Mungi dem foo fu ndaxte…A story about a Senegalese girl

The night was dark and still. A slight chill crushed the air – a remnant of the Sahara dust that was in season. In the humid, but breezy room mosquitoes began to buzz with the early cry of the Imam from the Oukam jack ji. Coumba always woke with the early call to prayer. Eyes ajar, the wailing pierced her ears. Though she was accustom to the cherished chants to Allah and though her heart prostrated to Him, as did his male cousins and brothers every morning at the call to prayer, the cries still pierced her. What had become of her restrained youth pierced her – a woman full of voice in a fog of voiceless masses.

Her faith was the answer to her questions of moral and integrity. It was her community, her society, her nation that continually left her distraught. The men who controlled the nation – whether it be government officials or Marabouts – stood firm in their faith and devotion to Allah and it was through their Allah that the decisions were made and policies played. To Coumba, however, their Allah was not their Allah and she thought of this, doubted this, and prayed to her Allah about this. And Allah certainly answered her.

Amidst a soaring crime rate, undaunted poverty, and monthly teacher strikes that left the youth uneducated, Coumba loved her people, her culture. She loved her peppered mango and her mafe and the extra cube of sucre she slipped in the steaming café touba she purchased daily. But the longing nostalgia for these things was romantic and appealing enough to leave them. Having touched and tasted them was proof enough for their existence and validation enough for her personal identity.

Coumba listened as her uncle, cousins, and two brothers enrobed themselves in their boubou attire and quietly shuffled their feet as they exited towards the mosque. She listened as the Imam cried and she listened as the mosquitoes zipped by her ears. She listened, but didn’t move. She listened and didn’t move, but prayed to her Allah for the strength to walk through the masses to be heard. She prostrated in her heart to Allah as tears rolled down her cheeks. And she sat and listened.

Later that evening as the day cooled and the women began to prepare reer, Coumba and her mother argued about the African Renaissance statue that was rumored to be erected. The design was published in the weekly paper. It was to be a Muslim man, strong and imposing, like Balla Beye, lifting his prized child in one hand and grasping his African woman with the other, facing west to the Atlantic and to America. It was also rumored that construction would take place only once the China men arrived. The finished product would boast taller than the Statue of Liberty and house a 5-star hotel.

-Have you heard what it will cost? (Coumba)

-My dear, you know it is not the people who will pay for it. Think of it – no other country in West Africa has such a symbol of the strength of Africa. (yaayam)

-Ah, yes, think of it, the strength of Africa designed and built by the people of North Korea. (Coumba)

-You know that statue will certainly bring money to our people. (yaayam)

-Is that before or after Wade takes his cut? (Coumba)

-My dear, I don’t know why people dislike him so. I know the Marabouts have him by the pants, but he has certainly developed our country. (yaayam)

-Ah, foolish, mother. He’s got you convinced too, I see. You must be listening to Sarkozy too much. And, anyways, how is this appropriate garb for a supposed woman of Allah? (Coumba)

This was Coumba’s one vantage point with her mother. Coumba’s yaay was completely for the construction of the statue despite the estimated costs, the hired immigrant workforce, the distribution of future profits, but the woman’s garb, the short skirt that revealed the woman’s muscular thighs, was a disgrace. In weighing the pros and cons, however, this was not quite enough to sway her opinion.

And this was the argument that was reenacted among the masses and between Coumba and her family for the next year.
Upon the opening of the African Renaissance – which fell on Senegal’s independence day, Coumba prepared for her departure from her mother tongue and her mother land. She had made a promise with herself during the year of construction to leave upon the eve of the opening ceremony. She had listened and prayed and cried long enough and movement is what she yearned for. Coumba’s yaay thought she was merely running away, but Coumba knew her mother would never understand. She was Coumba’s father’s third wife and Coumba was her father’s last born child. It was to him and him only that Coumba hesitated in discussing her decision to leave. Her father listened and starred at Coumba, his last born, and rolled the Islamic beads in his hand, one-by-one. He was an old man of 68 years – tired, but unassuming with energy left only to provide, not to persuade. Coumba adored this about her father, but hardly knew him as the fighter that he was when he was younger. Much like him in build – tall, lean, and broad shouldered – and in appearance – pointed chin, muscular cheek bones, and wise eyes – they hugged in the sitting room on the night Coumba revealed her finalized plan to move to Cape Verde.

-I will be with Auntie, my father. (Coumba)

-I know you will be fine with her there, inch’ allah. (pappam)

-Inch’ allah. (Coumba)

On the morning of her departure Coumba’s father smiled at her, as the taxi pulled away from their home in Oukam. He had an easy smile, but this one told stories of her African childhood and beamed his unending pride in her.

The flight to Praia was bumpy. Winds were turbulent, more so than in past year. West African climate is greatly affected by the Saharan desert winds, which is also affected by the rainy seasons in Addis Ababa and lands further east. Though Coumba grew up with pirogue rides to Goree and the mystical isle de Madeleine, she never experienced nausea quite like the one on the sea ferry to Mindelo. She was red with anguish and worry the entire trip.

Coumba’s Aunt Coura met Coumba at the maritime pier in Mindelo. Having not seen each other in over four years, they had much catching up and reminiscing to do. Coumba sighed a tired sigh when sharing stories of home and of the latest gossip, while Coura sighed a melancholy sigh, sullen for having missed such excitement. That evening they watched news coverage of the African Renaissance opening ceremony. Presidents and people of power dressed in suits and traditional garb alike applauded and cheered to the celebratory sounds of the sabar and the djembe.

-It’s such a beautiful gift of Allah and blessing that has touched Senegal. (Coura)

-It is quite special. (Coumba)

Coumba had changed much over the 4 years that Coura had been away. The once shy, but proud last born daughter had become an inquisitive and probing woman, impatient with complacent acts and arbitrary words. But, there was time yet to reveal this to Coura, who was in deep need of a soul still scorched from the Senegalese sun.

To Coumba, Cape Verdeans were an odd-looking people. Most were light-skinned, like the Pulaar from Mauritania and Northeastern Senegal, but their faces were of a more European appeal. Locals held roots from Black African slavery and White European slave masterdom and thus the mestizo race was formed – blossoming the bare island nation. Musical styles mimicked their ethnic heritages – the blasting Zouk, filling the air with Bantu beats and Fado rhythms, and a crying, but sexy voice. This was Cape Verde – a West African nation with a familiar European feel – forming its identity in the violent waters of the Atlantic that centuries before was the battleground of continents and cultures colliding.

And there sat Coumba in her Aunt’s stall at the Municipal Market in downtown Mindelo selling crafts Coumba saw everyday at the Sandaga Market in Dakar. There she sat across form the curious China man who sold Cabo Verde shirts made in China. There she sat listening to the Kriolu Portuguese that must be learned if she ever wanted to have a voice in a nation that was not hers. There she sat prostrating in her heart to her Allah, waiting for direction for the next steps of her walk.