Ana gayndé gi ?
I recently came up on a book of Wolof proverbs, and I am thus inspired to start off my blog entries with a lil nugget of wisdom from now on. I’ll start with one of my favorites:
-Kakator mooy soppaliku, gël melow suuf, waaye suuf du gël melow kakator.
-The chameleon changes, takes the color of the earth, but the earth doesn’t take the color of the chameleon.
Needless to say, I am a chameleon these days. Allow me to illustrate:
My host brother Khadim just went back to his hometown. He was lodging with my family here (my host dad is his uncle) for the school year, which has now come to an end. I am bummed that he has taken off as he has become a good friend over the past few months. But our relationship did not start off on such good terms…
My time spent here has generally been very good. But when pressed for the difficult times, my mind points to the first couple weeks at site. Some things take getting used to, and being the only Toubab is different than being surrounded by them as was the case during training. Images evoked from this difficult period involve Khadim in particular.
After a long day, I went on a run to burn off some steam and get away from people for a minute. “Moustapha! Moustapha!” is the call that followed me not long after I had escaped from my house. Khadim had rushed out to join me. After cursing in English (which means I was not happy) only partly under my breath, I put on my smile and asked him, dangay entrainer (are you going for a run)? Baax na (great)!
That same night I took a walk around town with my brothers and sisters. Still not in my best mood, Khadim draped his arms over me to ask how to say some inane word in English. I taught him a different word instead, which I will not repeat, and pushed him off of me. I considered calling it a night.
But my insult, rather than injure as intended, sent Khadim staggering in laughter. He told me I was a comedian, and asked me how to say comedian in English… It’s hard to stay mad at people that have a good sense of humor and a good heart.
Over the next days, weeks, and months, I was conscious of small personal transformations: children’s bothersome demands for gifts didn’t stop, but they now led to my own demands of futbol jerseys. The questions regarding girls did not cease, but the ranks of fictitious wives began to pile up. The woman at the Mayor’s office never left me be, but she became my yaay (mother). Cisse still hasn’t stopped busting my chops about everything he can think of every time I see him, but now I give it right back, and he has become my waay (man). A nod of the head (yes) is now accomplished by a click of the tongue, and a suck of the tongue has replaced a shake of the head (no).
Being the chameleon, taking the color of the earth, has been the key to opening the Senegalese people and seeing them for the big teddy bears that they are.
And so increasingly over the course of the last 7 months, I found myself telling Khadim, ‘let’s go, get up!’ as I walked out the door. I realized that his inquiries into the English language came from a sincere desire to learn, one of the most essential qualities a human being should have. Anyone else who tried to greet me with their “How are you? You are fine?”, was dismissed with a “degguma Anglais (I don’t speak English)”. But a smile came to my face every time Khadim would stammer out his “How do you write…?”, and the English lesson would begin. Bey= goat, G-O-A-T, goat. He would surprise me weeks later by busting out the absurd things that I had taught him, by, for example, appropriately labelling Fallou a chatterbox.
A few days ago I turned serious, and told Khadim how proud I was of his progress in English, and that I want him to call me in 6 years with his Bac (high school diploma) in hand. Whenever I think in these terms, I see the fate of these people hinging on one boy’s studies, and I wonder whether I will ever get this call, or whether Khadim will fall into one of the many traps that await him on his path.
To my encouragement, Khadim responded in well-spoken English, “I will never forget Moustapha Niang (that’s me)!”. I will never forget Khadim Caam, and I pray that one day I will get that phone call.
