Uncle Wolof

The Wolof have a tradition in story telling. When they reach the end of the story, they announce the moral by stating "Uncle Wolof says..."

And so it was when I went to visit fellow PCV Rin at her site, her host father shared a story with us after dinner.



Rin taking a stroll through the bush.

 A lizard lived in the house of an old woman. Every time the lizard tried to leave the house, a snake would appear and try to eat the lizard. This would cause a bit of commotion, which concerned a neighboring pigeon. One day this pigeon decided to ask for outside help in the struggle between snake and lizard. The pigeon went to the horse.

Horse, can you help quell the fighting between snake and lizard? the pigeon asked. The horse responded, it's not my problem.

Then the pigeon went to the cow. Cow, can you help calm the struggle between snake and lizard? The cow replied, it's not my problem.

So the pigeon, frustrated, went to the chickens. Chickens, please help me end the fighting between snake and lizard. Nope, the chickens replied, it's not our problem.

And so the pigeon returned home disheartened. And then one day, the situation worsened. The lizard once again tried to leave the house. And once again the snake tried to eat him. They fought in the tree, wrapped themselves around each other, struggled, and finally fell through the roof of the old woman's house and into the furnace she had lit to stay warm. The commotion caused the fire to flare up, catching all in it. Sadly, the old woman died in the fire.

Funeral preparations were made. The horse was harnessed and ridden from house to house to announce the sad news. He was worked so hard and so long, that by the end of the day, he keeled over, dead.

The cow was slaughtered to provide food for the funeral attendees.

In all the busy-ness of the funeral preparations, the extended family forgot to feed the chickens, and they died.

Uncle Wolof says, in a community we all play a part. We have a responsibility to help each other out.



The Wolof word for tamarind - dakar - was borrowed to name the
capital of Senegal. And like the seed, Dakar is a sour, hard place.

I must admit that one of the reasons I wanted to visit Rin in her village is to discover the reason why the Wolofs have such a bad reputation amongst the other ethnic groups. If you ask my villagers, they will tell you the Wolofs are greedy cheats. Harsh words, indeed.

The question begs to be asked - why do other ethnic groups have such a strong negative reaction to the Wolof? It was this question I sought to answer by visiting Rin's village of Sakhange. When I posed this to Rin, she voiced many of the same complaints most Peace Corps Volunteers have - a laid back attitude towards work that sometimes gets confused for laziness, and a sense of humor and mirth towards life, which is sometimes directed towards newcomers trying to learn their language. Nothing new there.

When I posed this question, a bit more diplomatically, to the Wolof teacher in my village, he looked at me with kind, searching eyes and asked "In what regards do people have these reactions to us?" I wasn't sure how to answer. This particular teacher is one of the kindest people I've met here in Senegal. In fact, most of the Wolof teachers in my village are. When my villagers refer to "those dishonest Wolof," it is in regards to the merchants in the market in Kedougou, the outsiders who are trying to establish a home here.

Perhaps a better question to be asked is "What are the various ethnic groups' concepts of 'foreigner'?" The majority of my own negative interactions with the Wolof were all in Dakar, and we can't overlook the sometimes destructive consequences of urbanization. Also, let's keep in mind that I don't speak Wolof. This hugely alters my interaction with them.

So what does Uncle Wolof have to say about all this? He would say it's much more complex than writing off those "bad Wolof." Just judging by my stay with Rin, they are lovely and hospitable and entertaining and generous.

A Rare Breed

Eat butthole!

I was a bit shocked when my PCV friend Bill translated this for me. Apparently, it is a common Sereer expression, directed towards kids who are acting up.

I had gone to visit Bill in his village of Sambande. I wanted to understand the Sereer, an ethnic group that exists only in Senegal, and is not the majority anywhere except in tiny villages. Like Sambande. But to understand the Sereer, a member of the Pulaar language family, one has to understand the lens through which I observed them.

