The other day, I went to my first baptism here. It was for the namesake of one of my neighbors. (Here, a namesake acts like a godmother - supporting the child and also sharing a name with the child.) I didn't know when it would start but sat around with some of the women and kids in the morning, per usual. One woman was so excited for the day. She told me all about the food, singing, and dancing of the day, showing off her dance moves (as well as her knowledge of American dance moves). She couldn't wait to go. Around noon, my grandmother and the namesake came over to bring me to the house. We all walked together to a house, greeted everyone, and waited as more women piled into the bedroom; it became so packed that no one else could enter, but still women called greetings through the doorway. Then, all the vegetables (an entire large bucket of them), rice (an entire sack), and oil (a huge container) were carried over to the mother's house. We then piled into another room. I was immediately given the baby to hold for a bit before other people took her to have a chance to hold her. As usual, I received the usual comment of "Dafa naw" (She is ugly), and as usual I responded that the baby was not ugly but was pretty. I had no idea who the mother of the baby was until later; she is not given any speical attention, but it is seen as a shared event for the community. In fact, I received more attention than her as people commented on my presence and the braids in my hair that my neighbor had done the day before (after the namesake had her hair braided for the event).
Then we all piled outside. We greeted the men sitting in a room next door. One man decided that he was my "cheri" and told me that he loved me (a usual comment in Senegal - I've gotten quite good and putting off marriage proposals and love affirmations). My neighbor soon told me that we were leaving, but everyone asked why I was going, and my grandma and the namesake implored me to stay. So I took a seat beside them on the cement block under the tree. A little later, I watched as the men slaughtered a sheep for the meal; two men held the legs, while a third cut the head off. It was then taken outside to be cleaned and cut. Soon after, a man wth dreadlocks and a sack entered the compound. I'd seen him before, and he called out to me, asking my name and commenting that I should get dreadlocks like him instead of the braids I had. A group of kids gathered around him, and all the women stared at him. I creened my neck to see him too. Then he began to sing. Everyone answered "Amin" a lot. I just sat there until my grandma nudged me to hold both my hands out in front of me with my palms up. He was apparently praying and chanted for awhile. At first, everyone was really intent, but as it continued, they shifted a bit in their seats and their eyes became a bit glossy as they stared into space A few more kids came, and they immediately sat down with their hands out.
When this was over, I walked home with my grandma and the namesake. The namesake had to gather everything she bought for the baby; she is responsible for providing all the baby essentials. A large group of women headed back over, led by a hired singing woman from a nearby village. Two girls banged on metal bowls, and everyone sang and clapped their hands. We entered the compound. It was drizzling, so we all poured into a small area with a shade structure. To women crazily beat the metal bowls, sweat pouring down their foreheads. I was at the back, and I peered over to the singing woman and some women dancing in front of her (after paying her a small fee to dance). My grandma pushed her way to the center to dance, moving her feet quickly, one hand holding her skirt and the other in the air with a huge smile on her face. Then she called me over to dance with her. I did the one Senegalese dance move that I know and tried to copy my grandma. Another woman paid the woman a bit more so that I could continue to dance. I smiled widely, laughing at myself and my horrible dance moves (though later most of the women came up to me to tell me that I could dance - a courtesy they extend to me, but mock each other's dancing abilites). Then I drifted back into the crowd to clap my hands and watch other women dancing.
Soon, the dancing and singing stoped. The singing women called for all the gifts to be grought over. She went through them all, counting them as she picked them up and handed them to another woman. It was interesting because I wanted to see what the gifts (especially the clothes) looked like, but they were only interested in the amount - to see how well the namesake would care for the baby. There were a lot of bars of soap, baby oil, perfume, poop bowls (toddlers poop into a small bowl which is then emptied out, and they just pee on the ground), hat, shirts, pants, underwear, coat, shoes, buckets, baby carrier (for when the mom goes to the field and needs to leave the baby somewhere), bracelets, and probably a few other things I can't remember. The woman made funny comments about a few things as she held them up and named them off, and everyone laughed. All the women had been eagerly watching to see. It seemed as though they were all impressed, and the namesake was treating the baby well.
Then there was more singing and dancing. I went to go sit down with some of the women. A bench was brought over for me. I joked that I would be lonely sitting on a bench all by myself. My mom went to sit on it with me, but when we leaned back, it seemed to be breaking and tilting. Everyone joked that my mom was too fat and her butt too big. (Women had been joking around all day.) We moved the bench to a new spot and tried it again because it looked ok, but the same thing happened. My mom jumped off it at this point, but then we realized that it was just sinking into the wet ground. A boy brought rocks over to put under the legs, and it was fine then.
