why he had followed us up the hill, explained that he’s not used to seeing white people on bikes, nor with hats and lights. He was simply curious about the fanfare cycling up the hill in the dark. Apparently we were a bit of a circus on our two bikes with our red, flashing tail lights and reflective helmets.

My housemate and I started giggling and reached out our hands to the little boy to shake on it and declare “no problem.” He smiled shyly and then rode off into the neighborhood. We thanked the man for helping us to understand and shared another laugh over it.

This morning we couldn’t wait to tell our collaborators the story. As anticipated, they found it highly amusing and were hardly surprised – they practically finished the punch line before we could tell it.