AFRICAN INDEPENDENCE @50: In 1960, referred to by some as "The Year of Africa," 17 African states gained their independence, following the lead of Ghana in 1957. Among them, Senegal is now celebrating its 50th year of independence. It is something to be celebrated, but also an appropriate moment to pause, honestly discuss the state of affairs and envision a path forward. This is not only important in terms of the country and continent's economical development, but also its strategic position in the world, its unity, its role in global affairs (i.e. Haiti crisis), etc. There is much to be decided, much to be acted upon. Here I'd like to share my vision of tomorrow's "Africa", in abstract. My toast to Africa and her brilliant future.

I see a land of unlimited potential. One of the most frustrating things to come to terms with is being without electricity in a country where there is almost always sunshine and wind from the Atlantic. I see future urban and rural landscapes powered by energy expertly harvested (by Africans) from the sun and wind. I envision renewable energy training facilities to prepare for and fill the inevitable plethora of green jobs created by a new sustainability policy adhered to by the public and private sectors and subsidized by the government. 

A more specific example of how this eco-friendly vision could be manifested in Dakar: Every fall Dakar and its poor suburbs flood, displacing thousands of families, disrupting micro-economies, and causing a public health nightmare. This happens every year and yet the government acts like it has been caught completely off guard each time. I see a government, led by innovative leaders who are willing to listen to the needs of the population, hosting an international forum of eco-friendly design, urban planning, and crisis management to come up with a creative and sustainable solution to this problem (and possibly channeling the rainwater in a more productive way). This, in my mind, is the most ideal type of private-public partnership, one in which partners are on equal terms. Should the World Bank or any other traditional creditor wish to fund it, they would be welcomed under a whole new set of equitable terms (and would be less likely to be reincarnated as dung beetles in future lives :-P).

I envision a return to subsistence agriculture, in the sense that national and intra-continental policies focus on developing African agricultural sectors to meet popular needs rather than exporting European-determined cash crops and importing rice from Thailand, cotton products from the U.S., chocolate from Europe...etc. This would mean building up a manufacturing sector to produce finished products instead of exporting raw goods (only to buy them back in plastic wrapping and at higher prices). Whether through "a more perfect" African Union similar to the EU, with its policies of economic fluidity and protectionism, or through loose trade agreements that favor intra-contenental deals above inter-contenental ones. It's about time Africa acted selfishly. 

It is already clear that, ironically, the continent's general lack of communications infrastructure has allowed it to leap frog into the world of wireless tech free from the burden of cables and landlines. I see a future of more mobile banking, wireless public computer terminals,and wireless innovation in the education, public health, good governance (anti-corruption), and local business development sectors. Imagine being able to report, by cell phone, any public servant requesting a bribe with a guarantee of immediate follow up. Public access to information and resources is a pre-requisite for governmental transparency. Here is an example of wireless and mobile technology being used by citizens from Kenya, Ghana, South Africa...etc to respond to situations of social unrest and, more recently, Haiti's earthquake response.

Others have already started building an Africa in which the best and brightest young minds are not shipped overseas to be trained within Euro-centric academic settings. I foresee a rich network of schools like the African Leadership Academy, offering an alternative to secondary education in Europe and the U.S. and promoting leadership, social entrepreneurship, and a do-it-yourself attitude towards problem solving. Beyond the practical skill-set promoted in these new centers of learning, the academic curricula will focus on African histories, languages, arts, scientific discoveries, academics...etc. And for those who cannot afford private education, publicly funded schools that provide both academic and vocational training with an emphasis on homegrown industries including green jobs, tech, manufacturing, and social enterprise.

Lastly, I see an Africa sure of herself and her image abroad. She is not the stereotypical "mama Africa" often cast as overly maternal (always thinking and caring for others, not herself), and a little outdated. She is strong, independent, young and trendy. She does not need to explain herself to others, nor does she need to be revitalized, for she is all that is fresh. I see this in the arts, particularly in the growing fashion scene,  design, and social media. I hope to see more of this in the way Africa presents herself to the world proactively rather than being (mis)represented by others. This does not necessarily mean denying any faults and making grandiose gestures beyond her means (i.e. Wade to Haitians), but portraying a more holistic and up-to-date image of Africa's many realities.

I could go on and there will no doubt be more added in future posts. I'm truly excited by this rich potential and eager to get my MBA and jump into the process of realizing this vision that I believe is shared by many. I know these points are somewhat simply stated, but they are meant to just give a taste of what can and, I'm sure, will be. It is also important to note that I've chosen to only focus on what Africa herself should do - I have plenty of other recommendations to external actors who have, in many ways, set the continent back within the last 50 years. But we are not limited to finger-pointing. We are too fabulous and full of future potential for that.

Whether or not you are African, you've traveled to part of Africa, or are deeply familiar with Senegal or any other countries on this mighty continent, you can still envision some aspect of its future. Perhaps a different representation in the U.S.? Maybe stronger diaspora relations? More African-based opportunities for inter-cultural exchange? What is your 50th "African Independence" celebration wish?

