waiting for oumar

Speaking of waiting, I’ve done a lot of waiting for Oumar. (Oumar the plumber who repairs the stove, not to be confused with Oumar the plumber who fixes the plumbing or Oumar who heads the trash-collection association.) Oumar the stove-fixer wears a striped shirt with a Roto-Rooter patch on it, evidently a uniform in a previous incarnation. The stains from grease and rust pasted on the shirt hem tell the stories of many lifetimes of wear. Oumar, a nice guy, repaired the stove when it first arrived—“I’ll be able to make coffee,” I thought, “he’s my hero!”—but declared that he needed some parts to complete the repairs. The parts are not to be found in these parts, had to be ordered from Bamako. Three weeks later (my cook is still preparing meals over a charcoal stove), after multiple phone calls and threats from Allaye that if he doesn’t show up chez moi with the diffusers he’ll haul him down to the police station, Oumar reappeared with one diffuser. It worked! I was ecstatic! I gave him money for the stove parts. And he sat down on the terrace to chat with me. “Are you married,” he asked.

Today, six days later, I’m still waiting for him to finish the repairs. Calling him for the past three days, finally he came to the office and agreed he’d be at the house this afternoon, between noon and 1pm. It’s 2:30 now. Time to buy more charcoal.