Bill Dyer is known by some as an eccentric musician from South Carolina, by others as a fiercely independent wanderer. He is the type of person to sit in his hut for hours, staring at the corner deep in thought, i.e. the perfect volunteer. It's no wonder Peace Corps placed Bill with the Sereers, a group independent in their own right.

When Islam swept through West Africa, they had a fairly easy time converting the various ethnic groups. The Muslims were less successful, however, with the Sereers. Some converted, some didn't. When the French colonized many hundreds of years later, they had a special place in their hearts for the Sereers. Without the religious and cultural ties to Islam, the Sereers were more susceptible to French influence. The first two presidents of independent Senegal were Sereer (and Senegal has only had four presidents, total).

Other famous Sereers, Bill was eager to point out: Youssouf N'Dour (Senegal's most well-known musician) and Yekini (the wrestler).

That night, over our dinner of millet couscous and milk, the kids crowded around. They had become accustomed to Bill and his strange mannerisms, but two toubabs were a real oddity for them.

Bill was quick to put them in their place.

"Eat butthole!"

Story Time

Cold season is a beautiful time of year here in Senegal. Everyone pulls out their heaviest winter coat that they found at the fukijai (Senegal's version of a thrift store) and at night, with the stars crisp in the sky, families sit around the fire and tell stories to each other. Now, I love a good story, and it was this love of stories that prompted me to do a radio program on Malinke and American tales. I began by translating a few of our stories into Malinke. However, America and Senegal don't always share common creatures; thus the Three Little Pigs becomes the Three Little Warthogs. There are no wolves here, so instead the boy is crying lion. Similarly, it's a big bad hyena that Little Red Riding Hood encounters at her grandma's house.

One day I began to recount these stories to some kids in my compound, but was quickly hushed. "Don't tell a story during the day," my sister Tunkho warned, "or your parents will die." (I immediately went and apologized to my mom for killing her, who laughed at me while she swept the compound.) So it was under a blanket of darkness, with the stars as witness, that I recorded my grandmother's telling their own stories for the radio show. The following is a loose translation of their tales.

Marriage Material
Young Bintou always dreamed of getting married, but when she shared this dream with her mom, her mom refused to let her marry. "My husband doesn't have enough money to take a second wife," her mom thought, "and I need some help around the house." When Bintou heard this, she cried and ran away to the woods. This seemed a suitable enough arrangement, since everyday Bintou's mom would prepare food and bring it to her in the woods. But woods are never without their own dangers, and everyday lions appeared and tried to entice Bintou out of her hiding place. They wanted to eat her. Bintou was a wise enough girl to recognize a lion, but not wise enough to recognize their tricks. One day, a lion transformed itself into a person, probably a rather kingly-looking person, and called for her to come out. Based on the argument with her mom, we're already aware of Bintou's predilection for men, so she came right out of her hiding place and was promptly eaten - all except her clothes. That day when Bintou's mom came to deliver her meal, she found the empty clothes and knew what had happened. She cried, tore her hair, beat her breast a little bit, then when she calmed down, she declared, "From now on, all my kids will marry."

Don't tell stories in the middle of the day! they warned.

Women's Lib
One day the village leper - who was having trouble finding a wife - went to the chief to ask for his help in such matters. The chief agreed that if the leper worked in his house for two years, he would give one of his five daughters in marriage. Fast forward into the future - we see the leper get married, have a son, who becomes chief, who also marries, has five girls and one boy - and we're caught up in time. This new chief was so protective of his daughters he wouldn't let them leave the house. He went so far as to post a guard at his gate at night and said "If anyone comes a knocking at night, kill them!" Well, one night, the chief's son was out late. I imagine he was doing what the young men in my village do late at night - he was sitting at the boutique drinking tea. This suffices for a "night on the town." In any case, the son came home late, knocked on the gate and, as you can imagine, was immediately killed by the guard, who was just following orders (the ethical implications of this are a bit hazy). The chief, upon hearing the news, realized only he was to blame for the death of his son and declared that from then on out, the gates would be open and his daughters would be allowed to leave the house.