I went over to help the women cook. There were two enormous cast-iron pots; I probably could've fit inside. They each blanaced on three legs with wood burning underneath. They were stirred by spoons almost as tall as me. It literally looked like they were brewing a potion in a witch's cauldron when they stirred with two hands, peering inside from a distance and addingm ore things to the pots. Cooking was a long process; it took a few hours. The meat was already in water and oil in the pots when I arrived, and it was being stirred. Onions were bing cut, cabbages and bitter tomatoes were being washed, and potatoes were being peeled. Then peppercorns were pounded, the onions, bouillon cubes, salt, garlic, and green peppers added, and more pounding occurred. The vegetables were then all added to the meat. Then the rice was steamed on top. Eventually, the meat and vegetables were removed, and the onion mixture and rice were added to the water until all the water had been absorbed. The two huge pots were now full of rice, an incredible amount. There were about 15-20 women cooking, and it was a social event. People joked, got up to dance, talked, and had fun with the work. I ttried to help; I stirred the meat about five times, cut half an onion, and pounded maybe five times before being told to just sit and watch. In other words, they were letting me try, but eitehr didn't like how I did it or else were joking about needing my help (because they had all told me that I should be working instead of sitting - they always tell me to help with things, but usually don't actually mean it). So I sat and watched the process and was also pulled in to go dance in front of the singing lady one more time. This time, another woman came with me (a baby on her back), and she told me to follow her moves, so my dancing was a bit more sophisticated (though I'm sure not much). Meanwhile, all the men were sitting under a tree talking. Baptisms are apparently mainly a women's event. Mostly women were there and only a few men, and all the singing, dancing, gifts, cooking, etc. involved only the women. I never saw the men move from their seats all day and most men either showed up for five minutes or not at all, compared to most women who spent the majority of the day there.
At 7:30, we broke fast as usual. (The baptism occurred during Ramadan.) As the man in the center of my village began to call out the call to prayer and break fast, bread with butter and coffee was provided to everyone present (about 50 people). Then juice was served among the men (and I got some too) and soon the bowls of food were brought out. I sat around a bowl with a group of men and ate with my hands for the second time since arriving in village. I think I did a really good job eating with my hands, but it probably helped that it was dark so no one could see me. But I did make fairly good rice balls and didn't make a mess. After eating, tea was served. Then I went back home. My family had waited for me to eat, even though it was now 9:30 and very late for them to eat dinner during Ramadan. I ate with them and then ate more food from the baptism that had been brought over for my family. I was also given the bread my family had bought me for the break fast. I was beyond stuffed but content; it had been a very interesting day.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Tey, nungiy noos.
The 21st was Korite - or praying day as they call it. There was some debate as to whether it'd be on Sunday or Monday, but no one saw the moon on Saturday night. On Sunday night, I was sitting outside with my brother who was searching the sky for the moon. Suddenly, he screamed out with delight because he'd seen the thin sliver of it. My sister immediately began to dance, her legs moving wuickly as she hummed the rhythm and waved her head scarf all around her. My grandma and aunt came over. They recited a few lines in Arabic with their hands in their air and then recited it slowly so that i could repeat it after them. Then they, too, started to dance. Everyone was in a good mood that night. We ate rice with vegetables as usual, but it tasted even better for some reason.
The following day, Monday, was Korite, and I wasn't sure what to expect. I happily drank lots of water when I woke up and joined my family for a breakfast of couscous, fish, and sauce. I then sat and talked with my family for awhile. Everything seemed to be like normal, but I could feel excitement and anticipation in the air. Groups of kids walked past as usual, but I had trouble recognizing them because everyone had their hair braided for the occasion. The braiding process had begun on Friday, and suddenly all the children had long hair (from extensions they put in) and beautiful braids. The toddlers had even dyed their hair black (they usually have reddish hair) and black dye was also all over their scalp and foreheads. The braiding process was still occuring, with last minute touch-ups, the final people being braided, and gold paint used to decorate heads.
I moved to sit outside and was joined by some family members and women from my village. Everyone was in a great mood; it was a celebration day. I watched as children and men over 30 walked back from praying in a nearby open area used as the mosque. They were all dressed in fancy clothes, heavily starched, clean, and making the wearer seem very dignified. They were all completely unrecognizable to me in these nice clothes. I didn't feel like I was in my village anymore.
