Ndank, Ndank

Grammaire. Le sens masculin. Les noms d’hommes et les noms devant lesquels on peut mettre le ou un sont masculins. Example. Pierre, Bachir, Abdou, le bonbon, un crayon, le préfet, le camion, un pot.

I’ve started to get into a daily routine. I wake up at seven, turn on the flourescent light to stay awake, the lay in bed for a few more minutes while I wait to hear my sister to get in the shower. This means that the narrow hallway will be open so I can get through without running into anyone. I put on a skirt over my pajama shorts, it takes five tries to light the gas burner to boil a pot of water for my shower, and walk to la boutique to pick up the morning’s 1 kilo of bread- one baguette. Three paquets of dried milk/lait en poudrière, three paquets of instant Nescafé, one of hot chocolat. Three wedges of laughing cow cheese, it’s all been paid for the night before. This morning Mama Binta went with me and there were so many people there, and the man behind the counter was so busy, she went and helped herself to various shelves and cupboards, climbing up on the stepladder to reach the box of powdered milk, grumbling at him the whole time. I pour the now-boiling water into the bucket that I take into the shower, rinse my hair while the cold water from the showerhead mixes so by the time the bucket’s full the water’s pleasantly warm. Bring yesterday’s underwear into the shower, wash that and hang it with my washcloth on the line to dry, get dressed and brush my hair. Yacine and Amas arrive just as I start eating breakfast. The pot on the stove/burner is now boiling water for coffee. I have café blanc, that is to say, a whole packet of milk and two or three cubes of sugar with what ends up only slightly tasting of coffee. Also about five inches of bread, which is just enough to balance out the cheese. Don’t forget to bid everyone a bonne journée before leaving.

I turn right out the door, right at the street, past the group of what look like refugees but are really all Muslims waiting for the bus to take them to Touba- a huge festival/celebration/holiday, they spend the night sleeping on the street on their prayer mats reading beautiful books, clustered around the speaker that blares the call to prayer. Bear to the left, don’t get hit on the blind-turn intersection, pass the dog with the chewed ear, a few cats, one’s skinny and white with a few brown spots, piles of stinking garbage. Right at the stadium, the sidewalk is covered with drying bricks, walk in the road or on the curb, there’s a woman and her five children selling and roasting peanuts from a cart, cross in front of the store that sells pristine school supplies, always tempting but I never remember the names for “notebook” or “mechanical pencil” to ask how much they cost, hard left until the Casino Supermarché and the parking lot that smells like piss. Meet Kaela, or Laura, 8:15, cross busy streets, meet a few more at the boys that sell colored baskets hanging on ropes from the trees’ branches, find a way to cross the street before reaching the colored tires. Taxis stop, I’m not looking for you, I’m looking for a gap between yellow cars and blue busses, try not to but always end up stepping out in front of traffic and hoping for the best. Shortcut past the closed amusement park by garish bumper cars that look like ghosts live there, through a pink neighborhood filled with flowers and left on the main road and play Don’t Die Crossing the Street and meet up with a few more students. Right at th’école prescolaire, here’s the street of ambassadors, a bunch of Romanians and Egyptians live here, rich but they all park their BMWs on the curb so we walk on the road, quickly as we pass the boutique “Chez Ass”, don’t look in the window, the owner’s been trying to follow Laura to school all week. The expensive café where all the rich kids hang out is on the right. The overpriced MyShop and ATM are on the left. Across the busiest intersection I’ve ever dared to traverse with one overworked traffic cop directing about eight lanes of traffic, head towards the warty troll of a baobab tree, past the crowded gas station (there’s a gas shortage because of all the traffic to Touba) past men and boys selling phone credit and a few fruit stands, the vendors know us and quiz us on our Wolof after school. This is the rich Fann neighborhood, where on trouve the hospital, university, ambassades, a curve right and a quick turn left-then-right and we’re at WARC, 9-6. And it’s totally different walking home. (Another time).

