Chapter 2

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Darkness had cast shadows everywhere when the plane landed in Senegal. Eager to embrace my new journey, I welcomed the hot air and rolled up my sleeves, forgetting about the snow and the cold weather I had left behind. Felicia kissed me three times on my cheeks. “That’s the way they do it here,” she said. I followed her out of Yoff Airport, past men and women dressed in bright traditional outfits. Their hands gesticulated to make their point as they talked. The men’s guttural voices contrasted greatly with the women’s high-pitched speech.

As the car traveled along the shore toward Dakar, I rolled down the window to listen to the waves crashing against rocks. The lamenting sounds of the sea boiled over, reminding me of the suffering voices of Ibo, Nago, Congo, Mandinga, Wolof, and Yoruba souls that never reached American shores and whose bones carpeted the bottom of the water kingdom. The ocean that betrayed thousands of men, women, and children roared menacingly like a wild beast about to attack a prey. I breathed the salty air, stared into darkness, and thought of Nlunda a Kinkulu, the keeper of traditions, the runaway slave who found freedom on the shores of Haiti and who probably had listened to this same ocean from an overcrowded slave ship on her way to the New World.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome to the land of teranga,” Felicia said, opening the door to her apartment.

“Teranga?”

“That’s like Southern hospitality.”

We sat in the living room drinking mint tea, talking about our days at Wayberry College, and listening to Sarah Vaughan, the sassy divine one. Nice work if you can get it, she sang in her melodious voice.

I took off my shoes, wiggled my toes. “Here I am in the motherland!”

“I’ve been thinking about this motherland stuff . . .” Felicia said, shaking her head.

“And?”

“I should let you get to know Africa before we talk about it. I don’t want to influence you in any way.” She got up to play the other side of the cassette, leaving me wondering how she felt about being in Africa.

“I wonder if Jamal ever made it to this continent. He said he wanted to come here after graduation.”

“No idea,” Felicia answered. “But I did hear that he and Wanda had plans to get married. And let me tell you something, Wanda is one sister who couldn’t make it in Africa. She’s too intolerant.”

“Allahu, Akbar!” a deep male voice chanted from a nearby tower.

“That’s the muezzin calling people to the first of the five prayers of the day,” Felicia informed me, and pushed the stop button on the boom box.

The muezzin announced a new day filled with hopes and promises and invited the rising sun to come forth. Windows and doors opened as Dakar slowly woke up. My eyes, though, were still heavy with sleep.

 

* * *

 

After I slept for a few hours, Felicia’s boyfriend, who was way over six feet tall with dark, smooth skin the color of grapes, came to take us to lunch. The strong smell of spiced incense filled the air. Proud men dressed in heavily starched and embroidered robes circulated amidst the bustling crowd. Their elegance contrasted sharply with the weary beggars who crowded the sidewalks. The men made their way to the mosque to worship and praise the prophet Allah for his wisdom and guidance. From the sidewalk, I could see them seated reverently on their mats, facing east and rolling beads with faithful fingers.

Ousmane took a few coins from his pocket to give to a leper whose left hand had been eaten away by disease. He also gave to a woman who sat nearby, the mother of triplets.

Walking past Independence Square, we headed east to an open-air restaurant overlooking the harbor that served French-influenced Senegalese cuisine under a thatched roof. I ordered thiof, a local fish stuffed with fresh parsley and other spices.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Felicia asked Ousmane, sipping white wine and leaning back in her chair.

“I must go to my village,” he answered.

Felicia leaned forward. “How long are you staying?”

“Just a few hours.”

“You should take Iris with you,” she suggested. “I have to work tomorrow. There’s a consultant coming from Washington.”

“How far is your village?” I asked Ousmane.

“Two hours north of Dakar.”

Hours later, Ousmane parked his car in front of the home of Jean-Luc and Marguerite, both French expatriate doctors. A few inches taller than her husband, Marguerite was a talkative brunette who chain-smoked as she spoke about her parents’ farm in Normandy. When the maid, who had brought us a cold ginger drink, was out of sight, Marguerite told us that she recently fired one of her servants, a boy, because she saw him plant something in the yard. “I’m sure it’s maraboutage. I know about African magic,” she asserted.

“These things don’t work,” Ousmane said.

“I know what I’m talking about,” Marguerite insisted, rolling her eyes. “It’s probably still there ’cause I didn’t want to touch it.”

“Let’s see what it is.”

Ousmane went into the garden with Marguerite to dig up the soil at the spot but found nothing. After he tried a few more places, they gave up their search and rejoined Jean-Luc and me. No longer concerned with African magic, Marguerite asked Ousmane when his brother would be returning from France. “With so many students returning home with advanced degrees from Europe and North America, Africa doesn’t need technical assistance from foreigners anymore,” she said, reaching for her cigarettes on the coffee table. “They’re ready to develop their own land.” She took a cigarette out of the pack and shrugged. “So they say.”

Her comment made me think about my contract with the government of Zaire, though I saw no reason to be concerned. After all, I was one of Africa’s children returning home.

