Family

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November 26, 2006 brought to an abrupt end, an era riddled with valuable lessons, suspense and adventure. That is when my husband and our three children left Senegal, West Africa. Ten years is not ten days! Like silver in a crucible, so were our experiences in Mauritania and Senegal. I was told that if you can speak their language, you are half-way to being integrated into a foreign culture..hmmmsounds cute, but not totally true.

"No speak iglis!" I heard this sentence more often than necessary. I dived into the task of learning French, with the same tenacity and determination that a poor man digs for gold. Learning a new language as an adult is second only to the task of making a new-born baby say scholastic!

After ten years, I think I have managed to communicate in French. Was I integrated into the culture with the advent of being able to say "Excusez moi"? Not really. "Pas du tout!" Nobody told me that I should learn Wolof as well. It is the local language. Speaking or not speaking Wolof made the delicate difference between being the "black African" and being the authentic "black Senegalese". Did I say difference? I am talking about money. As a black African I paid 10,000 cfa where the black Senegalese paid 2,000 cfa for the same item. Pity the non-black French speaking individual who is doomed to pay 50,000 cfa. Shameful? There is no shame in Africa! Light skin, more money. Talk to the guys selling at the local market of Sandaga!

Our children considered Senegal home for seven years.. So where is "home"? Your guess is as good as mine. They considered home where mum and dad were. Unfortunately, mum and dad are nomads!

What do you call a child that is born in Kenya, living in Senegal and going to an American school? KESEAM will do. Do you have a better suggestion? We have three Keseams. My heart bleeds for them really! No sooner did they consider a place home, than it was time to move. Kenya to Zambia. Zambia to Mauritania. Mauritania to Senegal.

You don't know adventure until you have lived in Mauritania! For the first time I knew that the word "privacy" did not exist. Not in Mauritania anyway. I will never forget "Marche Capitale" I asked for a public bathroom and someone indicated a patch of yellow grass next to a wall. I thought they were people looking for something in the grass. I quickly walked away!

Does the word "Hamattan" ring a bell? In Mauritania it is a very dusty bell. We lived through forty days at a time of red dust every year. I did not need pen and paper. When I needed to leave a message for my children, I used my finger and wrote it on the coffee table. The miracle was recognizing the dusty face of your friends when they rang the door bell. You could only recognize them by the color of their eyes. We told our landlord to blink twice if it was him at the door! Now you understand why we will miss West Africa!

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