"Bring the rope to America."

The people sitting outside the hospital called me over.

“Come.”

I crossed the street.

“You did not greet us.”
“I didn’t see you. Good afternoon.”
“You didn’t see us?”
“I didn’t see you. How is the afternoon?”
“Peace only.”
“How are you?”
“Peace only.”
“How is the work?”
“Every day you walk by and don’t greet us.”
“Sorry.”
“Where were you going?”
“The bitik there. I want to buy soap. But the bitik owner is not there.”
“Basiru went to the mosque, he will be back soon.”
“Oh right, it’s Friday.”
“People say that Adama Njie would always greet people but Binta will not greet.”
“Mm.”
“Sit. Wait for Basiru to return. He will not be long.”
“Okay.”

I take a seat next to them out of guilt rather than any actual desire to spend time with strangers. The greetings continue.

“How is your husband?”
“Peace only.”
“Who is your husband?”
“Mamasaliou Sowe.”
“When are you going to America?”
“In four months.” [note: this story is from a couple of months back]
“If you go to America, will you take your husband?”
“No.”
“No?!”
“If I go to America, before I leave, we will divorce.”
“You’ll divorce?!”
“He is Mamasaliou, Sinni’s son. He only has three years.”
“But you can wait until he is older,” one of the men replied.
“Bring the rope to America,” the woman implored, “Have you had a marriage ceremony?”
“No.”

That seemed to make things better, and the topic of conversation changed to America.