Friday Night at the Tailor's

I carefully sidestepped the potential attack zone of the ram, whose pawing hoof was tied up with only a ratty string. The horns gleamed in the light shining from my little Senegalese cell phone, the torch providing illumination on the uneven, sandy path to the tailors.

I heard the whirring of sewing machines before I rounded the corner, the buzz of the equipment fighting to be heard over the shouts of the children playing soccer out front. Poking my head through the open window I saw Aladdin’s face break into a guilty grin before asking, “Kii kan la? Who’s there?”

His playful use at Wolof was an attempt to put me in good humor before informing me that, similarly to when I stopped by this morning, my clothes were not ready for collection.

“Susannah!” I responded drily, before squishing into the cramped work room. “Nangadeff? How are you?”

“Mangi fii rekk. I am here, only.” He replied while clearing some scraps of wax cloth off the seat closest to his machine for me to sit. The shelves overflowed with half-finished garments and bags of fabric, the overlapping Senegalese textile patterns clashing in harmonious disarray.

“Wax nga Wolof? You speak Wolof?” asked the man standing closest to me. Aladdin’s tailoring shop always seemed to be a cornerstone of the Mermoz hangout scene. Men varying in age from 15 to 60 propped themselves up on well-worn workbenches and stools, sharing music off the speakers of tinny cellphones or retelling stories from the day.

“Waaw, waaw- jang naa Wolof, wanté degg naa Wolof tutti rekk. I study Wolof but I only understand a little.” I replied, using my oft-said phrase and bracing myself for the stream of Wolof I knew would follow. As if reading my mind, he broke into a series of questions in rapid fire Wolof, throaty sounds tumbling over each other and falling on deaf ears.

“Tutti rekk! Tutti rekk! Only a little!” I explained as everyone listening laughed kindly at the efforts of the tuobab to learn the distinctly West African language.

“So, Susannah…You can try on these and then I have to finish these,” Aladdin said while motioning vaguely to a pile of fabric that I assumed would eventually transform into a pencil skirt and maxi skirt.

In America, a customer would now grow frustrated, explaining the business of her life and her impatience with the delay. But even though I was leaving for The Gambia tomorrow, and then travelling within Senegal upon my return, I knew that exasperation would be misplaced and misunderstood in this small, human-powered factory.

Laughing good naturedly I grabbed the two finished items as an unnamed fellow patron showed me to the fitting room, which I quickly realized doubled as someone’s bed room during the night. A few moments later Aladdin knocked on the door respectfully and we worked together to see where he should make any adjustments. I was here now for the long haul as he finished the other clothes, and I realized that this gave me the opportunity to give feedback and make sure everything truly fit. The culturally-forced value of patience would, ultimately, afford me better service.

We returned to the room and I realized that in my absence there had been a subtle character change. My Wolof questioner had left and in his place sat a young man in a University of Vermont sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. One ear bud rested in his ear while the other dangled and blasted the American rap music that he was listening to. He nodded his head to the rhythm and due to our close proximity I could make out the simple beat, the unimaginative words and trite chorus of “Money, Girls, and Cars” which he sang along to in his thick, Senegalese accent.

Across from me stood a man who was in the midst of retelling a vibrant story, the machines slowing to a lethargic pace as the climax was told in a raised pitch, his arms gesticulating descriptively.

As the laughter subsided the three men each at their respective sewing machines returned to their work, pushing the pants and dresses under the dancing needle.

“Lutax begg nga jang Wolof? Why do you want to study Wolof?”

I felt a brief surge of pride at my ability to understand a non-rehearsed question and then quickly arranged my response in my head, my brain searching for the right words to piece together the puzzle.

“Ndaxte, deck naa fii ci Senegal ak war naa wax Wolof. Because I live here in Senegal and I need to speak Wolof.”

He repeated my phrase with the proper pronunciation and inflection while a few of them laughed softly. He then asked why I was currently living in Senegal, and I made the executive decision to switch our language of communication to French. I explained my study abroad program, and ended by saying that in one week I was moving to have an internship at a school in Nioro.

“New York?” He questioned, confusion written his face.

“Deedeet, no. Nioro, Nioro!” I repeated emphatically.

Another man chimed in and clarified, “Nioro.” His pronunciation blended the n and i delicately together, before subtly tapping his tongue to the roof of his mouth for a sound resembling a rolled r.

I repeated a couple times and they nodded in approval. Then one of them broke into a mischievous smile.

“We will go to Nioro together!” He pointed back and forth at himself and me as if to clarify the situation. “I will help you. You will need to speak Wolof in Nioro.”