Hello 2010!!!! Happy New Year people! It's incredible how time slips by so stealthily....it seems just yesterday that Mom, Dad and Simone were here celebrating the holidays with me.

It is a rite of passage of sorts to host one's parents for the first time and I feel, if I can say so myself, that I passed this milestone with all the grace a 24-year-old in an artsy apartment with mismatched dishes, the world's tiniest tea kettle, a roommate, two overly-affectionate cats, a medieval coffee brewer, and a hammock, can afford. :-)

It was amusing to see the various dimensions of my Senegal experiences converge. We spent a lot of time with old family friends, the Dieye family (tata Jackie, tonton Momar, Henriette and Ben) and the Kanes (Claire, Soum and Djinda). I had just worked with Claire, who is a very well known fashion designer, on a really cool project, including a fashion show on a boat in the middle of the Senegal river, promoting the development of the old capital, Saint Louis, and the northern region of Senegal. Consequently, I am already somewhat integrated in Claire's world of sophisticated artists and entrepreneurs, a world that seemed to once be the sole territory of my parents.

Besides partying with the country's elite, my parents hit it off well with my neighborhood crew (Oumy, Papis, Malang and Mustafa still ask about you!) and my former host family (Moussou, Yacine and Mamma send their best). One unforgettable moment was having Dad and Mamma (host mom) banter over a dinner of couscous - Mamman singing my praises with such creative platitudes as "Elle est adorable! Comme un bonbon, mwaah!" (with a smack of fingers to the lips) and Dad asking her how much I paid her to say that.

We did a lot of traveling in air-conditioned SUVs, mini vans and beat-up taxis with the grim tales of David Sedaris's Holidays on Ice as entertainment. In Saint Louis we saw the most incredible old houses renovated artistically to be used as residences, guest lodges, and galleries. It was like going on a fantasy HGTV tour. We spent one night in a part of the Sahel desert called Lampoul, where the sand dunes almost looked like snowy hills in the clear moonlight. We slept in Bedouin tents and rode on camels in the morning...not as glamorous an activity as it might sound.


It was also a pleasure having Duma back here again. Her visit was so reflective of who she is as a person - short, but so very sweet. We celebrated her return in a way only really good friends do: we had a Sex and the City mini-marathon, we went on tailoring runs, and I bought and killed a sheep for a 'second Tabaski' celebration with friends (okay, I didn't kill it - my neighbor did).

Okay, so now I have almost covered all of the important highlights from these past few months of blog-negligence. Of course I am, for your sakes, skipping over the hours of pouring over application essays and filling in online forms for grad school. It is worth mentioning, however, that I have been accepted to one school so far (yay!) and am waiting to hear from the others. Will keep you posted on that front.

Now that it seems my free time is infinite without any application work to do, I have, of course, filled it all up again with a new initiative: organizing and fundraising in response to the earthquake in Haiti. But, I will leave that for the next post....

Operation Tabaski! Over the past month or so Dakar has been absolutely overrun by moutons (sheep) in what is unofficially known as Operation Tabaski. In preparation for the religious holiday, which took place on Saturday, people set up small enterprises to sell sheep to Dakar residents at prices ranging from $60 to $2,000, depending on the breed of course. This veritable mouton industry is in interesting and significant part of the country's informal economy, complete with its own terminology (the most expensive breed of sheep is referred to as the "limousine") and social hierarchy. Out of curiosity and in support of neighborhood friends and entrepreneurs, Papis, Malang and Mustafa, I decided to document their Operation Tabaski mouton-selling activities for what will hopefully become a tool for them to attract future investments via micro-finance. I will post the video, filmed by myself and Papis, as soon as possible.


Now that the holiday has passed, the city has been reclaimed by humans and I can open my windows without encountering the drift of offensive mouton odor. I spent Tabaski at maambooy's house as usual and ate enough mouton over the weekend to last me until next year. Today at work I exchange belated Tabaski greetings with colleagues and students, some of whom are vegetarian and still shared in the festivities, others who are traumatized and intend to become vegetarian the moment they return home.


Here are some photos of Tabaski-wear:

Below are my two roomies, Sonya, a Barnard Senior currently in Dakar, and Mariam Diop, talented fashion designer.
And the winnder for most creative Tabaski outfit design goes to....Yacine Ba for her black bassin onesy with hot pink beaded belt creation. Fabulous.

Winner for most elegant 'Traditional' Tabaski outfit goes to Aminata Ndao for her white and gold boubou.

Kor bi jeex na! Ramadan is over. Alhamdelilah. This year was my first time fasting during the full month. For those who aren't familiar, this entails waking up to eat before sunrise, going without food or water during the day, and breaking fast after dusk. Of course, lots of praying is involved or, as in my case, meditation and reflection on beliefs and values. The hardest part was the overall fatigue from lack of sleep and fuel. The best part was breaking fast with neighbors, friends, family, and strangers throughout the month. I can count the number of times I ate at home on one hand during Ramadan. Now that it's over and I'm writing this in an empty apartment (except for the cats) after having cooked and eaten alone, I miss the camaraderie of the ndogou (Wolof word for 'cutting' the fast).