My mom called me inside to help cook lunch - an onion/macaroni sauce with chicken. (Meat is so rare in my village as is a vegetable-based dish, and everyone was so excited for this meal. I had been hearing about how good the food is on Korite for days.) I helped peel and chop potatoes and onions. Usually, the women laugh at the way I cut and cook, since I can't do it the same way they do. But this time, I requested something to use as a cutting board and received wide-spread praise for my onion-cutting abilities. To make the sauce, we added vinegar, mustard, salt, Dimbal (a Senegalese bouillon cube-essentially powdered MSG), garlic, and pepper to the onions. Then we fried the potatoes, fried the chicken, and cooked the pasta in the chikcen oil/water mixture with more Dimbal and pepper. All of this was then mixed together in a bowl. As I cooked, the radio was on, and my siblings kept coming over to dance to the music. No one could stop smiling; there are only 3 holidays that they celebrate here, and everyone gets so excited for them. The anitipation and happiness reminded me of holidays at home in the US: the cooking, hanging out, laughing, and waiting for the celebration to begin. After cooking, I went and sat outside some more while my sister finished cooking. Around 2, all the women and girls went into my grandmother's hut to eat, while the men went to my parents' hut; some neighbors also came to eat. We were given bread to use to scoop up the onion sauce. More and more chunks of bread kept being handed to me, and they ignored my refusal. I ate at least a loaf-and-a-half before I was finally successful in declining more. Still, more sauce and bread were offered to me later as was a rice dish. It was so much food, but it was so good.
Then I went back outside to drink juice (a real treat) and tea. Everyone said: Tey, nungiy noos. (Today, we enjoyed ourselves. In Wolof, enjoying oneself is synonymous with spending money. Usually, people deny having fun because they aren't spending money, but on this day, they all splurged.) By this point, a lot of kids had put on their fancy new clothes that had been bought especially for this occasion. They wandered around the village in groups by gender and age-group. They weren't playing (careful to keep their clothes clean), but were just talking and meandering (mostly walking, not even running). The girls all wore new complets of fancy shirts and wrap-skirts. The boys wore new clothes too - matching shirts and shorts/pants that were very western (in contrast to the Senegalese clothes worn by the girls). My brother had a striped collared tee and jean shorts. The boys all looked very American, which I thought was funny. All the kids were very proud of their new clothes and strutted around, smiling, and laughing even more than usual.
Around 5:30, I was told to shower and put on my nice clothes - the outfit I wore for my swearing-in ceremony. When I emerged in the outfit, I received compliments from everyone who admired my complet and told me that I was now Senegalese. I then walked from compound to compound with two of the women from my compound. The concept is to show off your nice clothes and get money for looking nice. All the younger women and girls do it, and all looked stunning in their outfits. We would walk into a compound, greet everyone, stop in some bedrooms to talk for a few minutes, and then move on. Everyone was so excited to see me in Senegalese clothes and told me that I looked very nice. I got most of the attention, and I felt bad because the two women that I were with both looked absolutely stunning and deserved attention too. I kept smiling and laughing. Three people gave me money, which I felt bad about. I gave this money to my mom, and she bought juice and milk (to make hot milk with sugar served in the shot-glass sized tea glasses) to share with everyone. We then ate dinner, still dressed in fancy clothes. I commented on my sister's pretty barette. Without even thinking, she took it out of her hair and put it in mine, ready to share with me; it was so kind and self-less of her. At night, we sat outside talking as usual and enjoying each other's company.
I was impressed by Korite - how nice everyone looked, the fancy clothes (some women even looked like they were going to a ball) and hair, and the excitement. And also by the simplicity of it all - good food, dressing up, walking around, hanging out. Nothing big or spectacular, but just good for being a break and a chance to splurge. When I think about it, we celebrate holidays so similarly at home - nice clothes, good food, hanging out, and spending time with friends and family. I went to bed, completely satisfied and with suggestions that I should look forward to Tabaski, which is even better.
The following day, Monday, was Korite, and I wasn't sure what to expect. I happily drank lots of water when I woke up and joined my family for a breakfast of couscous, fish, and sauce. I then sat and talked with my family for awhile. Everything seemed to be like normal, but I could feel excitement and anticipation in the air. Groups of kids walked past as usual, but I had trouble recognizing them because everyone had their hair braided for the occasion. The braiding process had begun on Friday, and suddenly all the children had long hair (from extensions they put in) and beautiful braids. The toddlers had even dyed their hair black (they usually have reddish hair) and black dye was also all over their scalp and foreheads. The braiding process was still occuring, with last minute touch-ups, the final people being braided, and gold paint used to decorate heads.
