Every Sunday morning, I would wake up the boys
around 7:30 or 8. "L'heure de la plage est sacrée," I would say
to them. Yawning, stretching, we put on our clothes and migrated towards
the front door. Jacob would feed the poultry, while Adrien would push the
motorcycle out the front door of the living room.
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Moto, Jacob, Adrien |
The haze of the swamp fell over our house and
the city, keeping it cooler than usual. In my daze, I straddled the
motorcycle, waiting for the boys to keep up with me. I would sit forward,
almost on the gas tank, leaving room for them to join me on the motorcycle.
The suspension coils pushed to their limits, I let off the clutch, gave
the bike some gas, and and the three of us rode off to the beach.
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Moto soaks in the view while we frolic. |
We sped by statues representing old Vudon
stories, and what seemed like the entire city of Ouidah on their Sunday
run. “Yovo,” the would yell at me, or
“Teacher!” as we beat them to the beach.
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January brings cold mornings. Adrien, Jacob |
We would park on an old foundation, probably a
former buvette or boutique. The boys would dismount as I dropped to the lowest
gear and plowed through the sand, mounting the cement slab. Leaving our sandals behind with the bike, we
jumped off the platform and into the sandy wonderland.
We would walk if we had energy, chasing sand
crabs, racing, rough housing, and dancing in the waves. If we were tired, we
would just sit in the sand, admiring the spectacle of fishermen pushing their
boats out to sea. A careful game with
the waves, they stood there at the shore, watching the water, finding the
perfect time to push forward. Anxiously
climbing over the waves to get out to calm waters.
The beach wasn’t beautiful in the traditional
sense – you had to watch for broken glass, piles of trash, and the occasional
piece of drifted styrofoam or wood. The arch of the Gate of No-Return, the
monument to slaves gone away, prominently marked the beach. It was surrounded
by a collection of derelict buildings - a hotel once glamorous with windows
punched out and soot stained floors.
Sometimes tradition wins over beauty, or
tradition becomes beautiful. The beach was our church - our Sunday morning
place for quiet time, reflection, conversation, with whatever spirits might
surround us.