Ndogou: coffee, tea and hot chocolate with bread and jam, dates, and sandwich cold cuts

Left: Moussou and Oumy during Oumy's Ramadan bday dinner.

Right: Oumy's bday dinner. Maty, Fatou ak bagasam, Julie (my current roommate), and me.
Far right: Malang, Papis and Ibrahima (aka sai sai bu mag).










On the down side, I totally let my application work and GMAT studying get behind due to my general lack of energy. I realize that this goes somewhat against the rules of Ramadan, which state that fasting must not prevent one from fulfilling one's normal obligations. However, I have also realized that I am really stubborn. I decided to fast and I wanted to do it all the way. Now I just have a lot of catching up to do. I'm okay with that.

This past weekend was Korite (Eid Al Fitr in Arabic), which I spent with the family at Maambooy's house (Grandma's house). Here are some pics of the festivities below.

Women of the family prepare the food during the day.

Yacine Ba, my little sister when I was here in 2006. Same age as Simone.

Moussou and I went with a black and gold theme.

We even got Tinari to dress up for the festivities.

Me and Maambooy, my Senegalese grandma.

A June 7th Surprise: Have I mentioned that I am in love with my friend/roomie Duma? Knowing that we won't be together for my July 7th birthday and also knowing the plight of summer birthday party organizing when everyone is traveling, Duma threw me a fabulous surprise party on June 7th, a month before my actual birthday. It was the cutest thing ever. She recruited some friends to help distract me during the day and her and Fatou Sow (mostly Fatou) whipped up a mouth-watering ceeb bu weex (my fave) and white sangria. I came home around 5pm and was greeted with a big 'surprise!' from friends. Thank you all - especially Duma. It was really special.

Mariam, Tinari and Gabe cutting fruit for Sangria

Ceeb bu weex bu neeeexx

gifts from Mariam and Esperance

Duma has aptly named this photo "Ceebcoma"

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.

A little Alice.... So today I got to thinking about the fact that my dear friend Fatma is about to give birth to a baby girl. I am already an auntie to Nasozi's son, Rafayando Kalungi, and Leilani's daughter, Xenayana - both as beautiful as their mothers. For me this is not only a sign of the inevitable fact that my friends and I are growing up, it is also a a reflection of the strength and inherent optimism that it takes to bring a life into this world. In this state of mind, I came across a piece of Alice wisdom I hadn't read in a while and thought it fitting to post in honor of all the womanists in my life. To you my loves!

From the preface of In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose. Alice Walker's definitions of womanist:

1. From womanish. (Opp. of "girlish," i.e. frivolous, irresponsible, not serious.) A black feminist or feminist of color. From the black folk expression of mothers to female children, "you acting womanish," i.e., like a woman. Usually referring to outrageous, audacious, courageous or willful behavior. Wanting to know more and in greater depth than is considered "good" for one. Interested in grown up doings. Acting grown up. Being grown up. Interchangeable with another black folk expression: "You trying to be grown." Responsible. In charge. Serious.

2. Also: A woman who loves other women, sexually and/or nonsexually. Appreciates and prefers women's culture, women's emotional flexibility (values tears as natural counterbalance of laughter), and women's strength. Sometimes loves individual men, sexually and/or nonsexually. Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female. Not a separatist, except periodically, for health. Traditionally a universalist, as in: "Mama, why are we brown, pink, and yellow, and our cousins are white, beige and black?" Ans. "Well, you know the colored race is just like a flower garden, with every color flower represented." Traditionally capable, as in: "Mama, I'm walking to Canada and I'm taking you and a bunch of other slaves with me." Reply: "It wouldn't be the first time."

3. Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.

4. Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender.

If you’ve ever wanted to come to Senegal, December 2009 is IT: Listen up everyone and listen well! In December 2009 Senegal is going to make history again by hosting the third edition of the World Festival of Black Arts (FESMAN III). The first edition of the festival was in Dakar in 1966 and featured world renowned artists. Here is a look into the history provided on the website:

FESMAN ’66 was in essence a thunderbolt: the Festival was the visible, tangible product of the years spent by Black peoples to win back their dignity. It delighted the audiences and critics who were sufficiently open to understand its importance. And this great event took place in an African land that had only recently been returned to African rule, in a creative explosion that brought together a range of disciplines and different generations.

Whether or not they were in favour at the time of the concept of Negritude in theory, the artists and intellectuals taking part in the Festival nevertheless kept their artistic promises. Where else, if not at the FESMAN, could one have then found both the American Negro Dance Company with Arthur Mitchell and Alvin Ailey, the great Bahia capoerists such as Mestre Pastrinha alongside the Senegalese National Ballet Ensemble? Where else could audiences have listened to the two great stars Duke Ellington and Marion Williams, along with Julie Akofa Akoussah and Bella Bellow, both unknowns at the time, and a Samba queen such as Clementina de Jesus? Under what other circumstances could the international literary jury members Aimé Césaire and Langston Hughes have awarded prizes to the writers in their thirties Tchicaya U’Tamsi (for Epitome) and Wole Soyinka (for The Road) and to the author of a first book published the previous year, entitled No Easy Walk to Freedom, by a certain Nelson Mandela?

