By Thomas Gilchrist

Written: Oct. 12, 2008

Last night, a received my Senegalese name. In the choosing of a Senegalese name, one often has to choose from either his father’s name, in my case, El Hadj, or from one of the common Senegalese family names, like Diop or Ndjaye, preceded by a common first name, like Mamadou.

I chose Youssou Ndour.

Youssou Ndour, the famous Senegalese singer, the Bruce Springstein/the Beatles of Senegal. Asking someone if they like Youssou Ndour here in Senegal is like asking someone back in the States if they like the Beatles. Even if they don’t, they aren’t very likely to tell you, but, then again, who doesn’t like the Beatles?

Well, quite an uproar went up around the house once they discovered that they were in the presence of celebrity. Women would come up to me, offering me goats and massages in exchange for my hand in marraige. Grown men shook my hand like giddy teenage girls at a Brittney Spears concert ten years ago. Older women brought me food, and said that they held me in their prayers.

Youssou Ndour is the voice of Senegal, kind of like how NWA was the voice of Compton. Just as how Easy and Cube told the tale of racist, corrupt police forces, poverty, and desperation in drugs and women, Youssou Ndour sings the plight of Senegal. The poor, the hungry… the tired.

Now, I am the voice of Senegal. I sing for those who have no tongues, I cook for those who have no rice. I am in prayer. I am in prayer for Senegal, for its poor, its hungry, its naked. Forever I will be known as Youssou Ndour, bard of des pauvres.

Come one, come all to see the bard and his wares, the cosmos of music awaits. I will sing, sing for my supper. I actually will. After days of using the “my throat doesn’t feel well” excuse around the house, my loving family has finally threatened me with starvation should I continue to strike against my voice. They want a concert, and I will give it to them. For I must sing for Senegal. But first, I must speak to my agent.

“I will not teach you how to make tea until you sing for us, Youssou Ndour,” said my host brother Tapha. “But Tapha,” I say, “I am out of practice, and I fear that you will not like my singing, should I sing for you now, as I have not looked over my music in many days.”

“Sing!” demands Kokuyu in a flurry of Wolof, gesturing towards a baby goat.

“Sing for Kokuyu,” says Tapha. “She has come all the way from Touba on pilgrimage to hear you sing. When she heard that we were hosting Youssou Ndour, she calls me up and says, ‘Oh, please, Tapha, let me hear Youssou Ndour, sing his glorious song, if only for a moment,’ and I says, ‘Please, come, and hear him sing.”

I will sing for Senegal, lamb of Africa. I will sing until I can sing no more, and then I will go on tour.

By Thomas Gilchrist

Written: October 12, 2008

I haven’t quite come to terms with my random Senegalese friends here. For the girls it’s a lot more difficult because they’re so exotic–even more so than the white guys–and usually what’ll occur is that what started out as a friendly conversation became at uncomfortable at some point for some reason. A lot of it has to do with the Senegalese value of “Teranga,” which is basically hospitality. It’s taken very “seriously” here, which I guess is like saying that all Americans are hard-working, driven individuals, a common perception, I suppose, about Americans.

Like, last night, Matt and I were sitting in a bar, when this guy, Hussein, came up and engaged formalities until he asked to sit down. I thought he looked kind of like Dave Chapelle, but Matt disagreed. So he sat down with us, and we talked for a while, and it really was nice. Then we left to go meet up with the rest of our group at another bar, and Hussein, who said that he was the brother of the waitress at the bar, implied that he’d come with us to show us around and everything.

So he came, and we sat–and, really the underlying awkward thing here is that we didn’t know how he was going to act around the American girls in our group. He was a completely normal, nice guy, by all accounts, but you just knew he was going to hit on the women with us, because that’s usually what happens,–and I went up to the bar and got Matt and I a beer because I owed him a beer, and when I sat back down, Hussein, 35 or so, was like “If we came together as a group, why didn’t you get me a beer, too?” I suppose I should have asked, but he had gone up to the bar a few minutes before, and had returned empty handed, so I honestly thought he didn’t drink, and I told him as such. He then said that he didn’t have any money, so I, a little perturbed at the order of events, manned up and got Hussein a beer.

Well, a few of the Americans were clearing out for the night–a byproduct, more than anything else, of the more conservative sentiments here in St. Louis, especially towards women–and a couple of the girls informed Matt and I that A) Their mother told them to have us escort them home, and, B) that they would like to go now to the Discotheque (read: club). Hussein was all for it, and explained to us that we could either have the guys each pay 3,000 F CFA to go to the nice discotheque, or go to the less-aristocratic club for free. We are not aristocrats.

Hussein paraded us, now, Matt, I, and the three girls we were supposed to accompany home, down a series of dimly lit streets inexplicably crowded with male Senegalese twenty-somthings, and this whole time we, but especially the girls are giving each other the eye communicating, “Where the hell is he taking us?” and, “I still have my wallet, right? OK. Good.” Well, we wound up at the bar at which we had started our night, which was confusing, but relieving. It turned out that walking through the bar, which happened to be a former slave house (read: warehouse/jail) lead out back to the discotheque, which is most closely described as a modern speakeasy.

