Home Sweet Home

 Back in the States, and can still hardly believe it— though the fact that I'm now always cold certainly serves as a reminder!  This final post is rather overdue, but between jet lag, Christmas traveling, family in town, and New Year's, life has been going by at its (now usual) whirlwind pace!

"There's no place like home!"

     My last few days in Dakar were certainly bittersweet, made more so by the fact I caught a fever virus that we worried would keep me from getting on the plane home.  Thankfully, after a trip to the doctor (and lots and lots of fish, of course), I was patched up just in time to fully enjoy my last day with my family.  After spending the morning with friends at one of my favorite markets, I returned home as the wife of a presidential candidate was concluding her visit with my family.  "Pray for her, Amy Diallo!" Papy Jo yelled after me as I showed her out the door, "She's going to need it!"  Shortly afterwards Mama Fat Kane brought out a humongous bowl of yassa, one of my favorite meals, for her, Papy Jo, and me to share.  Over lunch, she briskly reminded me of my "five year deadline" to get married ("I'm being generous," she told me, "you graduate in less than two!"), and brainstormed about the Senegalese dishes she was going to make for all my future wedding guests.   Later that afternoon, I baked a few batches of chocolate chip cookies for the family as a parting gift; they turned out pretty edible, which was exciting, given the lack of temperature control on our gas oven!  That evening, after Papy Jo and I finished up a film on the Muslim perspective of the biblical king Solomon, I took Ibou, Cheikhna, and Thiane (my newly arrived sister) out for ice cream to make up for having to leave just before Cheikhna's birthday.  After much laughter and joking, fighting over whose flavor was the best, and dreaming up plans for “one day” when they come visit me, the house quieted down, all of us knowing good-byes were coming up and none of us ready to make them. 

        When it was at last time for me to meet the bus that was to take me to the airport at 11:30 that night, Papy Jo gripped my hands, blessing me in Arabic, and reminding me that I will always be his daughter.  Mama Fat Kane (with what seemed astonishingly like tears in her eyes), hugged me for the first time— and then followed it up with another three!  Then it was out the door, with my brothers lugging all my belongings from the last four and a half months through the sandy streets to the bus, Ibou jokingly pretending to hide himself in my suitcase and Cheikhna threatening to steal my things if that would make me stay.   And then, after one last round of hugs for the boys, I was on the bus, whizzing through the darkened streets of Dakar, my city as I couldn’t help but think of it, bidding a silent farewell to the familiar sights of markets, mosques, and the giant African Renaissance statue standing guard near the airport.  The flight back was surreal, and as those of us who'd flown together said our final good-byes in JFK, it was with mixed emotion that we stepped into the land of Starbucks and Wal-Mart’s, where people eat at tables rather than on the floor around a bowl, where I would no longer be needing a daily malaria pill and layers of sunscreen and bug spray (though some mornings I forget and find myself absentmindedly slathering it on).
          Thinking back to that much earlier flight, the one that first brought me to Dakar over four months ago, I remember how nervous I was, how excited, and how full I was of goals and plans of all I hoped to do, and see, and discover.  Though I did meet some of the more predictable goals I had set out to accomplish—improving my French, picking up some Wolof, learning about Islam, etc— many of the lessons I learned were ones I wouldn’t have expected.  For instance, that it is possible, even for a left-hander like me, to successfully debone a fish using your right hand and a spoon, and, before I developed that skill, that eating copious amounts of fish bones will not kill you. That being called “gently fattened” by your host father is the highest of compliments and that American ideals of beauty truly are not universal.  That the difference between ballet and balaye is great indeed (my host mother is still regaling guests with that faux pas…and you should just see her reenactment of my pirouette).  That each culture has its own way of battling illness, whether that be chicken noodle soup and naps or long walks and fish.  That, when in doubt, “jamm rekk” (Wolof for “peace only”) is the answer to everything, unless the people you’re addressing are Pulaar, in which case it’s “jamm tun.”  And that sometimes 83 year-old host fathers make the best of friends. 

 One of the last days I was there, Papy Jo taught me the word “myosotis,” French for the little blue flowers we call forget-me–nots.  And that’s exactly what I intend to do, dear Papy Jo. Remember. Remember the places I’ve seen, the remarkable people I’ve met, the adventures I’ve had.  But most of all, remember my Senegalese family, who couldn’t be more unlike my American one, and yet who gave me a home, a name, and a place in their hearts. 

Happy New Year, my friends, and ba beneen yoon— inchallah (God willing)!

Janelle Adams/ Amy Diallo    





Papy Jo's response to the picture: "Are you sure you can see my hat??"