FESMAN II, hosted in Lagos, Nigeria in 1977 was also a worldwide hit and a step forward in the creation and fortification of our most cherished black art institutions:

The programmes were once again exceptional. In the field of music in particular, the FESTAC caused a sensation, with not only a retrospectively impressive line-up (Stevie Wonder, Myriam Makeba, Gilberto Gil, King Sunny Ade, Gil Scott-Heron, Tabu Ley Rochereau, Sun Ra, mPongo Love, Carmen McRae, Pépé Felly, Caetano Veloso, Donald Byrd, Hoballadii Waaberi, Isaac Hayes, Les Amazones de Guinée, Randy Weston, Mighty Sparrow and Sidiki Diabaté to name just a few), but also an unprecedented impact from the South to the North of the planet, owing to the development of radio, records and cassettes…

The other disciplines were not to be overshadowed, particularly in the IN, which notably saw the confrontation of the first fruits of cultural development initiatives undertaken by African States during the first FESMAN (schools and centres for choreographic and theatre creation and the visual arts) as well as by independent companies and movements in the United States, Brazil and the Caribbean, which were also often facing difficulties in their respective countries to achieve recognition of their specific requirements and commitments (for example the Americans Angela Jackson and Barbara Ann Teer, the founder of the National Black Theater of Harlem, the Brazilian Abdias do Nascimento, etc.).

To read the full history of FESMAN click here. Watch excerpts from the famous William Greaves documentary on FESMAN ’66 and the Peter Gaunt documentary on FESMAN ’77.

FESMAN III will be held from December 1^st to December 21^st, 2009 in various venues throughout Dakar and the rest of the country. Although the full program has yet to be unveiled on the website, it has announced that several notable figures and artists do plan to attend: Manu Dibango, Césaria Evora, Danny Glover, Salif Keita, Tracy Reese, Youssou N’Dour, Sidney Poitier, Gilberto Gil...to name a few.

So I invite you all to come to Dakar anytime, but especially in December! The sooner you buy your tickets and confirm with me the better.

And if you’re not impressed by my invitation, here’s one from Mr. Abdoulaye Wade, President of Senegal:

I chose a theme of great relevance: “the African Renaissance.” Indeed, Motherland Africa has the duty to contribute to the emergence of a universal civilization, in which all cultures are represented in order to share and to grow. I am certain my Senegal, along with the Teranga (hospitality) of its citizens, will help in this regard. This meeting will be decisive. It will be a display of brilliance of Black World fertile creativity. It will also be a moral rebirth and a mobilization of all forces towards Africa’s development…

I call all Africans, all the sons and daughters of the Diaspora, all my fellow citizens, all the partners that are ready to walk by our side, all States, all international organizations, foundations, firms, etc. for a shining success for this Festival, and for the rise of a new Africa.

His Excellency Maître Abdoulaye Wade
President of the Republic of Senegal
FESMAN 2009 Honorary Committee President

Happy New Year! May 2009 be full of Peace and Love. I have a lot of catching up to do, so here are some snippets of what I've been up to since I last wrote:

11/30/08: On the road to Saint Louis....
In the bus on the way to Saint Louis I continued plowing through Alice Walker's The Temple of My Familiar while listening to Oumou Sangare. We came to a pit stop - not the bus - but Alice, Oumou and me. I looked up out of the window and caught a glimpse of orange light leaping through leaves and branches on the patchy landscape. I had a sudden vision of some lighter version of myself jumping from the bus and running into the Sahara field to sit on the earth facing the setting sun. Of course I didn't actually do this, but in my mind part of me was there. It felt so real, the hard dirt and chill breeze. That sensation of feeling completely content to be connected with the earth made me feel sad for my other states of disconnection. I saw my happy, lighter self looking down at an estranged, burdened self walking through the concrete jungle of New York City. In my mind one tells the other to keep trudging along. It's okay, enchanted places still do exist in the world.

Reflections on the road back home....
Everything about the six hour bus ride home worsened my mood. I was already 'in a funk,' as my mom would say. Students looked at my tattered book cover and asked me what I was reading. Most had never heard of Alice Walker. This disturbed me. Once again I realized that I was on the 'singing bus' and had to suffer through bad pop and commercial hip hop sung by a bunch of college girls. The cries of glee in response to TI and R.Kelly singles made the fact that no one had heard of Alice Walker, who was the first African American woman to win the Pulitzer, even more disturbing.