It Pays to Deceive
In a distant land, not so far from where I'm living now, there were two kings. One king had a daughter, the other, a son. Now, on paper, this fits together nicely like a puzzle - the two offspring of the kings should marry. And yet, one day, the princess announced publicly that she would never marry that prince (she had a few other choice words for him as well). When that prince heard her declaration, he was a bit hurt, as you can imagine, but he was the type of person who saw the ataaya glass as half full; he came up with a plan. He dressed himself up in all the accoutrements of a respectable young lady - headscarf included - and went to pay the princess a visit. Keep in mind that this is a culture that delights in hospitality, and it's not at all strange to accept a foreigner into your home as a friend. (Except for the cross-dressing thing - that's a little strange.) In any case, the two chatted all day about this and that while making tea and shelling peanuts. As the shadows grew long and the muezzin called out for prayer time, the prince(ss) declared it time to go and the princess decided to accompany her new friend home. On the way, they passed a herd of 100 cows. "Whose cows are those?" the princess asked. "My father's," was the reply. The princess, revealing her depth of character, said "Oh wow. If you were a man, I'd marry you." (Close up shot of the prince's face with a twinkle in his eye.) A similar exchange happened when the two passed a herd of 100 sheep, and then 100 goats. By the time they reached the prince's home, the princess realized who her new friend was. Retracting her earlier public announcement, she then and there agreed to marry the prince.

On the Road (through the Gambia), Christmas Kerouac-Style

Three Peace Corps Volunteers set out on an epic bike trip across the Gambia on Christmas Eve. Their main goal - to reach Banjul, the capital, by New Years. Their secondary goal - to understand the nuances that exist between two countries that share histories and ethnicities, yet were colonized by two different countries. This is a true account of their trip, extracted from the diaries of these brave volunteers. (Besides a brief interlude when one of us thought she was a lion, climbed a tree, and scraped her foot, no volunteers were hurt in the making of this adventure.)

Day One, 12/24: Took a bush path from Senegal into the Gambia, but no road signs. We knew we had switched languages when a "Police" car passed us (no longer gendarmes). Approached a village - women at the forage began cheering and dancing for us. Kids stretched out their hands - "five!" High five. Villagers filled our bottles with water and our hearts with happiness. Made it to Basse, and a Peace Corps transit house, by afternoon. Christmas Eve dinner was four hot dogs and french fries. Does the name Gambia come from gambas, big shrimp?

Day Two, 12/25: Bought bean sandwiches for breakfast and boiled sweet potatoes for lunch later. Grandma gave us blessings for the road when we bought bananas from her. "Sister, how is your body?" ("Quite well, if I do say so myself.") One village stopover, a kid called us toubab, but then squatted in deference when he shook my hand. Made it to Janjanbureh (or Georgetown, the original capital) by afternoon. The proprietor of our campement greeted us - "Merry Christmas! I hope you can dance." When asked their thoughts on the British over JulBrew, we were told "they took everything and left us nothing but empty houses." There were feelings of jealousy towards the Senegalese and the kind of development the French left in the wake of colonialism. As it was Jesus' birthday, we made up stories about his years left out of the Bible - in one version he ends up in Mexico buying silver for Mary.

Day Three, 12/26: Ferry crossing to the other side of the Gambia River. Peace Corps has a good reputation here and the ferry man didn't charge us. We picnicked under a tree, then took a nap to wait out the heat, suddenly surrounded by a Pulaar herder and his cows, going towards the river. Back on the road, we sang 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, all the way to the Wassu Stone Circles, an archaeological enigma, I'm told. Or is it? They've dug up bodies below the stones, so it's clearly a burial site, and pre-Islamic, based on the positioning of the bodies. In the middle of one of the circles, I meditate, in the shade and wind, imagining each stone one of Mother Earth's fingers as she cradles me in the palm of her hand. That evening darkness fell as we were on the road, and a Wolof family took us in.

