The Power of Touch
By April 4th, 2003, the civil war in the Ivory Coast was in full effect. It was a sunny afternoon in Abidjan—the largest city in the country— yet the streets were empty. Everyone was in their homes nervously looking outside their windows for rebel activities. As my family and I relaxed in our house, you could hear the drop of a dime from miles away. My grandmother was in the kitchen cooking my favorite dish, attieke with fried fish. I was filled with joy because school was closed due to political tensions in the country. This gave my cousins and I the chance to play bottlecap soccer, while the grown-ups sipped tea and exchanged war stories.
Suddenly it happened — a loud bang on our main door. The elders’ stories went silent and so did the sound of our caps hitting each other. We all stared at the door hoping the banging would stop and whoever was causing the disruption would walk away. A voice then shouted, “If no one answers we will break this door down and take everything we want.” Still, no one in the house responded.
My grandmother quietly walked over, led me to our bedroom, turned the lights off. She told me to silently hide under the bed. Lying there all I could selfishly think of was how the rebels interrupted my third win.
Thinking back on it, death wasn’t a concept that I could comprehend at the time. I saw people die on the streets and on TV but it never really scared me.
Lying under the bed, I heard the sound of crying coming from the door and thought it was my cousin, Maliki, who was always crying over something. I peeked my head out from under the bed and saw my grandmother weeping, and my mood completely changed. I didn’t know how to feel. In that moment, tears streamed down my face as my heart began to race.
This was the first time in my life that I felt this nervous. I had never seen my grandmother cry until that day, so I knew this was serious. When I saw her cry, I felt an instant urge to comfort her. While still feeling quite distraught, I came out from under the bed and held her hands. I didn’t know what to say, I can’t even recall much from that point on. We stood by the door in the dark crying together hand in hand. I felt uncomfortable looking at my grandmother cry, and so I just stared at the wall as time went by. I squeezed her hands each time the rebels made a threat, and she would squeeze back in response. Holding her warm hands actually made me feel better.
After nearly 15 minutes of no response from our home, the rebels got tired of banging on the door and drove away. Those 15 minutes felt so much longer because we had no idea of what was coming next. The house remained silent for another 30 minutes as we were all scared and taken back by the experience.
I was a fearless young boy growing up— experienced many things a kid shouldn’t at a young age, but fuck it, that’s life. After that experience, I understood the importance of being there for someone and allowing myself to feel every emotion. I learned The Power of Touch that day; words aren’t always necessary. Sometimes a simple touch can go a long way. People might not always know what they need. However, if you feel the need to be there for someone, you should embrace that feeling. You can be the light and hope for that person.
This was a tough story for me to tell because I hate sharing and feeling vulnerable, but I’ve come to understand that SHARING OPENLY can be therapeutic. It can invite others to share their own stories. There’s a lesson in every joyful and sad experience.
