It’s 2:30pm and Dakar is dozing, slowed to a near halt by the oppressive heat. Stallholders sprawl across their goods, snatching a quick nap while the more virtuous make their way to the mosque, summoned by the shrill call to prayer. Many must spill out into the surrounding streets, jostling to lay down prayer mats on the baking earth.
I watch this spectacle unfolding from a ‘car rapide’, a public transport bus which resembles a brightly painted tin can. The young conductor piles people into the tiny interior. When he is contented that his car is sufficiently crammed, a yell at the dormant driver is enough to set the vehicle lurching forward. The ‘car rapides ‘ are known for their reckless drivers, many of whom do not have a licence. The cars are owned by the maraboux, religious teachers, and are therefore considered ‘protected’, licence or not.
The European doctrine of happiness, which teaches the importance of the individual, ‘personal space’ and ‘me time’ is barely feasible here. It is very rare to find anyone who lives alone, or even spends any time alone at all. An attempt to buy a single mango is met with a quizzical expression at the strange ways of foreigners. I am told that I must purchase several; that it is ‘unhealthy’ to eat alone.
The Senegalese like nothing better than informing foreigners how to behave. Their dogged pride in the values of their own country is at once admirable and infuriating. Any consternation at the occasional chaotic nature of things is met with wry laughter and ‘This is Africa, not Europe!’
Sharing is at the centre of Senegalese living. Giving to others is not a choice but an obligation. As a ‘toubab’ (white person) it is difficult to go anywhere without being swamped by people requesting presents and money.
They are convinced that every toubab is rich beyond their imagination, and it seems just that they should have a share in this good fortune. People often say how much they like your sunglasses or necklace, and then demand that you give it to them. The ‘mine’ and the ‘yours’ are barely distinguished. The flip side of this attitude towards taking is that they are always ready to give. Meals are served on an enormous platter and shared with anyone who happens to be around. The open plan of many of the houses means that cousins, friends, builders, delivery men wander in and out freely. Anyone who is there when food is served will sit down to eat. The invitation is unspoken.
I live with a family of 18 children, aged between one and thirty-one, which means that the mother and sisters spend a lot of their time cooking. As soon as lunch is over, dinner begins. Cooking is done with a pestle and mortar and gas cylinder in a cave-like kitchen or in the open air.
It is the summer holidays, so when they’re not cooking the girls laze around in the shade and chat, sending their brothers out on errands. Ibu and Samba, aged 10 and 11, should be the principle dogsbodies, but seem to disappear mysteriously for hours, much to their siblings’ annoyance. Awa and Adam, twin babies, are given free reign of the house, and are occasionally to be found happily in a corner chewing at something unidentifiable, sometimes one is brought back by a neighbour, having crawled into the street. This ‘laissez faire’ attitude towards children would probably be classed as negligence in England, yet I notice how little the babies cry when left to their own devices.
Senegal is a country in flux. The women in this family are ambitious. Unlike their mothers (their father has had three wives), who are largely uneducated, they go to school and want to be teachers, policewomen, and lawyers. The patriarchal head of the family is satisfied with his ‘greatest investment’: His children.
I am wary of romanticising African life. It is my second stint in Senegal and this time round I am far more conscious of the difficulties of living in a country where corruption is rife and chaos is part of the daily grind.
Badu, a friend of mine with a business degree, has been forced to work in a call centre for the last three months, unable to find any other employment. The company went bankrupt and refused to pay any of its employees. He shrugs his shoulders and starts again. The Senegalese are used to this kind of injustice. The President, Abdoulaye Wade, has been in power for nine years. He is currently investing 23 million euros of the people’s money on 50m high statue of himself, his wife and his child. Meanwhile Senegalese people put up with daily power cuts, half finished roads, and flooding.
Standing with this monstrosity towering over us Badu and I are lost for words. Then he starts laughing. If Senegal has taught me anything, it’s this: always laugh in the face of adversity.