Day Four, 12/27: I awoke to someone standing over me. It was the moon. What do you want? I yawned. It's cold and I'm trying to sleep. Tell me a story, she said. The stars aren't out tonight and I'm all alone up here. Yeah, I can see that. I'm going to tell you a story about a girl. She's really sad. I don't like this kind of story! the moon interjected. Go back to bed. When I awoke again, she was crouching at my feet. The stars had decided to join her. I have another story to tell you, I said, sitting up. I dreamed I was a drug addict in New York City. Now that's my kind of story, the moon said. Were you wearing a scarf? I thought hard. How did you know? The one I bought in the Mission. Oh good. Then you'll be seeing a lot more of me. Go back to sleep. The stars are out, so I'm not lonely anymore.When I woke up again, she was gone, my hands feeling for the scarf around my neck.
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Reached Farafenni and halfway point. Dark night of the soul. How can we go on? Mint M&Ms gave me hope and I was able to continue the journey.

Day Five, 12/28: Globalization changes roadside greetings: "Hello, sister, can I have your email?" Last night at hostel in Farafenni, a Canadian tells us about James Island, where Alex Haley traced his ancestry through Kunta Kinteh (read Roots) and much of the slave trade happened. That will be our next stop, but we have to leave the main road. Down small dirt road, stop to sleep in another Wolof village. The chief's son takes us in, offers us bread, tea, sweet. Another family sends over a meal of couscous and cassava. We are surrounded by a group of kids and adults. Do toubabs come down this path, ever? I sing Jingle Bells; they scream and clap.

Day Six, 12/29: Monkeys on the jungly road to Juffureh, James Island. We eat supocongee with a group of guides, speaking a mix of Mandinka and Pulaar, who then give us a good deal on pirogue trip to island. Woman from North Carolina on the boat ("I don't understand. You're gonna have to translate from the Gambian for me."). I learn the name Gambia comes from Kambi Baalongo, a Mandinka word for the river - Kambi being a last name, Baalongo meaning river. That night at dinner, Modou, a guide who has befriended us, tells us a hyena and rabbit story (my favorite time of year is right now, when the evening finds me sitting around the fire with my family while they tell hyena and rabbit stories).              
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Hyena and rabbit go walking through the woods, when they come to a hole in the ground. Rabbit says to hyena, "get in there." Hyena refuses. Rabbit says, "No, no, really, it's a good idea. You go first. And because I'm small, if someone comes along, I can easily dive in and warn you." Hyena is convinced, so he goes in. Rabbit quickly covers the hole with rocks and goes on his merry way, as rabbits are wont to do. When hyena digs his way out, boy is he mad, and he chases rabbit down. Rabbit runs and runs. As he nears the water's edge, at the last minute, he ducks down into a hole and hyena runs straight into the water. End of hyena.

Day Seven, 12/30: We have successfully biked the entire length of the country, at long last making it to Banjul (a Mandinka word meaning Bamboo Island). Odd being in a country where my local language is a majority language, whereas in Senegal, it is most certainly a minority language. We went to the beach and put our feet in the water, feeling proud. Is it cathartic? Who do I want to be? What qualities am I supposed to be cultivating? Right now I have nowhere to be. The most common English phrase I hear in this part of the world, when people are talking about America, is "time is money." Today someone wishes me happy new year and says "time is pleasure." Amiina.

Day Eight, 12/31: I couldn't decide between the falafel and the fish and chips, so I went for both. I'm on vacation, after all. Evening found us on the beach around a bonfire and drum circle. Fireworks at midnight. Happy 2013. On walk home, it is cold cold and we wrap skirts around our shoulders. A Brit approaches us. "I'm going to a party. I'd take you, but you're already wearing your mufties. You look like you're going to bed." So that's exactly what we do.