Earlier in the day we had done a brief walking tour of historical sites on the island of Saint Louis. The first stop was a square, surrounded by busy traffic, in which a full size statue of a French colonialist named Faidherbe resides. Our resident expert on the slave trade and colonial history gave us a good sense of the context for the imposing presence of the statue: a history of conquest, both physical and metaphysical, and a list of so-called 'contributions' the man had made to Senegal (for which the country thanked him on a plaque beneath his booted feet). When our historian asked if we had questions I wanted to blurt out mine: Why is this despicable thing still standing? Serigne beat me to the punch by saying that, as a Senegalese, he finds it extremely offensive. A confused look from the crowd: but hadn't Faidherbe done much to help the country develop, taught useful skills? Does one need to conquer to teach? Skills for what? To what end? Is what was give even slightly comparable to what was taken away? These are the questions many are not comfortable asking themselves. One thing the historian said really did stick with me: the slave trade was not just the transfer of muscle, it was the transfer of skills. Agriculture, textiles, blacksmithing, cattle-raising - all of these skills laid the foundation for the world's largest economy to prosper.

Hours later, looking out the bus window at the billboards of hair products and those ancient Marlboro ads that have long been banned in the U.S., all of these tangential musings seemed to merge into one stream.

Click here to see some pictures of my trip to Saint Louis, which is, in spite of my somber thoughts, a beautiful place.

The Eighth Mouton...
I spent Tabaski with my former host family at the house of the family matriarch, Maambooy (Grandma). Not having sufficiently learned my lesson about the timing and procedure of Senegalese holidays during Korite, I showed up at 10am absurdly overdressed for what was to be a day full of work and lounging. So I replaced my new taille basse with a house-dress borrowed from Moussou and insisted on cutting onions and potatoes with the rest of the women,even though without a cutting board the onions took me twice as long and my french fries looked slightly deformed. When the men returned from the mosque they quickly changed out of their glistening basin robes and prepared to kill the moutons (sheep), a symbolic sacrifice honoring Ibrahim's willingness to obey God and sacrifice his son, Ishmael. The men dug a pit in a corner of the large courtyard where all of the moutons were tethered to tree trunks and posts, skittish at the sight of the assortment of knives on a nearby table. One by one each mouton was brought to the pit, slaughtered and drained of its blood. Every move of the knife was made with purpose and precision so that the animals suffered as little as possible. There were eight moutons in all, and that poor eighth animal, not knowing he would come last, suffered through witnessing the death of each of his friends. I must say though, the moutons, once grilled or stewed, were delicious. I was surprised at how easy it was to eat what I had just been pitying hours earlier. In many ways the killing and consumption of sheep for Tabaski is a much more humane practice than the way we raise and slaughter turkeys in the U.S. Most Americans have probably never even see a live turkey - we act like they are delivered to us by from the heavens. Wouldn't it be great if every family in the States had to buy or catch and then slaughter and pluck their own thanksgiving turkey? Recipe for disaster or step towards a more humane society?

The Nigerian Bureaucrat who almost stole Christmas...
Our quest started months ago.when Duma and I first bought our tickets to Nigeria for the holidays. It all seemed so simple then: we would get a letter of invitation from mom, and armed with our tickets, passports and photos, we would go to the Nigerian consulate and obtain visas. We were on our best and most demure behavior from the beginning, even though we were treated with contempt by a miserable Nigerian bureaucrat who informed us, in a long-winded snarl, that we would need residence permits to obtain Nigerian visas. So we made our way to the police station designated for foreigners to get residence permits. There we learned that such permits required an authorization from one's 'chef de quartiere,' a neighborhood representative. I won't bore you with the details...but needless to say, what ensued was a veritable Dr. Seuss riddle of document chasing. In the end we had spent lots of money for a pile of documents that are obsolete.

When we finally submitted our applications and passports to the miserable Nigerian bureaucrat, he didn't even ask for all of the documents we had collected. We returned two days later, as instructed, and were greeted with even more contempt. What visas? What passports? What money? Get out of my face! Granted, I was in the man's face at that point and my once demure composition had apparently disappeared with our passports and our money. I glared at him and thought I could see his little heart shrinking beneath the official ID he wore on his chest and was so clearly abusing. That's when I knew that he wanted a bribe. Desperate, I called my mom as a last resort. Sounds like you are going to have to cry, she said in a matter-of-fact tone. There was a silence as Duma and I tried to register what Mom had said. Cry? Yes, that seems to work in Nigeria - I've seen it done before. It was the most bizarre recommendation, but worth a try.

We went back. We were again very polite and composed (Duma was, I couldn't even speak to that miserable man). But when he slammed the glass door in Duma's face we knew it was do or die. When he came back into the lobby we cornered him. Why won't you let me go to Nigeriaaaa!, Duma wailed as tears came gushing down her face. I knew then that we were on. I just want to spend Christmas with my familyyyy!, I sobbed. The man began to slowly back away in panic. He was still shouting back, but we could see the fight dying in his eyes and his little heart starting to grow. Finally he reached into his back pocket, yes his back pocket, and pulled out our passports, which had been already stamped with visas.

And that, my friends, is how we were able to spend the holidays with my family in Abuja. The 2008 Oscars for most dramatic performance go to Nomaduma Masilela and Courtney Keene. Thank you, thank you.

