I do not have a regular schedule for posting, but I aim for one article a month. In early August, I came down with a vicious virus (no, not the big C) with lingering effects that cancelled my small vacation plans and still cause my mind to cough and sputter when I attempt to write. So here is an essay I wrote a decade ago. I was taking a writing course for university credits while trying to restart my healthcare career after a series of crises, including serious illness, completely derailed it.1 The assignment was an essay on “the power of words”:
The first thing I notice about any new experience is how it sounds. In the West African village where I went to live, the first thing I heard was people talking. For a newcomer, it can be overwhelming. The rhythmic, alliterative language of the Wolof seems deafening when a room is filled with people in conversation. I once asked my Wolof friend what somebody who doesn’t talk a lot is called. “Ku noppi,” she replied, which literally meant ‘quiet person’. But when I repeated the phrase to an experienced colleague, I was told that it was used as a pejorative to call someone stupid. Wolof has only been written in roman characters for a few decades. It existed for centuries in mostly oral form, and so, the ability to speak is considered a mark of intelligence. That is why, as a new aid worker, I was introduced to a woman in the village who spoke some English. She would help me to learn Wolof.
At first, it felt as if I would never be able understand the sounds. Once, during a learning session, my language helper could see I was tired and discouraged. So she repeated a proverb to me, “Ndanka, ndanka, muy jappa doomi golo si biir ñaay.” Proverbs are very important in the culture, so I carefully translated it, “Slowly, slowly, you catch a baby monkey in the tall grass.” Similar to the English expression, “Slow and steady wins the race.” I had been given that kind of advice before. When I was studying to be a nurse, there were teachers, counsellors, friends, and even a woman on the bus, who told me to be patient, give myself time, and take it day by day. It was difficult to take the advice, especially when I couldn’t find a job. When I was finally accepted by an NGO to work in a rural healthcare clinic in West Africa, I was happy but terrified.
I love languages; but I’m a much better listener than a talker. I was ‘the quiet one’ in my family. To find myself in a culture where I was expected to talk, rapidly and frequently, was stressful. I needed to form my thoughts and find the words to say. But I was not given the time. If I hesitated over a reply, people would answer themselves with a muttered, “She doesn’t understand.” It hurt. After all, I could read the written words in Wolof and pronounce them pretty well. Yet, I had to accept that, to the villagers, I was like a child learning to speak.
I often repeated that Wolof proverb to myself. I learn verbally, so I remember words in both their written and oral form. As I worked in the clinic, I listened to the words my translator used and to the conversations around me. I spelt out new words in my mind, storing them away to discuss with my language helper later. The time came when, without hesitating, I could exchange the long series of Wolof greetings with those who came to my work area. I gradually began to talk to the patients directly, asking simple questions, such as, “Do you have pain?”
When I spoke in Wolof, people would smile and say, “You understand.”
“I understand a little”, I would answer. “I am studying Wolof.”
They would nod in sympathy. Then they would quote from the proverb about catching the monkey, usually just the first phrase, “Ndanka, ndanka”.
I would smile and echo, “Ndanka, ndanka”. That would delight them, as quoting proverbs shows that you understand the problems of life.
Pronouncing the word ndanka is not hard for an English speaker. The initial consonant blend is spoken as written and the rest of the word sounds like the German danke. The unusual tongue formation at the beginning, and the word’s offbeat rhythm, are onomatopoeic to the idea of steady advance, slowly, slowly. The repeated adverb is emphatic, insisting that you must move gradually when catching a monkey. Since returning from West Africa, I have had new difficulties and delays in my career; and I often get frustrated with my lack of progress. It helps to stop and tell myself, “Ndanka, ndanka.”
Love this. We need to live life ndanka. One step at a time. Thx.
A lovely post, Holly! I hope I will remember to bear Ndanka, Ndanka in mind. It sounds beautiful.