Yesterday I got home from school fairly early, but it was still only a few hours before dark. I tried to do homework, couldn't concentrate. Pascal asked me to help him with his recitations. He had to memorize two lessons and one poem for the next day. The poem was simple enough, and I tried to teach him how to pay attention to the rhythm, since he recited it all as one long get-it-over-with sentence. His next lesson was much harder for him to learn:

"L'homme mange les aliments (fruits), legumes, poissons, eau, jus, lait, pour grandir, pour avoir de l'énergie (force), et pour être en très bonne santé. Quand j'ai faim, je mange. Lorsque j'ai soif, je bois."

We went through it so many times I learned it too.

But after a bit my uncle came over and there was a huge fuss. Turns out the outside light for the jardin had burnt out, which wouldn't be a big deal except for the fact that the whole fataya operation takes place in the jardin and lasts until well after dark, and while you'd hope that this would be a good excuse to end early what would be a 15-hour day, there was still work to be done. I ran and got my flashlight from my bag, fished out some batteries, and handed it to my uncle so he could see what he was doing. He was saying something about the fuse and my mom was getting upset and they argued for a while over what exactly the problem was and how it could be fixed while Pascal fidgeted his way through Quand j'ai faim, je mange. Finally it was admitted that there was nothing to be done. Mama Binta and Amas kept working, in the dark, and since Djouma had to leave to take care of her mother back in the village (for a while, actually- she's not working here anymore) and Yacine had to leave early (it's not safe for her to walk home alone after dark) they were one person short. I started helping Amas fold fatayas- he had my flashlight held like a phone between his ear and shoulder, and I used the flashlight on my phone, holding it in my mouth to light up the worktable.

We worked like that for a while. I'd switch between folding/filling, counting, and holding the light for Mama Binta. She kept leaving to call someone else who might know or be able to help with the light situation. Pascal would come outside once in a while to try again with les aliments, fruits, legumes, poisson, eau, jus, lait and kept getting sent back in to re-learn it. I looked up over the corrugated iron, saw two sharp silhouettes on the roof of the house across the street. In the window of sky, one lean-muscled shadow gestured vaguely, the other was absolutely still except to light a cigarette, the lighter flashing briefly at his face, before the tiny ember and the smoke almost glowed. They looked to be cut out of paper, the contrast between their bodies and the sky was so clear. I looked down to count fatayas, move uncooked pasties from one table to the other, when I looked back they were gone.

I tried to help Pascal, asking him questions about the text he had to learn, did he understand it, suggesting tips for memorization. Mama Binta just told him to go back inside, he didn’t understand it yet, go read it over again. I wonder how this kind of memorization works, if it really leads to understanding. Say it say it say it and then you’ll understand. If you learn the words, you learn the lesson. I would disagree, normally, at home. But I’m working so hard to say “mangi fi, jerejef, yow nak?” “maangi tudd Johanna, Aminata laa tudd ci Dakar”. I’m folding fataya and folding fataya and folding fataya, and learning that what goes into it is giant onions and green onions and black pepper and a little parsley with la viande. Pour grandir, pour avoir de l’énergie, I’m reciting and I don’t know if I’m understanding or if I need to read it again. The words are there. Et pour être en très bonne santé. Amas says I’m nice, none of the other Americans helped with the fatayas. Mama Binta says I should find a nice husband and stay here in Sénégal, she’s my maman, she’ll find me one. A nice hardworking husband, not one of those Bifals, I’m such a nice girl I should stay here in Sénégal I’m such a big help. She fries an extra fataya for me to take to school tomorrow, it’s time to clean up I should go back to helping my brother with his homework, what did my uncle think breaking the light like that, he shouldn’t be allowed in the house he’s so clumsy. I walk back inside, I’m speaking French and speaking French and speaking Wolof and speaking Wolof, telling my brother to read it five times, recite it twice, it’ll go easier that way. I wonder does Pascal really understand that he eats when he is hungry, when he hesitantly drones quand j’ai faim, je mange. You are learning that when you’re thirsty you drink. That’s all the lesson is, Pascal. It makes sense, you just need to memorize the words. Lorsque j’ai soif, je bois.