Easter Sunday/"Miss Celie I feels like dancin'!" I rarely celebrate Easter. When I was younger I participated in all of the mandatory egg-painting and hunting, church-going, and chocolate-eating (even though Mom has always had a complex about bunnies due to the psych ward escapee who used to dress in a bunny suit and flash the children on her school playground). During college in the US I remember being in complete shock at the first sight of someone with an ash cross on their forehead for Ash Wednesday and Easter came and went as a much-appreciated long weekend for more last minute paper-writing before the end of the semester. This year however, Duma and I got the urge to celebrate Easter religiously. Despite my uncertain relationship with Christianity as an institution, I think being in Senegal has made me appreciate the value of ritualized celebration. Since, in most cases, sitting in a church pew doesn't make me feel closer to God, I feel it is insincere of me to go just for the sake of celebrating Easter (aka when it is convenient for me). But if I can stand by and watch eight moutons be slaughtered for Tabaski, someone else's tradition, how wrong can it be to go to a ceremony for the sake of its familiarity?

We barely woke up and made it on the ferry to Goree island in time for the service. But Tinari, Katy (visiting from NYC), Duma and I were all there in our Sunday best, sitting behind the nuns on a wooden pew which was no doubt installed in 1830 when the church was built on the historical island, at 10am sharp. We followed the nuns as they cued the congregation on when to stand, sit, kneel, cross oneself, and sing. The choir was a wonderful mix of choral Wolof with drums and guitar. Having been raised Methodist myself, I was a bit overwhelmed at first by the level of ritual and the ornateness of the church; the lit candles, the holy water, the burning incense, the gold plaster and graphic crucifixion scenes all over the place seemed a bit overkill. Why not just sit outside under the tree to admire God's presence? This line of reflection always brings me back to the scene in The Color Purple when Miss Celie and Shug are walking in a field and talking about trees and God: 'I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in field somewhere and don't notice it.' But I guess it doesn't hurt to stimulate the senses every once in a while, whether with incense and music or a series of standing and kneeling (very similar to Muslim-styled prayer and yoga). As if on cue, someone got the spirit half way through a hymn and was systematically carried out by nuns and choir members who worked (never once missing a note in the music) with the efficiency of NYC club bouncers to bring harmony back to the sanctuary of God.

After the service we milled around on the church steps, as people do, and then met up with a friend of Tinari's, Fedou, who was born and raised on Goree. I slipped out of my heels and into some sandals before we walked up to the highest point to give Katy the panoramic view of the island and Dakar's skyline. While on this hill we stopped and sat with one of Goree's hidden treasures: Baye Soulaye. Baye Sooley (Father Sooley) is a bearded older man who 'sells' coffee and nuts to any passerby interested in a place to sit and good conversation. Our two hour session with him consisted of Wolof word etymology, philosophical debate and the signing of his impressive guest book full of different languages and memories.

After our second round of church with Baye Sooley, Fedou invited us to his home (across the cobble-stoned path from the House of Slaves) for lunch. It was such a Senegalese moment - leave the wise old man after a two hour conversation over cafe that he would be insulted if we paid for only to head into the crowded living room of a family we've never met (except for Tinari) for a delicious communal lunch. It just so happens that a friend we had met the day before (also via Tinari), stylist Mariam Diop, was there for lunch too. The food was DELICIOUS. It was a Senegalese paella of sorts: spiced yellow rice with pieces of chicken, shrimp, oysters, and squid thrown in the mix, covered in a tangy sauce of fresh sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. MMMMM!

After some coffee to jerk us out of our food comas, we headed across the 'street' to the House of Slaves for a tour. It was a first for Tinari and Katy. But even though Duma and I had been before its a pretty sobering experience every time, to say the least. Each time I visit I feel like some new piece of history jumps out at me: the fact that the French traders lived on top of the inhumane dungeons, the poor ventilation, the punishment cells, the door of no return. This time what stuck was a sentence on a display panel about resistance and escape during the middle passage. Under the relatively well-known Amistad story, one line: on November 29, 1777 fourteen women threw themselves into the ocean together from the boat Soleil.

The day ended on an energetic note with a game of pick-up basketball on the neighborhood court. I couldn't resist and jumped in - bare feet, Sunday dress, and all. I think of it as a continuation of my childhood days when I would run around our Dakar neighborhood, Simone and Zoe in tow, and climb mango trees in my white laced socks and patent leather shoes.

There should be a word for days like this - ones that are heavy with learning and memory, but still surprisingly buoyant.