I moved to sit outside and was joined by some family members and women from my village. Everyone was in a great mood; it was a celebration day. I watched as children and men over 30 walked back from praying in a nearby open area used as the mosque. They were all dressed in fancy clothes, heavily starched, clean, and making the wearer seem very dignified. They were all completely unrecognizable to me in these nice clothes. I didn't feel like I was in my village anymore.
My mom called me inside to help cook lunch - an onion/macaroni sauce with chicken. (Meat is so rare in my village as is a vegetable-based dish, and everyone was so excited for this meal. I had been hearing about how good the food is on Korite for days.) I helped peel and chop potatoes and onions. Usually, the women laugh at the way I cut and cook, since I can't do it the same way they do. But this time, I requested something to use as a cutting board and received wide-spread praise for my onion-cutting abilities. To make the sauce, we added vinegar, mustard, salt, Dimbal (a Senegalese bouillon cube-essentially powdered MSG), garlic, and pepper to the onions. Then we fried the potatoes, fried the chicken, and cooked the pasta in the chikcen oil/water mixture with more Dimbal and pepper. All of this was then mixed together in a bowl. As I cooked, the radio was on, and my siblings kept coming over to dance to the music. No one could stop smiling; there are only 3 holidays that they celebrate here, and everyone gets so excited for them. The anitipation and happiness reminded me of holidays at home in the US: the cooking, hanging out, laughing, and waiting for the celebration to begin. After cooking, I went and sat outside some more while my sister finished cooking. Around 2, all the women and girls went into my grandmother's hut to eat, while the men went to my parents' hut; some neighbors also came to eat. We were given bread to use to scoop up the onion sauce. More and more chunks of bread kept being handed to me, and they ignored my refusal. I ate at least a loaf-and-a-half before I was finally successful in declining more. Still, more sauce and bread were offered to me later as was a rice dish. It was so much food, but it was so good.
Then I went back outside to drink juice (a real treat) and tea. Everyone said: Tey, nungiy noos. (Today, we enjoyed ourselves. In Wolof, enjoying oneself is synonymous with spending money. Usually, people deny having fun because they aren't spending money, but on this day, they all splurged.) By this point, a lot of kids had put on their fancy new clothes that had been bought especially for this occasion. They wandered around the village in groups by gender and age-group. They weren't playing (careful to keep their clothes clean), but were just talking and meandering (mostly walking, not even running). The girls all wore new complets of fancy shirts and wrap-skirts. The boys wore new clothes too - matching shirts and shorts/pants that were very western (in contrast to the Senegalese clothes worn by the girls). My brother had a striped collared tee and jean shorts. The boys all looked very American, which I thought was funny. All the kids were very proud of their new clothes and strutted around, smiling, and laughing even more than usual.
Around 5:30, I was told to shower and put on my nice clothes - the outfit I wore for my swearing-in ceremony. When I emerged in the outfit, I received compliments from everyone who admired my complet and told me that I was now Senegalese. I then walked from compound to compound with two of the women from my compound. The concept is to show off your nice clothes and get money for looking nice. All the younger women and girls do it, and all looked stunning in their outfits. We would walk into a compound, greet everyone, stop in some bedrooms to talk for a few minutes, and then move on. Everyone was so excited to see me in Senegalese clothes and told me that I looked very nice. I got most of the attention, and I felt bad because the two women that I were with both looked absolutely stunning and deserved attention too. I kept smiling and laughing. Three people gave me money, which I felt bad about. I gave this money to my mom, and she bought juice and milk (to make hot milk with sugar served in the shot-glass sized tea glasses) to share with everyone. We then ate dinner, still dressed in fancy clothes. I commented on my sister's pretty barette. Without even thinking, she took it out of her hair and put it in mine, ready to share with me; it was so kind and self-less of her. At night, we sat outside talking as usual and enjoying each other's company.
I was impressed by Korite - how nice everyone looked, the fancy clothes (some women even looked like they were going to a ball) and hair, and the excitement. And also by the simplicity of it all - good food, dressing up, walking around, hanging out. Nothing big or spectacular, but just good for being a break and a chance to splurge. When I think about it, we celebrate holidays so similarly at home - nice clothes, good food, hanging out, and spending time with friends and family. I went to bed, completely satisfied and with suggestions that I should look forward to Tabaski, which is even better.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Yangiy ci coor gi?