While Ousmane and Jean-Luc discussed their mask exporting business, Marguerite watched the smoke from her cigarette rise and disappear. “I used to think Africa was a haven for foreigners. You’ll see.” Her words sounded like a warning against some unseen danger. The thought made me as uncomfortable as I had been when Felicia alluded to her disillusionment with Africa.

“What don’t you like about Africa?”

“I came here after the country’s independence some twenty years ago, when there was a surge of cultural energy on the rise. But now I’m afraid politics is destroying this great country. The bureaucracy is becoming too much of a maze. Greed is everywhere.”

I wanted to hear more, but Ousmane said that it was time to pick up Felicia, who had gone to her office after lunch.

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Ousmane picked me up. Driving at a moderate speed on a dirt road, we passed cloistered brown huts where women with small children strapped to their backs pounded wooden mortars. Their upper bodies leaned forward then back in a continuous movement. As the car sped along on a deserted road, a young barefooted boy about ten years old, dressed in beige and brown balloon pants and a sleeveless top, chased a flock of sheep away from a peanut field.

The blue sky merged with the ocean on the horizon. “My village isn’t very far,” Ousmane said. “The car is going to attract too much attention,” he added, and parked it off the main road. “Everyone expects me to solve their problems.”

A young man about seventeen years old jumped off a minibus before it came to a full stop. Three men sat on the roof on top of bags of rice; two sheep kept them company.

“Asalam waaleykum,” Ousmane greeted the people as we stepped inside the vehicle.

“Waaleykum i salam,” everyone answered in chorus.

There were seven people in each of the four rows that were meant to seat five. The woman on my right sat at the edge of the seat, a sleeping baby tied to her back. A toddler, about two or three years old, stood between her legs as she engaged in a conversation with a woman next to her.

“Fi bakne,” Ousmane soon told the driver, who came to a full stop.

 

* * *

 

He pushed a wicker gate that opened onto mud huts in a yard. A couple of children and two sheep ran around playfully. A full-bodied woman sat on a mat inside one of the huts, looking like a baobab tree in the middle of an open field. She smiled broadly when Ousmane’s face appeared through the green and yellow tie-dyed curtain that partially covered the wooden door. He kept his hand in hers throughout the lengthy salutation. A brief conversation followed in Wolof before Ousmane turned to me. “She wanted to know who you are. I told her you’re a friend from America.”

Koumba, the big buxom woman, looked at my cutoff jeans and burst into laughter, showing teeth stained with tea and kola nuts. She spoke again in Wolof, clapping her hands. Ousmane then told me she was happy to have an American in her home. “Astou!” she called out after she was done inspecting me.

A girl entered the hut and listened to Koumba’s instructions before leaving again. She came back minutes later with a wooden bowl that contained three different kinds of leaves and a cup of water that she placed on the floor. She then squatted in a corner.

Koumba had thick, wooly hair that she wore in loose braids. Each ear bore a row of colorful hoop earrings. A dark design covered her lower lip down to her chin; the same black ink darkened the soles of her feet and intricate orange designs decorated the palms of her hands. She removed a bag of cowry shells from her chest, tossed them on the mat where she sat, and patiently studied their positions. Ousmane nodded, smiled, or frowned as she spoke.

“She’s good,” he said after they repeated the process. “You want a reading too?”

“Why not?” I said on an impulse.

Koumba laughed when Ousmane told her what I wanted to know. She signaled for me to come closer, then tossed the cowry shells.

“You’re going on another journey. Things will work out if you honor your spirits. But you should be patient. Legi, now, you should remember the sun always comes after the rain.” Ousmane translated. He listened to Koumba again, then said, “She sees you in a triangle, but things will work out. You need to prepare a meal of ground wheat and milk to feed as many poor children as possible.”

Koumba spoke once more. “She wants to know who those toubabs around you are.”

“I don’t know what a toubab is.”

“White people.”

“Tell her I know a lot of white people.”

“She said she doesn’t want to read for you anymore because you’re not cooperating.”

“I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

Puzzled by what Koumba had told me, I wondered if this type of reading was an art or a science. I still don’t know.

She put her shells away, mixed fresh leaves in a wooden bowl. Then she pulled a basket containing bottles of liquids and oils from under a wooden bed. She added some of each to the bowl, filled up two bottles, and handed one to Ousmane and one to me.

“We have to rub our bodies with this before going to sleep at night,” Ousmane explained.

The young girl returned with a plastic tub of water, in which two halves of a lemon floated. She took the water away after we washed our hands then brought in a bowl of ceeb-u-jen, the national dish of rice, fish, and vegetables, and a spoon for me. Ousmane and Koumba skillfully rolled handfuls of rice into balls with their right hands, and put them in their mouths.

After the meal, the young girl brought in a hot plate, a kettle of water, fresh mint leaves, sugar, and a tray with four glasses, each about three inches tall. The woman said something to Ousmane, who then turned to me. “She said you’re not going to do what she asked.”

“How does she know that?”

“Spirits can communicate with her, even without the cowry shells.”

