Yesterday was another torrential rainstorm. Fanta grabbed me with words of "old woman" and "fever," and we went to see the old dying woman. We met up with Sangare, the doctor, who gave the unsuprising diagnosis - malaria - which is literally ravaging our village this time of year during the rainy season. We found her under bright purple sheets sown with green flowers, her shallow breaths contrasting with the feverent pumping rain. When it died down for a moment, she got up and walked, shakily gripping the walls as we sat shelling peanuts. As she reached the nyegen she looked back vacantly as the wind played games with her green headwrap. Her grip on the mud wall seemed to teeter between worlds, her stare exhausted and vacant. The next day I went out to the peanut fields with Fanta and a few other women. Our hands and heads and backs were filled with gourd bowls, radios, water jugs and little girls. We sat under a tree and pulled the peanuts from the roots as we exchanged warm but confused sentiments about farming and the village. Our picinic lunch of fresh sweet milk with millet and cut cucumber was refreshing, and I finally felt welome into this community of strong women, even though they make constantly make fun of my smooth uncalloused hands and lack of a husband. We left as again the black clouds rolled in, and ran the last half kilometer to the village as the rain slowly crept up on our heads.

I returned after the fields to give my blessings to the old woman, and then went to sit with Nasira as she cooked dinner - peanut sauce and to (ground millet patties) over a mud fire pit. The next morning the old woman had died. Fanta had no tears as she told me - she went on pounding millet. Of course, she had eleven children, another wife and a husband to feed.