Giving Thanks: If you know me well, you know I am a holiday person. Not the kind that goes crazy with Christmas tree earrings and home-baked cookies topped with colored sprinkles...No. I just really like the warmth around holiday-time, the good food, the traditions, and the meanings (no matter how deeply buried under commercialism and ugly histories) behind them. To me, despite the sketchy origins of our all-American holiday, Thanksgiving is a time to slow down, spend time with people you care about, and reflect on the many blessings life has reaped. (and yes, their is the eating of the good food).

This Thanksgiving I had two dinners: one home-made with friends new and old and another one, more hectic, for the students. On Wednesday Duma and I, with the help of our host and family friend Shenita, whipped up a fabulous dinner (if I may say so myself). We had roasted chicken and gravy, homemade stuffing (mom's recipe), mom's famous cheese rolls a la CK, mashed sweet potatoes, creamed corn, sauteed veggies, salad and cranberry sauce. To top it off, Jeanne made some delicious apple crumble pie and pumpkin pie for dessert. It was wonderful. We had our buddies Tinari, Calvin and Gabe over and Shenita invited some of her friends.

Gathering to give thanks and capture the moment before we dove into our TG feast.

The next night we had over 200 guests at a dinner for my students, students from our host institution, faculty and staff. It was pretty stressful for me because I had to MC and literally pick numbers out of a bag to call on tables one by one for an hour so that people would not stampede to the buffet line.

Students enrolled in our Gender and Development course work with an organization called CIPFEM, created by past students in our program. They facilitate after school activities and tutoring sessions for girls aged 5-12 and otherwise help them develop as well-rounded students and confident leaders. In order to add some meaning to the dinner and share an American holiday with the CIPFEM girls, I suggested our students invite them. I was shocked at first by the grumblings I heard, "I don't want to have to worry about them during Thanksgiving....this is our holiday....it's going to be too much work...." Fortunately only a minority felt this way and the girls attended the dinner. I think they really enjoyed it and it was a reminder to everyone that these holidays actually can and do mean something more than a race to the buffet line.

Me, Khaita (Serigne's wife), my colleague Serigne, and Duma at our program's TG dinner

Personally, I am thankful for many things...but most of all I am grateful for family, friends, the opportunities that have brought me here, and for all of the lessons I have yet to learn. I am also grateful for the ability to find these lessons in any and every thing: the Alice Walker book I'm reading, the CIPFEM girls, my students, random discussions with friends and roommates, giant Baobab trees and beautiful sunsets....


Helped are those who find something in Creation to admire each and every hour. Their days will overflow with beauty and the darkest dungeon will offer gifts.

Helped are those who receive only to give; always in their house will be the circular energy of generosity; and in their hearts a beginning of a new age on Earth: when no keys will be needed to unlock the heart and no locks will be needed on the doors.

- Excerpt from The Gospel According to Shug, The Temple of My Familiar by Alice Walker

Celebrations: About a month ago one of my younger cousins within my former Senegalese host family got married. I attended lunch before the actually ceremony and was able to reunite with my extended Senegalese family and join in the wedding-day boubou bling. Everyone was happy to see me back (though not very surprised). We had platter upon platter of steaming rice with spiced meat while the young bride-to-be basked in our attention and praises and graciously accepted photo requests.

Picture: Me and Yacine

The next week Moussou invited me to join in celebrating the (second?) birthday of a little cousin, Papis. He and his sister, Awa, are visiting from the U.S., where their parents live. The party was basically a group of adults sitting around and watching the kids at play. I was the designated photographer and caught several very cute shots of the birthday boy and his posse.But here are some nice ones of me with my former host mom, who everyone calls mamma, and Moussou, my Senegalese sister, looking fly in the outfit I gifted her.


Overall, I must admit that ever since Ramadan I have been doing a lot of partying. Not the kind that involves getting super dressed up and paying at the door, but cool and casual partying that involves making new friends, discussing things in different languages and celebrating culture, life, and successes. A month or two ago Duma, Jeanne and I hosted a birthday party for one of Jeanne's friends that possibly made Ouakam history. The birthday girl, Fleur, hired a DJ who came with his mega speakers and turned our serene terrace into a club. People were up there dancing until 4am.

The next weekend, Duma, Morgann and I accompanied some new friends to a Brazilian birthday party, complete with drumming, Capoeira, and Feijoada (black beans- although here they were actually red). I felt like I was back in NYC, Brooklyn in particular...chilling with Fatma, Salim, Sozi, Kevin and the whole manjinga/ capoeira-obsessed crew. The next week Duma and I chilled with a new friend (who we met at the Brazilian soiree) at the house of one of our neighbors. We had noticed these really cool bright yellow posters everywhere advertising the new album release of a musician called Naby. Ironically enough, Naby and his wife and baby are our neighbors. We all hung out and got the royal treatment at the club where he hosted his release party (which we attended last weekend).