Day Nine, 1/1: Instead of ferry across to Barra, this time we take a pirogue. Men are employed to carry the passengers on their shoulders out into the water to the pirogue, as there is no dock. ("Don't worry sister, I am strong boy.") We are crammed into the bottom like sardines. In a country with very few rules and regulations, odd they make us wear life vests. Riding out of the Gambia through Wolof villages, kids throwing stuff. One group actually says "Get out of our area." Is it because they are Wolof? Or we are nearing the Senegalese border? This is certainly not indicative of the hospitality we were shown all along the way. In fact, I would say Gambians seem friendlier than Senegalese, but there's no way to quantify this. Bush path across the border, through a cashew plantation. We left as we entered, without a clue as to when we actually cross the border, until a gendarme passes us in a car - cross over into French again. And we're out.

Final Conclusions: This section of my journal is left blank. I don't know how these two countries differ. Should they even be two different countries? The Gambia is carved out of the interior of Senegal. The Brits, after a certain point, didn't even want control of the Gambia anymore, but couldn't get rid of it. Though why? Surely the river was an invaluable resource. The same ethnic groups exist in both. In the Gambia, when my local language fails, I feel guilty speaking in English, whereas I don't when I speak French. But French is also the colonizing language and I'll think twice the next time I use it in Senegal. The Gambia is an easier country to visit, in terms of price from Europe, language access, and size of country. With easier access, one sees a certain type of tourist come in ("I don't speak the Gambian.") which could alter local attitudes towards foreigners. Is this why those villages told us to get out of their area? Senegal has handfuls of ethnic groups, like the Gambia, but Senegal is also much bigger, resulting in affinity along ethnicity, not along nationality (I never hear anyone in my village speak of being Senegalese, they speak of being Malinke). Do Gambians identify more as Gambians, since it's a smaller country? And because they have a dictator? (Volunteers refer to him as the Easter Bunny. We are not allowed to talk about him.) All questions to ponder as this tired head and body rest from the trip.

Happy New Year, y'all.

My Trip to the Fouta

Despite the Mauritanian's insistence that women shouldn't sit in the front seat, I couldn't help but like him. Throughout our trip up north, he would break into sporadic song in Arabic. The more desolate the landscape became, the more insistent his singing. He was on his way home. As for me, I was far from home, leaving my little round hut and tranquil existence in the south to visit my friend Alicia and celebrate Thanksgiving.

The Fouta is the area stretching across the north of Senegal, made up of Pulaar du Nords, for the most part. It's known by some as the Sahel, by others as a wasteland. Each Peace Corps regional house hosts a different holiday, and it's the house in Ndioum that hosts Thanksgiving.

On the way to Ndioum, I picked up a few Peace Corps Volunteers. Shockingly enough, our car broke down a few hours outside of Ourossogui. I figured this was a good time to call my friend Chip, to whom I owed a phone call.

"How's the North?" he asked.

"How's the North?" I repeated. "Our car broke down. They're saying it'll take a few hours to fix. It's blazing hot. I'm trying to find some shade under a tiny thorn bush. And there's a dead sheep rotting a few feet from us. THAT'S how the North is."

Claire, looking for shade under a thorn bush.

But that's not all there is to the North. The Volunteers in Ndioum outdid themselves in the Thanksgiving spread. It was amazing. It was magical. I had diarrhea for days, that's how good it was. I tried not to eat too much, but as the Pulaars say, habits are like pubic hairs. You can shave them, but they'll just grow back. It's a habit for us Americans to eat a lot at Thanksgiving. And so I did.

Thanksgiving turkey, pre-slaughter.

After Ndioum, I tagged along with my friend Alicia to her village of Sedo Abas.

Alicia with her family.

They found love in
a hopeless place.

