Bush Pigs, by Richard Dooling
Posted by Richard Dooling on March 19th, 2007
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

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BUSH PIGS
(for Lahai Hindowa)
Short Fiction By
Richard Dooling
©1994
Originally published in The New Yorker
(Read online below, or download and print:
a plain print PDF - 180 kb; or
a decorative e-book - 474 kb.)
It’s not easy coming back to this country. It’s not like any other country in the world. Most of you don’t know that, because you live here, and you’ve never been anywhere else, except maybe the Caribbean, which is like a big beach, or Europe, which is like going to an old museum. Europeans sit at tables with knives and forks. They have beds and sheets, toilets and garbage cans. Africa is different. The expatriates there will tell you that the reverse culture shock of coming back to America can be worse than the shock of going Third World in the first place.
For three years I was in the Peace Corps, and I lived in a village in the south of Sierra Leone, West Africa. I’d like to say that I stayed so long because the villagers needed me, but that would be a lie. I owed a lot on my college loans, I heard that jobs back home were scarce, I didn’t want to go to law school, a certain village girl prepared my meals for me and took care of me in other ways, and for a long time a couple of diamond diggers and I were smoking the very best Nigerian jamba every night and listening to Bob Marley and Lucky Dube, King Sunny Ade and Johnny Clegg Savuka. Time passed. I used to drink with a white missionary at Sulima Beach—twenty minutes by footpath and the most beautiful place in the world. One night we laughed over beers about how a local witch-finder had put a swear on him. Four days later his body washed up on the beach in front of the thatched baffa where we had watched the sun set.