Currently, we are fully into the month of Ramadan. As I live in a Muslim village, everyone except the children fast. I decided to try fasting with my village. Though according to calendars, Ramadan has an official start day, that is not followed here. Instead, they look for the first sight of the moon (following the new moon). On the day this occurred, it was extremely cloudy out, and I couldn't even see the stars. But one man in my village spotted the moon, and the message was passed along; Ramadan had officially begun. The first day of Ramadan was easy. For the first (and only time) since I've been here, there was a light drizzle all day and the temperature was cool. It almost felt like September or October in the US, and I felt like I was fasting for Yom Kippur. (I even wanted to go to shul-I was so convinced.) Since then, fasting has gotten a bit harder, since it's hot and humid every day. I am so impressed by the people in my village who go out to the village to farm for hours every day. This is the hardest time of year for Ramadan to occur because it is planting season and hot season. Yet they continue to fast.
Fast is broken every night around 7:40. At this time, a man in my village sings out prayers, and everyone rushes indoors. Bread with butter and coffee are drank to break the fast. (The first day of Ramadan, when I felt like it was Yom Kippur, I actually felt like I was eating a bagel to break the fast, just like at home.) Traditionally, dates are also eaten, but my village can't afford to buy them. Then, about an hour later, dinner is eaten. This is the same meal as we usually eat for lunch. (There's not much protein in the meal though, making fasting even harder.) Afterward, tea is prepared, and everyone sits up late talking. At 5 am, people wake up to eat left-over dinner or a dish similar to oatmeal with lots of sugar. Then, fasting for the day begins again.
I fasted for the first week. Since then, I have been cheating a bit, so that I have energy to interact with people all day and to think in Wolof. (Essentially, I eat breakfast consisting of a mango at 7 am, drink about half a liter of water throughout the day, and sometimes have some dates as a snack in between.) A common question of greeting is: Yangiy ci coor gi? (You are in the fast?) When I say that I am, I receive a variety of answers. Some people are very impressed that I, as a white person, can fast. Others are surprised that I would fast if I'm not a Muslim. Still others tell me that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do, but want to know why I'm not praying (although a lot of my village does not pray). And others tell me that I shouldn't fast since it's not my religion. But I'm glad to be supporting my village by fasting (well, mostly fasting), I am gaining more respect from them as a result, and I enjoy everyone coming together to hungrily devour the break-fast meal.
And now, there are just 10 days left of Ramadan. It will continue until the moon is first sighted after the new moon. Again, this is slightly later than the official end date because they wait until they can see the moon (rather than just the predicted date of the new moon). When Ramadan ends, Korite begins. Everyone celebrates, goats are slaughtered and eaten, and there is a lot of dancing. I can't wait for this!
On a side-note, I went to Dakar for 10 days. When I returned to my village, it was 7 at night. I walked down the dirt path leading from the street to my village. The millet and corn had gotten much taller in my absence, some almost as tall as me. (Not that that is too hard to accomplish.) I smiled to myself, noting the beauty of all these fields and delighting in the fact that I was almost home. Birds sang in the trees, sunset was beginning, and it was nice to be back. A lot of people were busy in their houses, finishing chores, pulling water from the well, getting ready to break the fast. When people saw me coming, they all called out happily to me. Every adult I passed, stopped to talk to me, to see how I was doing, and to ask how Dakar was. The children all chanted my name and some followed me on the path home. As I rounded the corner near my compound, I saw my mom flying down the path. She had heard people calling out to me and ran towards me. She didn't stop until she was directly next to me. My face was one huge smile. If Senegalese hugged, I would've received a huge bear hug for her. Unfortunately, they do not. But I received a warm, long handshake and incessant chatter on her part. It's the biggest sign of affection I've ever seen from her. We entered my room, and I was followed in by at least 10 children and 5 adults. More kept piling in as they found out I had returned. The room was literally packed with people. My backyard had become overgrown with weeds, and the children immediately set to work weeding the whole backyard and sweeping my room and backyard for me. Letters that had fallen from the walls were carefully retrieved by others. As the adults and children in my compound returned from the fields, they all came running into my room to greet me too. All of them had huge smiles on their faces, so glad that I was back. My brother Moussa and sister Kani, both about 10 and both of whom adore me, both ran into my room when they returned from the fields and did not leave my side until after dinner. (According to my mom, Moussa doesn't do any work when I'm around and is always talking about me or hurriedly doing what he has to do so that he can join me. He also called me on the phone once while I was in Dakar to see how I was.) Even family members who usually don't show much emotion around me showed how ecstatic they were to have me back. And apparently Bom, my favorite toddler, had gone to my door every day chanting my name and wanting to know where I was. She tottered over to sit on my lap now that I was back. Oh, how I love my village.