A couple of weeks ago we attended an Indian Diwali (festival of lights) celebration, also in our blossoming little neighborhood. We were instructed to come wearing 'something Indian.' Vague as that is, we managed and were greeted at the candle-lined door by Jeanne (she went early to help out), who dabbed our foreheads with rice grains colored by an red-orange dye. We entered during a ritual prayer in front of candles and then were invited to receive a blessing and a wish-bracelet. After eating some delicious home-cooked Indian food (Dev, our host, promised to give us lessons), the party really got started and everyone danced to bollywood mixes. We didn't stay too late, it being a Tuesday night and all...

Last week we party-hopped throughout election night...This weekend there is the Goree Diaspora Festival to attend. This is not to brag, but just to give you all a glimpse of the melange of events and many things to celebrate in Dakar. It's the kind of town where even the opening of a new salon is celebrated with a soiree, literally.

The next celebration on the agenda is Thanksgiving. I am working with the student activities coordinator at Suffolk University, our host institution here, to organize a Thanksgiving dinner for the students and faculty complete with turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes.

So much to celebrate, so much to be thankful for!

Nov. 5th = OBAMA DAY: Early this morning I caught myself in a crowded bar reminiscent of NYU haunts in the lower east side, tearfully singing the American national anthem with a diverse group of friends, Dakar residents, and unknown compatriots. This was definitely a first for me; but today is a day of many firsts. The United States has just elected Barack Obama to be its next president. This is the first time I have felt truly proud of my country, its decision, and its spirit of idealism. We all listened attentively as McCain graciously admitted defeat and as Barack, eloquent as ever, spoke of our collective accomplishment and the real challenges ahead. The man is truly brilliant. I admit that when I saw Virginia go blue and saw the CNN projection of Barack's victory on screen, I broke down into sobs. Around me friends and strangers cheered, screamed, cried, jumped up and down, and generally fell into an overwhelming fit of collective joy. It was truly a euphoric moment - one that will be forever ingrained in my memory. We eventually headed home at 6am and collapsed, as if exhausted by the two year campaign trail ourselves.

Before the bar we fawned over this cutout of Barack at the U.S. Ambassador's Residence.

Waking up later today knowing that the results weren't just a dream, that Barack is in fact President Obama, was and remains incredible. Since it is Obama Day - we took the day off, donned our Obama gear, and went downtown for a celebration lunch. Our waiter must have noticed our pins and incessant Obama chatter - in an act of Senegalese generosity, he gave us his invaluable (and very hard to find here) Obama 08 poster. I was really touched, and already still reeling from the night's events....I am still weepy! Everywhere we stepped, people gave us thumbs ups and their congratulations. What a day! What a blissfully joyful day!

Restaurant waiter, Mamadou, who gave us his poster

On a more serious note, for the more cynical among you: please don't take my current bliss to mean I follow Obama blindly, even though I do love him. I do not expect him to change the world or even our political system. I expect him to do his best leading the country, resolving domestic and foreign relations problems. I believe that his best is potentially the best we have ever seen in any president because of his character, upbringing, experience, and ability to inspire across so many lines. In the end, if we want a revolution to happen, that's up to us, not Obama. If anything, his campaign has taught us that much. So, to the cynical, open your hearts and minds just a little bit more...i know it can be risky, but that's how change actually happens step by step. It's no small thing that the babies born within the coming months and years will grow up with a black president as a norm in life, a given. And the emotional support of and attachment to Obama of older generations within the black community is not something that should be mocked or treated callously (as I've seen on facebook). This is a time to honor those who have made this step, however relative, possible. Thank you grandparents, parents. aunties. uncles and peers!

'It's Black Obama!' - A major Senegalese newspaper celebrates Barack and the history made today.

One more thing - If you know me, you know how much I love Alice Walker. Here are her words of wisdom to our next president (thanks syd!).

Celebrating Ndut in Mount Rolland: Last weekend Duma and I were invited by my work colleague, Serigne, to come to his village to celebrate the codification and formal recognition of his local language, Ndut, as the 19th national language of Senegal. Ndut (pronounced nn-dout), is a Sereer language - Sereer is one of the many ethno-linguistics groups in Senegal and my Senegalese name, Maty Ndao, identifies me as a Sereer. Over the past year Serigne has been on a committee working on the codification and formal government recognition of this language in order to apply for funding for literacy programs and other educational and research-based projects. Achieving the status of a national language is an immense accomplishment, worthy of a three day celebration.

We left Dakar in Serigne's car on Friday afternoon; Serigne and his wife Khaita , Duma, Omar (Serigne's nephew), Maam Khady Madelaine (Serigne's regal mother), and I all fit snugly in the car. After passing through Dakar's congested and polluted suburbs, the lush green countryside was literally a breath of fresh air. We arrived in Mount Rolland, a central hub for 18 surrounding villages, in the early evening. From there we carefully maneuvered Serigne's poor mud-stained car through a maze of corn fields (at one point a group of young men playing soccer had to give us a push), to Ndiaye Bopp, Serigne's homestead. After meeting and greeting Serigne's family, we sat under the stars (a short distance from a tree filled with screeching bats) in a circle of plastic chairs listening to the mixture of French, Wolof, Ndut and chiming in with our limited vocabularies where we could.

