In the Belly of the Elephant by Susan Corbett

“dough” into little three-corner hat shapes. My neighbor then dropped the shapes into a large pot of hot oil. The other two women working with the oil press turned the wheel in the opposite direction to lift it off what remained of the groundnuts—a dry, flat cake. This, the appropriate technology people had said, could be used to thicken soups or as supplementary feed for the cattle.
    My neighbor scooped the little hats out of the oil. They were peanut cookies or kuli kuli . The children ran from every corner of the courtyard to toss the cookies from hand to hand until they were cool enough to eat. The kuli kuli , I discovered, would be taken to the market and sold at five franks apiece. Kuli kuli had lots of protein. Kids ate kuli kuli .
    Using the traditional method, two kilos of peanuts made a half liter of oil sold in the market for 500 CFA and about 70 cookies which sold for 350 CFA, for a total of about a dollar and a half. Using the oil press, two kilos of peanuts produced 1/2 liter of oil sold in the market for one dollar (the byproduct of the oil press, the dry peanut cake, was new and not yet a market product).
    The oil press did a good job of extracting oil with less labor (though not less time), but took away one of the more profitable market enterprises of the women. If the oil press were set up as a local business, the women would also have to pay the owner of the press to use it. The press saved labor but ended up losing money and a valuable protein snack for the household. The new technology solved one problem, only to introduce several others. Paul Bunyan had won.
    A mechanical screech came from the other side of town. Everyone in the courtyard lifted their eyes to look for the sound. The screech rounded into a loud voice. As it drew nearer, it became clear that the voice was coming from a loud speaker. Sven came up to me, and we listened together. First Fulfuldé, followed by French. Soon, the voice was in the street outside the courtyard. Through the open gate, a military truck with a large bullhorn on top drove slowly past.
    “The military of Upper Volta has overthrown former President Lamizana in a bloodless coup d’état ,” the speaker said. “It has been a peaceful transition as is the tradition of the people of Upper Volta.” Sven turned to me with big eyes. “As of this morning, there will be a seven pm to five am curfew for the protection of the people.”
    Laya arrived at the gate, balancing an empty headpan. We had arranged to walk together to the market and office. I thanked the ladies of my neighborhood for their help in testing the oil press, and Sven for taking three roles of pictures. As the ladies loaded their head pans with bottles of oil and piles of kuli kuli , Laya and I waved our goodbyes. We set off up the street. Laya wasn’t smiling. Laya always smiled unless she disapproved of something. Maybe she was afraid. Maybe fear was the second thing that stole her smile.
    People crowded the streets, talking loudly. Women and children threaded their way to the market, and groups of military men patrolled the town. A few soldiers carried rifles slung over their backs, but they were grown men, not the children soldiers I had seen in Liberia.
    Caught up in the excitement, Laya and I made our way up the street among the crowds. Up ahead, green trucks drove in and out of a large courtyard that housed the military barracks. Near the wide gate, Drabo stood with a group of officers. As we passed, he excused himself from the group and came over to us.
    A tip of the beret to Laya, “ Bonjour , Madame .” Then to me, “ Mademoiselle .”
    “ Bonjour, Capitaine ,” I said. “Can you tell us what’s happened?”
    “Zerbo has overthrown Lamizana.”
    “Is this good?”
    “The military is behind Zerbo,” Drabo said. “The teachers and Parti Syndicat are happy. Businesses will reopen. The people have won.” A momentary smile passed over his lips. “But, for security reasons, all