And there was Hussein, leading the way. The place was dark, save a few neon lights, and we took seats on some cocktail-styled couches along the wall. The music–both Senegalese, and remixed American rap–was absolutely overwhelming. We sat there, the six of us, and took in the most fabulous sight I had ever beheld: 25 or so Senegalese men dancing–with themselves. They would sway and shake, and hold themselves, grooving to the beat of the broken subwoofer which shook the thin, peeling walls. We sat, impressed.

Well it turned out that the club was free because there was a one drink minimum policy, which we weren’t about to uphold as long as the prices on the menu were accurate, so we were on our marry way. We walked out, leaving the swaying men to the solace of their own rhythms.

Weeeeeelllll, Hussein had been talking about his “Big house with many rooms” for quite a while at this point, and now that we could once again hear ourselves shouting, he was now increasingly persistent for us to join him for some food and a drink up at his place. We excused ourselves around it, eventually settling on a trip to a nearby pizza place instead. We sat out walking in the general direction of this pizza-notion, but after walking for a fifteen minutes or so, with Hussein, on nearly-unlit roads, we decided that the pizza place would probably be closed anyways, and that we should probably return home. “No, no, stay!” cried Hussein, “Stay for a meal at my place, you are my friends.” “No, no, we couldn’t,” we said, “We couldn’t.”

So we piled into a cab, all five of us, four in the back seat, and thanked Hussein for showing us around, and shook hands, saying that we were welcome, if only we would return and stop by, anytime. We embraced hands once more through the open window as the cab drove away to return us across the bridge.

————-

Now, something similar could have happened it States, but it would have gone down much, much differently, or would it? Let’s say the roles were reversed, and we men a couple of Senegalese in a bar. We got to talking, and, when they said they didn’t have any plans for the night, we invited them to tag along with us, as we could introduce them to our friends and the city. But in our situation, there is nothing binding. We said, “Hey, you guys are welcome to come, if you want.” and they said “OK, thanks.” But there is nothing binding. We would let them tag along with whatever we were doing, but once we got to a certain place, we wouldn’t have to hang out together or anything, and if we wanted to leave, we could do so whenever, as long as we knew they had a way home.

In Senegal, there is always something binding. When you meet a Senegalese in a bar, and you open yourself up for a relationship, by talking or inviting them to sit down, you are inviting them for the night. The unwritten agreement is one of “Teranga,” although, there always seem to be alterior motives of one kind or another, usually connected to unemployment, which is sad.

Today, Matt and I went back to the island for a day of touristing. Aimlessly wandering, we heard a voice from behind us trying to get our attention, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except this flirtation was followed by a “Steph! Toma!” It was Hussein. “Oh, hey there.” We chimed. He asked us if we remembered him, which of course, we did. He was sitting on a set of stairs with some friends of his. On a Sunday such as this, there wasn’t much business to be done in Senegal. He asked us about our night, and what we were doing here, and we said we were looking for a CD store called Sono Mondial. Hussein’s face lit up, as he eagerly led us in the direction of the store.

We went there, which was awesome, because for 2,000 CFA, you could get a burned copy of any CD in the store, so I got some Youssou Ndour. Matt and I gave each other the, “OK, I really don’t feel like having a Senegalese guy following us around today because there are only a few things that are more exhausting in the world.”

So we thanked Hussein for showing us the store today, and for showing us around the night before, and we told him that we were going home because we were tired, when in actuality we were going to the beach. In Senegal, white lies are how you deal with social interaction with the local population.

So we shook hands and headed off in our own directions. We rounded the corner, and headed off to the beach, commenting on how weird it was to run into him again just like that, and how he was such a decent guy for helping us get to the store.

We had been walking for about five minutes, and were about to cross the bridge, when behind us: “Hey! you guys going to the beach?” Hussein. Apparently he had been following us. “Um……. yes.”

Hussein: “;saoifh ;lj;ld jj;f;slkjdf ;lkajf;l j;lsdf; l;gowiej; ;dlf;als ;le;lkn.!!!!!!!!!!! ;oajsf;l ;lf;j;dsf;ja; ;l;ldj ….. !”

Me: “You want us to give you 500 CFA so that you can buy a beer, because you showed us where the store was?”

Hussein: “Yes. I showed you the store. You give me a gift.”

Matt: “The bastard.”

Me: Non… “C’est dommage.”

Hussein: “No? I showed you around!”

Me: “It was Teranga, and Teranga is always free!”

Hussein: Scowl.

Matt: “The bums always loose, Mr. Lebowski! The bums ALWAYS loose!”

African Taxi

Cool autumn night, My dear phone

African return