I laughed off the joke with a slightly embarrassed smile, moving my head in a noncommittal motion that resembled a nod and a shake.

“After Nioro you will speak Wolof perfectly,” Aladdin informed me. “Because that is what everyone will speak.”

“Waaw, waaw. Ginnaw loolu, je vais être une vraie Sénégalaise.” Combining Wolof and French, I expressed the fact that after mastering Wolof I would become a true Senegalese. The room nodded in appreciation, the gaze of the man in the Vermont sweatshirt softening from questioning to acceptance.

Suddenly the mosque just feet away erupted into sound, singing pouring from the megaphone speakers attached to the building. On cue, the room emptied and the machines fell silent. Left alone in the room I looked down at my watch and saw I had already been there for almost an hour. Just another Friday night at a Senegalese tailors. Like many Friday nights at parties before on a college campus 3000 miles away, it was characterized by slightly stressful conversations, attempts to understand social nuances, and an effort to gain acceptance.

After praying, half of the previous party returned and found their established positions in the room. One of the men who had not yet spoken leaned over and in a soft voice asked how Senegal was different from America. I expressed the ever-stressed nature of American life, driven by the perception that business equals meaning. I also shared the similarities I found between Ireland and Senegal, found in the shared appreciation for conversation, family and hospitality.

To describe the skewed mentality of America, Aladdin hypothesized, “That is because in America many people do not have God in their life. How many people are Muslim?”

“Umm, I think somewhere around 3%” I offered.

They all nodded in understanding; as if in this cramped, dusty workshop on a side street of Dakar we had demystified the reason for the growing American melancholia.

With a lull in the conversation, my potential Nioro travel buddy repeated his chiding offer.

“So, when do we leave exactly?” he asked. This type of persistence with a joke is unusual in America, but here it functioned as a way to easily unite two different worlds. The study abroad student perched on the small corner stool, a couple wax cloth skirts in hand, could go along with the gentle teasing of a Senegalese man and his friends who spent their Friday evening socializing at the tailors.

Embracing the joke, I responded with a smile. “We will leave at 8 a.m. on Monday, the 21st. Is your suitcase ready? It’s going to be hot!”

The room broke into laughter, their faces showing surprise at my question. In the midst of the vociferous response, a young woman came out from the back living area of the house. In slow English the Nioro traveler looked at me and explained, “She is my wife.” I smiled, because despite his jokes I could see the pride in his eyes to have this beautiful woman, dressed effortlessly in a striking, royal blue skirt and wax cloth peplum top, as his wife. His wife, though, was coming to let us know it was dinner time.

Of course, I was offered and expected to accept an invitation to join them. Despite my full stomach from my recent dinner at my own home, I graciously sat down around a large plate of yassa and was thoughtfully given a simple spoon. Though my ‘hand as a utensil’ technique has improved, I am always grateful for a spoon so that I can eat just a little bit neater in public. Aladdin finished quickly and after making an effort to eat the pile of rice on the part of the plate nearest to me, I turned to the women and expressed my thanks and fullness.

“Neex na, wante dama surr. Jerrejeff!” Standing up and brushing off stay bits of food, I joined Aladdin at his machine as he put the finishing touches on the final dress.

I took the completed product and went to the ‘fitting room’ to try it on. It fell perfectly and when Aladdin saw he asked if he could take a picture to show other customers. When I first dropped off my fabric I had looked through a stack of dusty photos of past customers modeling their finished garments. Now I nodded enthusiastically at his request, drawn to the idea of my night here immortalized in a simple photo that would be casually seen for many years to come. A new Senegalese customer would be quickly shuffling through the pictures and might pause briefly at the girl in the long dress, her pale skin gleaming under the fluorescent light.

I paid and bid everyone good night. They all encouraged me to stay for a round of ataaya, but by hour three I knew my host family might be curious as to my whereabouts. I walked home in the light of my cell phone torch, passing the many landmarks that once felt so foreign on that first walk home. I now knew what each stand would be selling come morning, whether it be fruit or juice or sugared peanuts. As I neared home I chatted briefly with the night watchman on the corner, and stopped to show him one of the completed skirts.

Inside my house I slowly climbed the stairs and opened the door to my room, collapsing on my bed. I looked around, examining every corner of the space that had been my own for the last two months. The walls were always bare and the shelves held only the necessities, making it one of the most Spartan rooms I had ever lived in. But nevertheless, I was still filled with the overwhelming and distinct feeling of being at home.