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.