Kiss… er, Chant? To me Through the Phone

When I am not in class or at my internship, I am almost exclusively in my neighborhood. Though Senegalese unmarried girls are expected to stay in the house largely invisible to the outside world, the behavior of me and my other Toubab friends is more similar to teenage boys. We roam the streets chatting in groups, lounge in the gardens listening to music from a cell phone, and visit each others’ familial households.

My host family permits this behavior and even encourages it because I am almost always accompanied by one of my “brothers”—their sons or their sons’ close friends. Still, all of the American females have dubbed a recurring feeling of “Senegalese guilt,” which can arise in almost any situation from studying to dancing but always pressures to return home and participate in cooking or eating or watching TV with the other women. I feel blessed to have a family who enjoys my presence so much, but my comparative lack of freedom—of behavior, of dress, of decision-making power, of respect—frustrates me. If I were a Senegalese boy, my parents would not ask where I was going when I left the house. If I were in the U.S., I could visit my friends in their dorm rooms whenever I wanted. Sometimes, I cannot help but think about how many unnecessary complications arise only out of my current living situation.

In this climate, an unexpected bout of normalcy arose. A close friend of my brothers, and now of mine, has an open house for several weeks because his mother and sisters are visiting Paris. As a result, the house has turned into the home base for all the teenage boys in the neighborhood and five of us American girls. We listen to rap too loud, lay on couches, and watch the boys play video games—pretty similar to hanging out in the U.S. I cannot stress enough how different the dynamic is when relaxing with only the teenage boys. When I pass the day with my sisters and their friends, we generally sit formally in the salon—which is only used to entertain guests—chatting about the weather and pop culture, a conversation interrupted only by changing outfits or preparing meals. Despite the constant use of Wolof language, the neighborhood boys here remind me of my friends in the U.S.; they sing and joke and tease each other just like any other group of best friends. Though there is generally a fairly firm barrier of physical contact between the Senegalese boys and American girls which is broken only during greetings or dancing, the boys largely include us as members of the crew, the “mafia Black family.” We command a level of reverence certainly, and they appreciate and compliment our outfits much more than men in the U.S., but they avoid discussing us as potential wives or as homemakers—my most common conversational topics with Senegalese men of my father’s age.

We were all hanging out in the living room of the empty house one day, hours into passing the day together, when someone answered the phone and a lull hushed over the group. The only sound was chanting coming from the cell phone. The American girls looked from one to another inquisitively smiling but then gave in and listened as well. After a minute or two, the chanting ended. The boys all burst out laughing, the caller hung up, and the rap music returned.

No explanation. No realization by the boys that, for us Americans, what had just happened was completely novel and impossible to comprehend.

We decided later that one of their friends had probably added something silly to a religious chant and called to share it. After all, the boys chanting religious songs and singing mbalaax Senegalese music and rapping American lyrics they don’t know the meaning of are all fairly common phenomenon here when they are in a particularly good mood. At the beach one day, my American “sister” and I were serenaded by my brothers with what I can only guess was a famous prayer of the Mouride brotherhood. They express their ecstasy through beautiful, serene music, perhaps not the most efficient way to communicate their joy to us but certainly the most charming.

In my mind, this incident illustrates so much of my time in Senegal. Despite my continued American-styled planning, something unexpected is always guaranteed to happen. Usually, the surprise is magical—someone bringing you a lollipop or a tangerine as a present just because, a friend knowing exactly what to do even though the feeling (such as homesickness) doesn’t exist in her culture, stumbling upon a local soccer match, someone calling to chant for you. Occasionally, the surprise is frustrating, or disappointing, even manipulative—finding out you have to lock your closet because someone in your house has taken too great of an interest in your electronics, paying way too much for a simple purchase even after bargaining, a fight breaking out outside the club because of the presence of American girls. A group of Americans here had money stolen during their spring break by an opportunist man with a gambling problem who posed as a long-term friend; I was called “daughter” by a woman cooking lunch because she so greatly appreciated my efforts to have a conversation in Wolof.

The smallest moments here really do count for a lot. When I first arrived in Senegal, I was incredibly frustrated by the indirect style of communication. Men constantly lecture girls here about any topic under the moon, but you can never get a straight answer to a question that could really help you. (It is much more Senegalese to avoid questions at all and instead speak only in statements of fact. For example, a professor of mine announced “It is cold!” instead of asking for the air conditioning to be turned down.) As time progressed and I have been lectured on how to close the door, how to eat, how to properly wear shoes, etc., I appreciate more the moments when I am included in the community as an equal. None of the boys explained the chant to us because they felt we understood. At that moment, to them, we were Senegalese.