Fast is broken every night around 7:40. At this time, a man in my village sings out prayers, and everyone rushes indoors. Bread with butter and coffee are drank to break the fast. (The first day of Ramadan, when I felt like it was Yom Kippur, I actually felt like I was eating a bagel to break the fast, just like at home.) Traditionally, dates are also eaten, but my village can't afford to buy them. Then, about an hour later, dinner is eaten. This is the same meal as we usually eat for lunch. (There's not much protein in the meal though, making fasting even harder.) Afterward, tea is prepared, and everyone sits up late talking. At 5 am, people wake up to eat left-over dinner or a dish similar to oatmeal with lots of sugar. Then, fasting for the day begins again.
I fasted for the first week. Since then, I have been cheating a bit, so that I have energy to interact with people all day and to think in Wolof. (Essentially, I eat breakfast consisting of a mango at 7 am, drink about half a liter of water throughout the day, and sometimes have some dates as a snack in between.) A common question of greeting is: Yangiy ci coor gi? (You are in the fast?) When I say that I am, I receive a variety of answers. Some people are very impressed that I, as a white person, can fast. Others are surprised that I would fast if I'm not a Muslim. Still others tell me that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do, but want to know why I'm not praying (although a lot of my village does not pray). And others tell me that I shouldn't fast since it's not my religion. But I'm glad to be supporting my village by fasting (well, mostly fasting), I am gaining more respect from them as a result, and I enjoy everyone coming together to hungrily devour the break-fast meal.
And now, there are just 10 days left of Ramadan. It will continue until the moon is first sighted after the new moon. Again, this is slightly later than the official end date because they wait until they can see the moon (rather than just the predicted date of the new moon). When Ramadan ends, Korite begins. Everyone celebrates, goats are slaughtered and eaten, and there is a lot of dancing. I can't wait for this!
On a side-note, I went to Dakar for 10 days. When I returned to my village, it was 7 at night. I walked down the dirt path leading from the street to my village. The millet and corn had gotten much taller in my absence, some almost as tall as me. (Not that that is too hard to accomplish.) I smiled to myself, noting the beauty of all these fields and delighting in the fact that I was almost home. Birds sang in the trees, sunset was beginning, and it was nice to be back. A lot of people were busy in their houses, finishing chores, pulling water from the well, getting ready to break the fast. When people saw me coming, they all called out happily to me. Every adult I passed, stopped to talk to me, to see how I was doing, and to ask how Dakar was. The children all chanted my name and some followed me on the path home. As I rounded the corner near my compound, I saw my mom flying down the path. She had heard people calling out to me and ran towards me. She didn't stop until she was directly next to me. My face was one huge smile. If Senegalese hugged, I would've received a huge bear hug for her. Unfortunately, they do not. But I received a warm, long handshake and incessant chatter on her part. It's the biggest sign of affection I've ever seen from her. We entered my room, and I was followed in by at least 10 children and 5 adults. More kept piling in as they found out I had returned. The room was literally packed with people. My backyard had become overgrown with weeds, and the children immediately set to work weeding the whole backyard and sweeping my room and backyard for me. Letters that had fallen from the walls were carefully retrieved by others. As the adults and children in my compound returned from the fields, they all came running into my room to greet me too. All of them had huge smiles on their faces, so glad that I was back. My brother Moussa and sister Kani, both about 10 and both of whom adore me, both ran into my room when they returned from the fields and did not leave my side until after dinner. (According to my mom, Moussa doesn't do any work when I'm around and is always talking about me or hurriedly doing what he has to do so that he can join me. He also called me on the phone once while I was in Dakar to see how I was.) Even family members who usually don't show much emotion around me showed how ecstatic they were to have me back. And apparently Bom, my favorite toddler, had gone to my door every day chanting my name and wanting to know where I was. She tottered over to sit on my lap now that I was back. Oh, how I love my village.
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