François
François was born on July 25, 2019, in Dobem in southern Chad, in the Sara-speaking belt near the Logone. The state’s officials and teachers operated in French, and soldiers and administrators came and went, but daily authority in Dobem sat with family elders, the church catechist, and the men who organized farming work. At home François heard a Sara variety, the one his parents used with each other and with the older boys.
His father, Joseph, worked rainfed fields with a hoe and a worn machete, counting on sorghum and groundnuts. His mother, Marie, carried water, cooked, hoed beside him when she could, and sold small things at market—salt, oil in reused bottles, onions when she had them. Sundays were for church. Marie sang hymns and prayed over the children’s heads before sleep. When sickness ran through the village, she tied a small leather charm under François’s shirt and took advice from Marguerite, Joseph’s mother, about what foods to avoid and which paths not to walk at night.
Jean, born in 2013, kept an eye on everyone. Paul, born in 2016, stayed close to François and tested him, tugging him into games with other children and laughing when François froze up and watched instead. During the COVID-19 period, markets tightened and travel became harder. Joseph came home angry more often, and Marie measured millet more carefully.
Michel arrived in 2021 and died before he learned to sit. Catéchiste André led prayers, and Marie spoke less for months, her words short and flat. After that, François woke easily when someone coughed.
The rains failed in patches and then the floods came; in 2022 the road turned to mud for weeks. When prices rose sharply in 2023, the family moved to a nearby small town where Marie could sell more regularly and the boys could reach school. A stallholder named Awa sometimes extended Marie small credit or told her which goods were cheapest that week. François stayed quiet in the classroom, eyes on the wall, letting Paul answer first. When other children brought new games or unfamiliar snacks, he watched first before trying. Maître Daniel kept him in the front row and made him trace letters on a slate until his hand steadied. François started carefully but drifted; he sometimes forgot his slate or abandoned the task if corrected sharply. In 2025 he reads short French sentences and writes simple notes, especially when Jean sits beside him and tells him to finish.
Now, at seven, François walks to school in the morning, returns for water and firewood errands, and sits in the evening light copying words while Marie counts coins from the day’s sales. When food is short, he keeps a small portion for himself before sharing with Paul.