The kettle boiled on the hot plate. The smell of fresh mint lingered in the room. Ousmane took one of the glasses from the tray, poured the liquid into it. His right hand held a kettle that he slowly lifted above his head. The tea foamed as it filled the glass.

“You should think about what she told you,” Ousmane urged, pouring the tea from the glass back into the kettle. He repeated the process a few times before serving the ataya. The first round was bitter, the second sweet, and the third sweeter.

 

* * *

 

“The cowry never lies,” Ousmane told me on our way back to the main road. “The prophet was hiding from his enemies in the desert, and a cowry player told them where he was. That’s why he banned the practice.” He paused. “It’s too bad you will be gone. I’m having a ceremony next month for a female spirit who is fond of me.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead and neck. “I have to do it so she doesn’t interfere with my intimate life with women,” he added in a conspiratorial voice. “I am having some problems with Felicia.”

“How can you have a personal relationship with a spirit?” I asked, then suddenly recalled the ceremony at Mambo Lolotte’s in Haiti.

“Africa existed before Islam came,” he said and shrugged.

“Why do you think she gave me this concoction?”

“For protection.”

It sounded more like paranoia to me. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I asked him why he had told Marguerite that African magic didn’t work.

“White people have no business knowing about these things.”

“What do you think really happened?”

“Maybe the boy did plant some charm to keep his job but removed it after Marguerite saw him.”

Back in Felicia’s apartment, I poured the liquid Koumba had given me in the toilet bowl. I didn’t like its strong smell and didn’t want it on my body. Besides, I didn’t see how it could actually make a difference in my life.

 

* * *

 

Felicia was in the kitchen, washing lettuce. I stood at the doorstep, watching. “You still haven’t told me what you think of Africa,” I said.

She turned to face me. “I love it here. I’ve embraced the culture as my own.” She turned her head away from me and sliced a fleshy tomato. “But sometimes I think people here aren’t so accepting.”

I shifted my weight. “Be more specific.”

“Hand me that cucumber, will you?” She uncovered the fish the maid had prepared earlier and turned on the stove.

“What’s bothering you?” I insisted, studying her reaction.

“Ousmane and I are in love. The problem is his family. They think it would be better for him to marry the girl they choose for him,” she said, peeling a cucumber. “Sometimes I think he needs to stand up to them, although I understand the strength of family ties here.”

“Have you met them?”

“I’ve been to their home a few times. They’re very warm and kind.”

“Just like Ousmane.”

Felicia mixed oil, vinegar, mustard, salt, and pepper to make a salad dressing. As she shook the jar, I felt her anger rise. “They’re hung up on blood ties and think blacks from the Americas are sons and daughters of slaves.”

“They obviously don’t know their history,” I said, sharing her anger. “You should tell them Toussaint Louverture was the grandson of an Arada king.”

We carried the fish and salad to the table and took our seats. “Isn’t it a shame that I thought I was coming to the land of the ancestors and get slapped with this?” As she poured the dressing over the salad, she continued softly, “Of course we’re not going to generalize, but it does say something about what some Africans think of us.”

“When they get to know you better they will change their minds.”

“Why are you staying only one week?” she asked, switching the conversation topic. “That’s not enough time.”

“I have a job waiting for me, remember?”

“I’ve been thinking,” Felicia said as she lifted a piece of fish from her plate.

I watched her as she ate. “What have you been thinking?”

“Are you sure you want to go to Zaire? There is a famous dance school in Dakar. Maybe you should try to get a job there. I hear Zaire is a tough place.”

“It can’t be that bad if it produced a great man like Patrice Lumumba.”

“Look at what they did to him.”

 

* * *

 

Felicia and I boarded the ferry to Gorée Island, along with tourists who, like me, were trying to piece together fragments of a dark passage. Thick with foam, the turbulent sea changed from indigo blue to dark green. I wished that I could penetrate its mysteries. Homes with red-tile roofs that sheltered European traders stood in the distance. Children ran and played in the streets where, centuries ago, captives had been assembled and branded, chained and shackled, before sailing to a life of slavery in the Americas. Women in colorful clothing sold man-made artifacts. With the ruins of the past in the background, fishermen repaired boats and nets.

“This was once a lavish mansion where wealthy traders lived comfortably in the sun-filled rooms upstairs overlooking the sea. The dark cells served as a warehouse for captives,” said the curator of the Slave House, with a thoughtful look on his face. He then turned to one of the small cells. “Here sat about thirty men with only a cloth around their waists.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Where did they sleep?”

“Right there, sitting down.” He then pointed to a small space under the stairs. “This is where they locked up the rebellious ones who would be left behind. Traders didn’t want rebels because they were bad merchandise, a risk to the business.” He walked over to a rectangular opening into a dark hallway that led to the sea. “That’s the Door of No Return.”

I imagined Nlunda a Kinkulu sharing the fate of thousands of others, and I wondered what her thoughts were when she embarked on that long journey to the unknown. As we left the island, soft moonlight reflected on the sea whose dark waters hid the ambitions and secrets of slave traders. Suffering moans of captive spirits who never lived to leave the island echoed in the wind. Koumba Castel, the defeated old spirit that protected Gorée, wandered in the sandy streets.