It’s not difficult to see how it begins. Possibly with children who overhear the word from some adult. And then one day the n-word is all over town . . . then all over a nation, perhaps all over a portion of a continent.

It’s a harmless, essentially meaningless word. Some simple alphabet letters on the lips of a child. I’ve heard myriad explanations as to the word’s origin, none of which I find completely satisfactory. I suppose that the origin of the word is unimportant. After three months it’s mildly irritating. So imagine the n-word bantered about for generations. Irritating? Offensive? Is sickening too strong to describe the n-word?

The n-word . . . every single bloody day. Morning, noon, night. Endless! Everywhere you go:



Nazarra. What does it really mean? Foreigner? White foreigner? Crazy person on a purple Barbie bike with helmet? Lady riding through water in the rain? . . . when any rational Burkinabe knows to stay inside during a rainstorm.

How do you stop it . . . end the n-word? My approach? Hit the brakes on the bike and pull up to the dozen children squealing nazarra! This completely astounds children, every single time. I introduce myself. Moi, je m’appelle Katerine (or Kat-ee, or Kate . . . because Kathy is never going to be pronounced here). I try also in Kassim: Am yuri yi Katerine. I beg them to say my name. I tell them; Dit bonjour, Katerine. Dim paga, Katrine. N’gahn kozara, Katrine? I even try Moore: Nay yeebeogo, Katerine. And with three languages from which to choose, a dozen little voices say Bonjour, Katerine. Voila! Problem solved. No more n-word. One potential problem . . . have I really accomplished anything, or will female PCVs forevermore be known as Katerine? . . . light-skin lady on a bike with a helmet. Perhaps Katerine (sometimes Kay-Tee) has the same meaning as nazarra. Was progress made? Well, on my Po hill, yes. I think they get it.

How much fun will 300 CFA buy? Let’s remember that 500 CFA, roughly equals one dollar U.S. So 300 CFA is what? About 60 cents? And I call myself a SED volunteer? I have a sad lack of regard for CFA value and its spending. As Daniel says, I’m spending money like it’s my job. Well maybe it is my job. Speaking of SED, here’s my SED stage. Me, front row left.

OK, so at the marche children and adults call out to me: Nazarra! Ah, but yesterday before I hit the marche I stopped and purchased a bag of individually wrapped hard toffees. At least a hundred in the package. And at the market? Same drill . . . call me nazarra and I’m walking right up to you for introductions . . . with the offer of a bonbon. I don’t think this plan worked. I doubt that one single person remembered my name or even cared. But let me tell you, women and children came from all parts of the market. Stalls were left empty while ancient-appearing women came for toffee. Word must spread quickly in Kassim.

So as ineffective as my bonbon approach was, it was tremendous fun. My host country nationals are so friendly, and they’re always stunned when I say the French equivalent of comment ca va? which, in Kassim is Dinley or N’gahn gogara (I’m spelling phonetically).

One day when my 5-iron arrives (hint, hint, Rusty), a 300 CFA bag of bonbons is going to equate to 60-cents for practice at the driving range. With my home atop a hill overlooking nothing but lush grassy fields, I’m essentially living beside a picturesque elevated tee.

Will the Po children ever remember my name? Will my 5-iron ever arrive? Will children return a golf ball for a bonbon? I feel fairly confident, but we can only speculate.