Writing inspired by the following SWC prompt:

The Edge Of The World
Is this real or metaphorical? How do you even get there? And what is waiting for you
once you arrive?

The Edge of the World

by Mary Anglberger

I somehow knew, I’d make it there one day, but when I did, it did come as a surprise.

It was June, it was hot and it was dusty, the sub-Saharan landscape as bleak as it gets – endless variations of brown, the occasional scraggy bush or leafless tree, now and then a goat herder with a few skinny animals in the distance, looking like stick figures in a modern painting. And then, there was Mireille Mathieu, the prim and proper French singer, who somehow became an idol in the German Schlager world in the 70s, sporting her trademark, always perfect mushroom haircut, singing heart-wrenching, chanson-like songs. Her syrupy voice was crooning ‘Si-i-i-lent night, ho-o-ly night’ from the car radio’s speakers at full volume, muffled slightly by all that sand that had gotten into the grooves of the dust cap. ‘Oh!’ was the only word that came out of my mouth. ‘Did you know this is a Christmas song?’ ‘Is it? That doesn’t matter, I like it.’

Nothing much mattered to Joseph. He was successful in his job as a welder, even without much education. His friendly and simple ways made him well-liked and well-known all over the country – a place one could cross in about 10 hours even with its bad, pot-holed roads of hardened sands. And Joseph was religious, generously sprinkling God into his conversations, greetings and wishes. So, when he asked me, if I wanted to accompany him to the north of the country where he wanted to discuss a deal for school benches, I felt safe to say ‘Yes.’ I knew, he was a sly business man and his God was not included in his business negotiation and promises, but then again, cheating was the most common business of all. I was a friend, not a client. Something that actually would change later on and maybe something he’d had in mind when he befriended me at a ‘buvette’ – an outdoor bar, the place where many friendships start in almost-always-hot West Africa – where I was with some mutual friends of his. But having some hidden interest when becoming friends with a white person was also common. An aspect of life, that took me a bit longer than many other things to get used to, and even after years in Burkina Faso, a dear friend managed to throw me off completely by asking: ‘Marie, when you leave, will you be sure I’ll get your fridge?’ At that point I hadn’t even thought about leaving and even though we remained good friends, she never did end up getting my fridge.

I would, in fact, later on contract Joseph for an order of school benches for a tiny project our ambassador had given me funds for – more out of sympathy for my simple lifestyle and volunteer work for an NGO than for my experience in such matters, I believe. Of course, Joseph tried to cheat me, of course I caught him. We too remained friends. One learns to adapt a different mindset and to be more thick-skinned when living in Africa for so long.
But, at that point, I was only giving Joseph a little background on Mireille Mathieu, in an effort to get him to keep his eyes open as we were rattling along that bumpy dessert road, the rhythmic jolting soothing, similar to that on a train. By now, the dust and fine sand had entered through every little crack of the battered, low car, and we were both sweaty, grimy, tired and thirsty for a cold beer – the go-to beverage that was always safe to drink and always chilled, even if it was via a car battery powered fridge. Soon we were to arrive at Dori, a small market town in the very north of the country. Joseph had reserved two rooms at the local ‘auberge’ – a hostel-like inn that often had a restaurant attached, offering the usual little concrete rooms with not much more than a bed and outdoor showers. But we were looking forward to getting there.

‘What’s this?!’ I wanted to know, sounding alarmed enough to finally have Joseph open his eyes completely.

‘Oh,’ he croaked in a still sleepy voice, hoarse from all the dust. ‘It’s a sandstorm. Be sure your window is closed properly.’

Maybe 100 meters ahead of us, there was what looked like a huge, beige wall stretching across the entire horizon, its top, high up in the sky, curling over like a huge wave in a brown ocean, ready to wash over us. As Mireille Mathieu kept up the Christmas spirit and Joseph was finally fully awake, we entered the wall. It became eerily dark and very quiet, except for the millions of grains of sand rustling against the car in a rain-like whisper. The orange-tinted, thick air made it feel like nightfall on what may have well been a different planet.

‘This must be the edge of the world,’ I was thinking to myself.