St. Louis Family

Back by the auberge, I could hear drumbeats and whistles and women hooting and I remembered Khady said there was a “tam tam” for women at the Tennis Club that night. I headed inside not knowing what to expect. The lights were bright and there were dozens of women resplendent in patio chairs forming a square around the tennis court. The music was three djembes and a tam tam tucked under the arm and pounded with a small, curved stick. And on the dance floor were half a dozen women literally shaking their ample booties.

Senegalese dancing is aggressive and wild. Legs move one way, arms move another. The women lift their shirts and hike their skirts for maximum effect and at one point, a woman brought one of the chairs in the circle and did a rather sexual dance with it. One woman, in a flouncy boubou, hiked her skirt to reveal a fake penis, which had some women literally falling off their chairs. There were judges, including the French consul, who decided on five women, including one who got down on all flours and another who was classically beautiful in the African sense, meaning she was curvy, about 250 lbs and at least a double D cup. And when she got going, she really got going.

After the dancing, they invited the men to the dance, and as there were only two men there, the band members danced. The two men were excellent, jumping and kicking in a style that looked like Kung Fu set to music. From there, the judges invited the best dressed forward and it was quite a hard choice, I expect. There were women in purple, peach, red, black. Most had covered collarbones, a few had glittering sequins. All were bedecked with earrings, necklaces, rings, brooches, and bracelets and those that didn’t have elaborate, plastered hairstyles had beautifully arranged headscarves that seemed to bend and fold and fan in a way that defied gravity. They paraded for a bit in their finery, then the judges focused on hairstyles and head dresses. One woman, my favourite and the eventual winner, had braids snaking around her skull that ended in a gorgeous bundle of twists ant the base of her neck. Another had her hair divided in six perfect sections, each then braided in dozens of tiny, tight braids. There was one white woman in the competition, which seemed to be mostly organized by ex-pat French who sat in one corner and didn’t mix or mingle with any of the Wolof-speaking women around them.

At the end of the night – at midnight – the consul announced the winners amid much media. The winners, who spent hours at the salon, God knows how much on fabric and patterns and sequins and jewelry, as well as make-up, won tins of tomatoes and T-shirts. No big cheques or new cars or products provided by the good people of Proctor-Gamble. Just bragging rights and the base of a sauce. There weren’t even men around to admire their beauty or their dancing. The competition was truly for women only.

The morning I woke feeling ill – damn yassa! – but down to Khady and Oussou’s, where I met their daughters Marie and Daba. Marie, Khady’s oldest, is 13, meaning Khady started having kids at 16. It was only much later when I asked about the whereabouts of the other children that I learned only Moctar and Miriam, a 2-year old, are Oussou’s children. The rest were fathered by another man and they stayed with him when Khady married Oussou. Miriam lived with an aunt, also named Miriam and Oussou told me that is a Senegalese tradition of you name your child after someone, they’re invited to raise it, sort of like a godparent. Miriam’s children were grown and gone, so she opted to take the child at three months and will feed it, clothe and educate her. Oussou assured me everyone was happy with the arrangement, including Khady, although I don’t see how that’s possible.

Oussou and I walked to the Independence Parade and he told me about the beggar boys, who are sent by their parents to beg on the streets. Most are from other towns and have no family. The shocking thing was their connection to the marabouts. I am going to have to read a lot more about the marabouts to fully understand them, but essentially Senegal broke from Arabic tradition and they believe that unlike traditional Islam, which states everyone has a direct, personal relationship with Allah, the Senegalese use marabouts as middlemen, believing they have a greater connection with Allah. There are several fraternities in Senegal, some very strict Muslims, some seemingly more like Hare Krishnas. But all have their disciples, who pay them a fee each month to be included in the fraternity and in the prayers. So, essentially the marabouts are very powerful in both a mystical and a political sense. And they’re incredibly wealthy too.

But the situation with the street boys is one of pure exploitation. They are given lodgings at the marabout’s home, but they must pay for it. Oussou stopped two dirty urchins to prove it and sure enough, if they didn’t bring in at least 50 CFA a day, they’d be beaten and forced to sleep on the street. Unbelievably, the marabout provides neither food nor clothing, just simple lodging. The beggar boys take their turn cans door to door looking for scraps often invoking the name of Allah and the Muslim practice of tithe in the process. I find it galling that the marabouts aren’t held to the same standard, but Oussou said they’re too politically powerful to take on. My questions is, what becomes of these boys? When they grow up, uneducated, unloved and unskilled at anything but begging and hand-to-mouth survival, what do they do? Do they get married, get jobs, get money and “real” lives, or is that their existence for all eternity?

After the parade – a rather dull affair featuring school children in blazing white T-shirts marching with military precision and the military marching with their weapons on display – Oussou and I walked to his childhood home and met his older sister. They house was in rough shape and her room was tiny, but it had a television and VCD player and she seemed reasonably content.

We walked back to Oussou’s home, stopping to greet his younger sister, who sold me a necklace for my mom. Chez Khady, they were just putting the finishing touches on lunch which left just enough time for me to meet Khady’s cousins, who offered to braid my hair. I, of course, declined. They also invited me to another tam tam, but by the time I got around to getting there, it was over.