At one point Duma got up to get something from our room and returned to her chair. Not realizing the unstable position of the plastic seat on uneven sand, she sat down rather heavily and sent the chair reeling backwards to the horror of our hosts. (Sorry Duma, I had to mention it) Of course I couldn't help but laugh as I checked to see if she was okay. She was fine and laughing as well. I have to hand it to her - there really is no better way to break the ice!

The next day we attended a workshop with Serigne. As part of this three-day celebration, various workshops were organized surrounding different aspects of the Ndut language. This one, attended by a range of invested professionals from the area and us, was the 10-year plan for the future of the language and its use. We were given a handout in order to follow the discussion, which had commenced the previous evening. Interestingly enough and luckily for us, the handout and the discussion were all in French - the language of 'formal matters' in Senegal. Again we sat outside in a circle and listened to the somewhat philosophical debate about which 'actors' should be ultimately responsible for the realization of Ndut educational programs, research on the linguistic group...etc: local collectives with incentives and political mandates or technical organizations on the ground with the skills to actually carry these actions out. Although the discussion was somewhat circular, it was heartwarming to witness this ground-up development in action after being so often disappointed by the common top-down attempts.

Though the conversation was interesting, Duma and I decided to leave and walk from Mount Rolland on the winding paths back to Ndiaye Bopp. It was a nice hour-long trekk. We greeted every person we encountered on the way with our 4 phrases in Ndut:
Wul te - good morning (oy ye -afternoon, yel ne - night)
Oww - response to greeting
Yil te - how are you (i think)
Yil te thies - response (still unsure of literal meaning)

<-- The official celebration shirt: Mi Bap Ndut, May Wone Ndut (I was breastfed Ndut, I will speak Ndut)

The spelling above is probably all wrong - but hopefully some day you will be able to look up the correct version on an online reference site. Anyway, some folks were delighted by our attempts; others stared blankly either because they didn't speak Ndut or, the more likely explanation, we had rendered the pronunciation unrecognizable.

Once back at Ndiaye Bopp we did a lot of lounging around. I realize that the main difference between life in Dakar and life on this farm isn't the farm animals, outhouse and outdoor bucket bath, or even the scary bats - it's really the fact that there is not much to do to pass the time but chores and chatting. The kids, of course, like kids all over the world, find things to keep themselves busy. Our main hosts, Juma and Jam (Serigne's sister and sister-in-law -again, not sure about spelling) were constantly cooking, cleaning, drying crops, feeding chickens and children, and when everything else was done they would sit outside on the plastic chairs and chat. Duma kept saying that the whole feel of the place reminded her of her grandma's farm in Poland. I like to think of the plastic chairs as the Mont Rolland version of the rocking chair or swing on the all-American front porch. I guess no matter what country you're in, country life is country life.

Saturday night, dressed in our taille basses once again, we piled into Serigne's car and headed back to town center for the cultural showcase. When we arrived we were escorted to our seats by a member of the hired security task force (uniformed in black t-shirts boasting 'Security' and camouflage cowboy hats). The outdoor arena was set up how I would imagine (from countless period pieces) a feudal lancing festival in the European Middle Ages would be. There was a ring, around which "the masses" were seated. The master of ceremony was in front of the gathered crowds at the top of the ring, where he was joined by a series of singers, griots, and a band. Then behind him, a covered bleacher was set up to seat all those who were involved in the fight for Ndut to begin with, including us, as Serigne's guests. We sat on the last bench of the 6 level bleachers, while Serigne and other important dignitaries sat in plush velvet armchairs at the front (well deserved, but unfair nevertheless). We knew from the moment we arrived that the ring in the middle of the arena meant we would be treated to a traditional wrestling match. Of course nothing here happens right away, so after a few hours of song and energetic dance, and then another hour of introducing the different wrestlers (who all danced around the ring in their respective unique and entertaining outfits), the fighting began. Now I am not a fan of boxing, Olympic wrestling or WWF craziness - but watching a guy who calls himself Rambo in tiny speedos with a pink head band get taken down by another guy in an uncomfortable looking loin cloth, all live, surrounded by a completely entranced audience, is curiously captivating. We finally left around midnight because we were all worn out - but I hear the party continued till 4 am.

On Sunday we had a late breakfast of coffee, bread with delicious home-grown beans, bread with chocolate, and more bread. Then we headed out once more for the closing ceremony at Mount Rolland. It was long and hot, but very entertaining. Again we sat in the bleachers of honor where I was able to take great photos of the dancing below. After a few closing speeches were made, we headed to lunch with the other VIPs, and eventually set off for home. It took us a full 4 hours to get back to Dakar on what should have been a 2 hour drive. Poor Serigne survived the bumper-to-bumper traffic, Duma slept soundly, drooling on my lap, while I finished reading Eat, Pray, Love (highly recommended). All in all it was a very memorable weekend!