Sedo Abas is a Pulaar village of 2500, surrounded by a few Wolof villages, just 3 km off the one road that runs across the north of Senegal. Alicia's family has a farm with all kinds of animals - horses, cows, goats, sheep, chickens. Each day, a guynaco, or herder, comes and takes the animals out for grazing. Each afternoon, they come back, en masse. I learned the different words for shooing the animals, because when they come back they're thirsty and wander the compound. For chickens, you say "cous." For cows, "dik." For horses, goats, and sheep, it's even a different word.

"What happens if you mix them up and say the wrong shooing word?" I asked my friend.

"Well, they just won't understand," she replied.

Charrette is the most common
form of transport in the North . This
horse's name is Barack Obama.

Coming home from the fields.

Alicia's Senegalese name is Hawa Sall and her charming brother Mahamadou explained to me the history of the name. The Salls come from the Ba family, a very common Pulaar last name that we even have down south. One particular king, though, decided to break away from the Ba family, and left with his slaves and griots. They called him Sall, or "the refuser."

The natal village of Macky Sall, Senegal's president, lies just a mere 7 km from Hawa's home.

I mentioned all the cows up north. And you know what that means - milk! In all its splendid varieties. The Pulaars make kosam - or yogurt - that you can buy in sachets. There's fresh squeezed milk. There's a refreshing yogurty, sugary drink that they offer to guests. I was up to my ears in milk and I wanted more.

Milk - fresh squeezed.

A delightful package of kosam.

But alas it was time for me to head back south. I had had one too many thorns in my feet. And my throat was parched from the sand and heat.

We caught a car out of town. On the way to the Peace Corps apartment in Ourossogui, the driver of the car heard Alicia and me speaking English. He turned around and with wild, emphatic hands, he asked "What is George Bush?!"

I shook my head sadly. "Brother, I really don't know."

This tree is the garage of Sedo Abas.

Alicia's compound, with mosque behind.

The Fouta might be harsh and inhospitable. Let's not mince words - it's a wasteland. But there is a certain beauty to its desolation and stench of death, of which only the likes of T.S. Eliot can do it justice. There may not be cascading waterfalls and trees bursting with fruit, like we have down south. But a trip to the Fouta is worth it, if just to say "Bravo!" to the courageous Volunteers who do that everyday.

It's a hard life for the village chief.

The Culture of Tea

Each culture seems to have its shared substance that brings people together. In America, it might be beer or coffee. In Paraguay, terere. In Amsterdam, marijuana. In Senegal, that substance is ataaya, or tea. Ataaya is consumed any place that people gather, at all times of the day, and by everyone. If you'd like to try this at home (which I do recommend), follow these steps.

Tea paraphernalia

1. Gather your ingredients.
Small boutiques sell packs of tea and sugar, with just the right amount of sugar measured out for a session of tea. Every household is already equipped with the small tea pot, two shot-sized glasses, and a fourno with charcoal/wood to heat the tea. If you're really patron, you might also add mint, vanilla-flavored sugar, or mint candy.

2. Heat water with tea leaves.
The job of tea preparation in Senegal is unique in that it can fall to either men or women. Most other tasks are clearly defined along gender lines. Age, though, matters in that, if you are older, you generally don't make tea. You are served by younger folks. (Unless I'm the young one there. I do not make tea.)

3. As water boils, add sugar. And keep on adding.
Generally, three rounds of tea are served. Very rarely is it less (some complain that round 3 is just sugar water, an odd complaint considering how much sugar is consumed here). The first round is quite strong. Number two - my personal favorite - is a perfect balance of strong tea and sugary sweetness.

4. Make foam.
The tea is poured back and forth between the two glasses, creating foam. The foam effect not only ensures everything is mixed, it also cools down the tea.

5. Serve tea.
Having only two glasses in a family of 20 is not indicative of poverty, it is the norm. Having only two glasses is important - it establishes hierarchy. The first two people to be offered tea are the highest on the totem pole (generally, older men). When I first arrived, I was always offered tea first. Now I'm first after the men. I suppose I should take this as a compliment.

