Tchankada, where the sun doesn't shine for everyone

The world is full of injustice. Of pain no one talks about. Of inequalities so deep they shape entire lives.

I was born into a poor family in a small, remote village in Couffo — a forgotten place called Tchankada.
There’s no clean water. No electricity. No health center.
Only red earth, calloused hands, and the strength to survive.

Tchankada is a village of workers. Strong, enduring, determined men — fighters.
Every day they work themselves to exhaustion, cultivating the land.
Agriculture is our only defense against hunger, our only way to survive.
But even that is controlled by a few rich merchants.
They buy our crops for almost nothing and sell them in town for profit.
So despite our sweat and hard work, we remain poor. Always.

Each morning, long before sunrise — before even the rooster crows — the sound of iron wakes us.
Old Gbegnon, the village blacksmith, starts his work.
He sharpens machetes, hoes, axes.
His arms are still strong despite his age, the veins thick under his tight skin.
Gbegnon is respected. His fire never goes out.
He's our village clock.
If you're still in bed when he starts, you’re already seen as lazy.

While the metal rings under his hammer, another voice rises.
It’s the gong-maker, Sèglà.
A master of speech, he walks the paths with his gong, his deep voice echoing like an elephant’s cry.
He brings the chief’s messages: a meeting, a ceremony, a death, a warning.
Each word carries weight. The village listens. And gets ready.

By then, the women are already up.
They kneel at the fire, stirring it with bundles of sticks.
Our mothers. Our Amazons.
They prepare the corn dough — the food we eat before heading out.
Sometimes we walk or cycle many kilometers just to reach the fields.
And under the burning sun, the day begins.

Tchankada.
A name no one knows.

But I’m a child of Tchankada — a village that’s never known joy.
We’ve never had clean water.
Electricity? That belongs to another world.
A health center? You walk for miles hoping to find one.
And even there, it’s lacking: no beds, no medicine, no doctors.

School?
We barely know the word.
There are a few straw huts, and the tin buildings have holes in them.
When it rains, the roofs blow off. Water runs over the students.
One teacher may handle three or four grades at once.
Kids of all ages mix together in noise and confusion.
Here, even school feels like suffering.
Children have stopped dreaming.
They don’t believe in school anymore, because school — here — leads nowhere.

Health is a daily battle.
When someone falls ill, we start by praying.
Then we try herbs, wait for help, a loan, anything.
But often, nothing comes. And illness doesn’t wait.

In the few clinics we reach, we hear cries — of pain, of grief.
Women lying on mats.
Children burning with fever.
Old people worn out.
Every cry is a cry for help.
And a reminder that we’re powerless.

And I wonder…
Is this our fate?
Are we cursed?
Is this what it means to be born here?

Still, Tchankada has one thing to offer: sodabi — our local palm wine.
It’s strong. Pure.
One sip and you’re dizzy.
You buy it from old Zondo, if you can.
Beer, whiskey?
They’re like ghosts.
You only see them at weddings, ceremonies, or big celebrations.
Even then, only the elders drink.
If you're young, you might get a sip — just enough to remind you that you don’t matter yet.

In my village, kids no longer dream with their notebooks.
Because everything around us teaches one thing: dreaming is useless.

And I keep asking myself this painful question:
Don’t we deserve a little happiness too?
After slavery, colonization, humiliation, and generations of suffering —
Why are we still in darkness?
Still poor?
Still silent?

No water.
No electricity.
No healthcare.
Only land, faith, and the fragile hope that maybe… one day…