Jean-Luc Marie Cecile Mustaffa If you go to a village where everyone dances on one leg, you should do the same thing Wolof proverb Our freighter had reached Senegal, the westernmost country in Africa. The engines cut back to quarter speed as we approached Dakar harbour. Close on the port side, we eased past Gorée Island where a monument had been built to honour the ten million people taken from West Africa since the start of the slave trade in the sixteenth century. As we glided quietly by, the iconic island cast a shadow across the water. For over three hundred years, lives had been stolen from their owners and families as they were snatched off their feet and transported in small wooden vessels across the Atlantic. If they survived the lengthy voyage, they would serve life sentences as slaves. None returned. The fearful and angry voices of the missing millions seemed to claw across the narrow gap of water into my being.
Was the island some kind of supernatural conduit reminding me of man?s inhumanity to man? The ship came along side the dock and I got down to the practical work of being a deck hand?pulling up the heavy hawser and lacing it around the bollards to secure the ship. Trying to shovel the sombre thoughts to the back of my mind, I anticipated a nice break from shipboard life in the Bar Marseille. I was meeting my shipmate Fred there. Dakar was much bigger than Takoradi in Ghana, our last port of call. The more crowded the space, the more hurried people seemed. I darted across the street avoiding the chaotic traffic. Breathlessly, I reached the other side and almost stumbled onto a girl sitting on the curb. She had high cheekbones and doe eyes.
She looked at me with a flicker of a smile and held up a begging dish. I stared back down at her. Her legs were horribly mangled. I felt a wave of nausea. I wondered if she had suffered this indignity so she could beg and help support her family. Our eyes locked together. I was mesmerised by her face but revolted by the cruelty of her lot in life. Her large eyes were plaintive and captivating and made my heart pound.
She was about nineteen, the same age as me. In another world, without the mutilation, I could have loved her, even married her, this women with the stunning face who stopped me in my tracks. I tore my eyes away. The mix of revulsion and attraction was too confusing. I couldn?t bring myself to give her money. It would have cemented the reality of the huge gap between us. I walked away; her eyes trailed me. ?Monsieur, argent s?il vous plait.
Argent.? I walked faster and felt guiltier. How could I turn my back on her? Truly I was a coward, but at least nobody noticed. It was a busy street. Bar Marseille, the sign said. I had arrived. I looked inside and saw a long wooden bar running parallel to the wall. The bar itself was varnished brown, the wall dark green, and there was sawdust on the floor.
Édith Piaf was coming from the jukebox. About eight men were drinking along the bar. Fred had not arrived yet. I entered and thought about what I needed to say to order a draft beer. All eyes were on me, the white guy, especially the barman. ?Une bière pression s?il vous plait,? I said nervously. A flicker of a smile crossed the barman?s face as he passed across a foaming glass of beer. Good, my French worked here.
I nodded and said hello to the chap next to me who seemed happy to chat. I had met few Africans and relished the chance of meeting and understanding a people from a culture so different than mine. Jean-Luc was, about five foot six, maybe thirty years old, and told me he was a bicycle mechanic. We talked about life in Senegal: The religion in Senegal, he explained, was mostly Islam because people could not afford to give ten per cent of their wage to the church that the Catholics wanted. He told me the politicians were corrupt and that he enjoyed his life as a mechanic. He said he was a Wolof, which seemed to be some kind of tribe. After a while, he asked me if I wanted to see his house. I thought it might be interesting and agreed.
As I walked to the door, a young chap about my age with an angry face stood briefly in front of me and said loudly but tentatively, as though he were trying out the idea, ?Je n?aime pas la peau blonde.? (I don?t like white skin) I couldn?t think what to say so just walked around him, carefully. I felt glad to be with Jean-Luc. Being local he felt like my passport to safety. Jean-Luc was embarrassed but said not to worry. After a fifteen-minute walk, my guide announced with a smile, ?Voici ma maison.? (Here is my house) It was a ten foot by eight foot square shack about seven feet high and looked to be made out of flattened one gallon tin cans nailed on to wooden uprights. He opened the rickety door and lit a candle by striking a match on the wall.
The roof was corrugated iron with a few stars showing through one corner. Laying on her back on colourful blanket partially covering the dirt floor was a naked woman, snoring very lightly. ?Et voici ma femme.? (And here is my woman) Jean Luc announced proudly with a sweep of his hand. I wasn?t sure what to say. Were we two men admiring a naked woman, or was he a friend introducing his wife? Should I say Belle poitrine ? (Nice boobs) or should I ignore she was naked and just say Elle est belle. (She?s nice) I compromised: ?Une belle forme . et.
très jolie.? (Nice shape and very pretty) Jean-Luc smiled and seemed satisfied with my answer. He decided to stay home with his jolie wife. We shook hands and said our goodbyes. I returned through the dark streets towards the bar. I felt quite alone and hoped not to meet any more men who didn?t like white skin. I eventually found the Bar Marseille and slid on to the same bar stool I had left. I ordered a beer.
I sipped the cool liquid slowly, and lit a Rothmans. Sometimes beer makes things clearer. It reduces life to basics. I ordered another. I was beginning to realise that I had always been rich: I grew up eating three meals a day, lived in a brick house with bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. I had a dog, a bicycle, summer holidays sometimes, parents who looked out for me, and had gone to school five days a week. In Mr. Higgs?s high school geography class, we learned that Ghana had gold and Senegal phosphates but nothing had prepared me for today.
Today?s geography lesson had been different. It bypassed my brain, seeped into my body and stuck to my insides, where it still remains.