I've seen volunteers get frustrated when villagers claim not to have money for medicine when they're sick, though the tea supply is always stocked. But this is very telling. Medicine is expensive, tea is not. Sometimes it's necessary to walk long distances to the nearest dispensaire. Tea is sold on every corner. Medicine is a big purchase for one individual. Tea is a small purchase for the collective. It's been estimated that only about half of the Western medicines handed out actually work. Tea is 100% effective in uniting people, necessary if you have guests, and generally good for the soul.

So barrin kelu nin barrin musoolu (brothers and sisters), pull up a stool and I'll put the kettle on.

Tabaski

"Verily among those who followed his Way was Ibrahima," reads the Koran. Ibrahima was called on to sacrifice his son. In the Koranic version, it is Ishmael that is taken to the mountaintop. And it is Ishmael that is spared when Allah puts a sheep in his place.

In the lead up to Tabaski - the biggest holiday in Muslim Senegal (called Saliba, or "big prayer," in Malinke) - one will see dozens of sheep gathered on the roadside for sale, the Senegalese version of a Christmas tree lot. Eating meat is a sign of prosperity here, and my family bought two for the occasion, no easy feat.



My cousin and dad with one of our sheep.

The night before Tabaski, the women get ready by covering the bottom of their feet and palm of their left hand with henna, which turns the skin reddish. The next morning I was invited by my grandmother to pray at the mosque. She loaned me a scarf to cover my head, and we shared her prayer mat in the back with the women. I couldn't understand what the imam was saying, but he sounded a bit like a Malinke Jerry Seinfeld and I created an imaginary dialogue for him. ("So what's the deal with all these sheep?")

My henna'd feet. We're several weeks later and the design is still there.

When I got back home, I went to inspect two small holes that my uncle had dug in the ground. "Go get your camera!" my family urged. Perplexed, I came back with my camera, to see the sheep being held over the holes, in slaughter position. While I heard the life blood gurgle out of them, I snapped a quick picture, then feigned battery issues while I ran back to my hut.



Blood, blood in the holes.

I must say, though, they were delicious. The meal was a big one, with several families exchanging bowls of food, so we ate three meals for lunch. The family of my father's second wife joined us, so there was a crowd in my grandmother's hut while we ate vermicelli, manioc, fried potatoes, and mutton. When we were full, we drank Fanta (another sign of wealth) and then the women started in on the prayers The prayers went on and on, giving thanks to Allah for all he's provided us, intoning us to sacrifice for him, interspersed with some "Amiinas" while we rubbed our foreheads. At a pause in the prayers, I looked up to see everyone waiting on me to continue.

"Allah mu i kilin kilin kunina," I said. (May you wake up one by one; inappropriate since it wasn't night time.) Everyone replied, "Amiina."

But I couldn't stop at one. Most women had said five or six prayers. "Allah mu i tilinta heera to," I continued. (May God grant you a peaceful day; inappropriate since it wasn't morning.) Everyone called, "Amiina."

I thought hard. "Allah mu albarako bola," I finished. (May God heal you; inappropriate since nobody was sick.) "Amiina!" they all laughed.

After lunch, everyone put on their finest outfits and walked around greeting each other. Dinner that night was a light one since lunch was so plentiful - rice soup and meat. "What happens next for Tabaski?" I asked. "Now you wash your hands really well with soap," my grandmothers told me. "Otherwise, if the mice smell meat on your fingers, they'll nibble them."

The Koran continues, "Thus indeed do We reward those who do right, for this was obviously a trial." Most people in my village may not be able to quote the story of Ibrahima and Ishmael as it relates to Tabaski, but it's a story they know well - a story of toil and sacrifice, a story of doing right by God and being rewarded; in this case by eating meat and drinking Fanta and spending time with loved ones.