No Tears in Africa

Blog Post #21 -- Monica Rae

November 21st, 2021

“Ma’am, you can’t cry!”

She relayed this to me as though there was a sign posted behind her at the Brussel Airline counter that I forgot to read. I swallowed the few tears that had fallen on my cheeks. I’m too old to be embarrassed and to alone to care if my makeup is smeared.

I have traveled to Africa multiple times and flown on half a dozen airlines—each with their own perks and policies. But as I stood there checking my luggage and weighing each piece for the third time, I was told that I could not bring two carry ons with me.

“Ma’am, you can’t bring these two pieces. You can only bring one.”

“What? I arrived on your airlines weeks ago with these same two bags as my carry-on luggage and now you are telling me I can’t bring both with me?”

“Correct. Only one.”

“Ok,” I replied, “Then I will check this one as a third check in piece of luggage.”

“Sorry ma’am. You have already checked your luggage so I cannot check this bag.”

My blood pressure is rising. I have repeated back to her everything she has said to me to make sure I am understanding her correctly. I ask her what I am supposed to do as I am not going to leave this piece of luggage behind. She simply shrugs.

Then I remember the $60 and 20,000 cfa I have in my wallet! I ask her for ‘the price’ to check my bag. How much will it cost for me to check my (underweight, airline approved) piece of luggage? She glances around, either oblivious to what I am proposing or unsure how to respond.

I give up. I don’t speak French (my regrettable mistake at halting practice months prior). And bribing—which is normally a means to an end in Africa—isn’t working.

So, with no other options springing to mind...

One by one tears fall behind my mask.

“Ma’am, you can’t cry!”

She says this repeatedly as I stand in front of her unwilling to leave my luggage.

She excuses herself for a moment. I look around. Pasto, my dear accompaniment into the airport is yards away and speaks only French—even he sees my tears and can do nothing.

The attendant returns. “Ma’am, you can’t cry!” I stare at her now—I think she knows that ship has sailed. What she doesn't know is I'm not crying over a piece of luggage. The tears fall because I am saddened to be leaving.

“Ma’am, you have to stop your tears. I will check your bag for you. But you can’t cry.” She whispers this to me as though she is doing me a favor. She wraps the tag around the bag and hands me the receipt. I thank her, although I’m not sure what for.

I navigate security and customs and arrive at my gate to sit and wait for two hours before my flight boards. My eyes are swollen.

And behind my mask, I laugh.

Out loud.

Tears had superseded a bribe—the currency of Africa. The crazy white lady’s tears had created such an uncomfortable response that even the exchange of money was not necessary.

I am not immune to this. It hadn’t been the first time I had been told not to cry in Africa.

“Don’t cry.”

I heard it at a Gambian airport, in a clinic, and only days before after an 18-hour train ride left me exhausted.

After multiple trips to my favorite continent, I understand why. And after my recent stay in Cameroon, I learned why smiles are tempered with straight faces.

Food, sleep, and health are not expected commodities to the people who welcomed me – they are luxuries. And yet, even in their scarcity they are shared with neighbor and friend the way Americans give out gift cards and stockpiles of toys from Amazon.

I don't think the Africans I've met are afraid of tears.

In fact, I am not sure fear is apart of their vocabulary.

Tears are just not a luxury they can afford.

The intensity and unpredictability of life does not touch me the same way in America. I do not face daily electrical outages, strikes at jobs that do not pay for months, mosquitos that spread disease, contaminated water sources used for cooking, or having to decide between food and medicine.

And yet I am left wondering—is resilience the remedy for tears?

Is it really the tears we are afraid of?

Crying is a human trait, with references dating back to the fourteen century in Syria. It has been portrayed in art, literature and philosophy as a response to sorrow, happiness and pain. There is no question that culture, religion and environment affect this behavioral response. A 2011 study found that more affluent, individualist countries tend to weep more often.

In studying human behavior, it has been observed that once you have passed a certain point of exhaustion, a point when discomfort becomes a norm (whether you are battling cancer for years or scarfing down rations given to you in a refugee camp) when energy for tears and emotions has been depleted replaced instead by resolve.

It is true that science shows a release of stress hormones when a person engages in tears. In the same way that laughter disperses our negative feelings and enhances our positive experiences. Regardless of how often we cry, this behavior of releasing tears remains a universal expression of emotion.

I’m a passionate person—I feel, I share more than most people are comfortable with, and my words and tears show both my grief and my gratitude.

Case in point.

I stood in front of a classroom of over 100 nursery school kids in Garoua-Boulai, Cameroon. I am here with Mounga and volunteers as we set up starter libraries in three schools.

Each of these small humans have an apron on which bares their name. A few of them have prepared rhymes for my arrival. As they stand in front of me, beside their teachers and headmistress looking for clues to remember their lines—

I cry.

My cheeks are wet, so I wipe them quickly before the students see the white lady crying in their classroom. How could I have any other response?

I have waited…for moments like this one. When clarity would seep through my veins. I was exactly where I was supposed to be—doing what I had dreamt of doing. I was overcome with purpose as I glanced across the room at Mounga. We knew this was only the beginning—our efforts would grow these libraries and turn a project into a non-profit. We repeated this welcome with each school and principal. Time stood still but I wanted to return each day to see their faces, bring them books and learn their passions.

“Children will invest more when they feel like they are being invested in.” Michelle Obama

Teachers are paid meager salaries to show up each day and put chalk to board for classrooms full of hundreds. Principals are both teacher and headmaster—navigating the complexity of finances, repairs, supplies, parental participation all while attempting to educate innocent young souls with little to no resources.

At one of the Bilingual Primary Schools, I spent time in every classroom and there was a student or two that caught my immediate attention. In one such room—light peeking through damaged windows after a storm the night before—there was a boy who seemed both eager and shy. I asked him his name. With a grin that covered his whole face, he said, “Ba.” I repeated it back to him and told him my name. He stood and shook my hand. He asked me a couple other questions and I praised him for his hard work and knowing two languages so well. I wanted to sit all afternoon beside him and his peers and know them.

Little ones would hug my leg, older ones would politely shake my hand, a few I found were sleeping on the table in front of them, and others sat in silence and curiosity.

I do not cry in Africa because I am weak or because I feel pity. I cry because I have been taught by people whose understanding of hospitality and resilience far exceeds my own!

I have been made courageous through the uncomfortable.

I’m not sure Africa will ever be comfortable with my tears. That’s ok. I will never be at ease with relieving myself in holes in the ground or cockroaches in my bedroom.

The beauty of it is found somewhere between acceptance and laughter—

when I am made broken—and whole again.

DEDICATION: For the children of Government Bilingual Nursery School, Government Primary School 1, and Government Bilingual Primary School 2 in Garoua-Boulai. You are the reason we will continue to fill your shelves with books and your classrooms with resources. For each principal and teacher who made me feel welcome in their school, and every person who welcomed me. For Delphine, who made me feel at home. For Phillipe, my sweet friend and brilliant carpenter—let’s continue to build together. For Leo, whose hospitality, assistance, and conversations made our deliveries possible and much more enjoyable! For Mounga—This is just the beginning...