But he’s not really a bother and it’s hotter than hell so I buy a bag of juice. We sit on a stoop and he turns his head quietly and says to me “Nanga Tudd? ” At least I think that’s what he said, It’s not like there’s much wolof in my head but the heat is pounding off the pavement and his rusty little can and pointing at himself he goes “Ousmane.” Or maybe it was Ousman, I haven’t been here too long and every name sounds the same But I turn my finger back and as if on cue out sputters something that like “Nicholas laa tudd” I rock back a bit confused, this being the first time I’ve used wolof and all but Ousman just giggles and finishes the bag, sits up with a smile, and yells: “Kaay !” “Why?” “Kaay!” “Fine.”
The colors, the art, the B.O. and the dress: The first guy I met talked to me for hours before trying to sell me a necklace. If I can’t communicate then what do I have left? But if this kid can feel even the slightest connection then maybe that’s more than I expected and about what I deserve. Communication’s been interred under the lack of traffic signs and borderlines until what’s said and what’s implied grow into this impossible divide. But my guide is no more than 9 -- and for him just a few words are fine, so as I let my mind relax I open my eyes, surprised that we’re not in Colobane anymore.
The roads aren’t so narrow, the taxis flying by not so harrowing. The smell of baguettes and ceebu yaap drifts through the Car Rapides barreling along and makes me feel somewhat at home. Hell, at least I’m no longer alone.
Though I’m not sure if Ousman can really hear me, His ears seem kinda useless and even if they weren’t speaking English would be fruitless. So we get by with hand gestures and silence. I don’t mind the quiet ‘cause there is enough to hear besides it: The hiss of a vender, the laughing shoe mender, the long honk of the horn before the banging of fenders, lenders, letter senders, policemen in the centers of traffic doing nothing but wasting people’s taxes, a million other sounds that I could hardly hope to repeat. Complete. The language of the streets that no one really speaks, but everyone understands. And all the while Ousman’s little can swings gently in his hands while my change jingles in the din of bones and several scraps of bread.
She walks to me in a sea of bean bags and tear gas and I sit in fear as real as the riot as I realize: I can’t talk to women. Not even in English. But if I can’t make the girl I love understand me than what sane publisher would ever demand me? Because believe me, of the languages that I can somewhat speak the language of love isn’t one of the 3. Ask Stacy. Or Tory. Sophie, Annie, Julie, Kelsey, Laynie, Carrie Emily or Emma…
But I might as well try so through the hiss of the riot and the whispered “saay-saay ” I stride through the crowd and flash her my best sexy eyes.
She just looks at me and laughs a little laugh and my face flushes as I feel cheap and crass. But she brushes some sweat off of her brow and sings back to me in the softest of sounds:
Whether it’s the heat or the smog, the maddening gap between Ousman’s teeth or just being heard wrong, I burst like a drainpipe that’s just been unclogged, the words long pent up and looking for someone to flog.
“French is the national language, and I do what I’m able you can’t believe that I’d ever be capable of really speaking to you, of truly, foolishly hoping that you could understand where I’m at. It’s hopeless to think I could bring more than an inkling of who I am up to bat. I just want a chance, I know I’m not perfect but maybe if you listened, and heard it for what it was, if you tried English and forgiveness instead of immediate distrust, well then we’ve got the same sun above us, the same air that passes my tongue is among us, cause not all Americans are oblivious, we just want you to love us. But if you won’t make an effort why should I try, all you want is my money and a free ride across the Atlantic. This language bullshit is semantics. Stop taking my efforts, however meager, for granted.
Among the highrises and hotels, peanut sellers and Porches, sandal-hand cripples and sand-drenched couples. The shimmering porcelain buildings blind me to the troubles of Talibe bi et les etudiants, njangkat yi ak les mendiants.
There is silence, and it’s beautiful. There is progress here, rampant, and fruitful like back home. And I am finally alone.
Too alone. Around here, there is nobody. Nobody but me. It’s less comforting, Then creepy, actually. I miss them already. My heart is more steady I have things to say, I might be a Toubab in the steets but there is more than that to me. There is so much more that I can be.
Because more than a poem and more than a project this performance is a need. A compulsion to communication, A single hiss amidst the clanging streets for your attention. I’m surrounded by the planet’s friendliest people and my tongue is too tied up to even say Thank you. Merci Beaucoup.
In Pulaar, “hello” and “thank you” are the same word – So to be heard turns from greeting to gratitude, And America I ain’t mad at you but if I had to choose I’d take years of misuse and reconstrue my “you’re welcome” Into something more true, like, it’s good to see you. Bienvenue.
When fluency is cultural currency being broke isn’t monetary. It’s just lonely.
I’m sorry if I couldn’t understand, that I couldn’t even listen through the clamor of my own thoughts and hopes, and fears. Because even though in Wolof “to hear” and “to understand ” are the same word the true meaning eludes me. Confuses me.
And I’m sorry if I couldn’t communicate. And I’m sorry that I even tried. I’ve been alone for so long in this country, buried on an island of English— with nothing but broken French and a broken man’s Wolof to stuff in little bottles and send out to sea. Hoping they’ll wash up on the feet of the people I’m closest to me.
Or maybe I’m the bottle, stuffed full of prepositions, preconceptions and the occasional idea while The words toss around in my belly. Until seasick and solitary they burst onto the page or le plage: I wash up on the shores of l’ île de Goree a pile of drift wood, linking words, yearnings, litter from the streets, letters from my family, CFA I should have saved & sentiments I shouldn’t have, regrets, regrets I regret regretting, things I wished I regret but have regretted for so long I regretfully can’t remember why I regretted, Biscreme, baguettes, café touba, poesie, potate, grammar rules, kitten food, gris-gris, goat jaws, cadeaux, ice cream, ataaya, failed drafts, unfinished books, Flags, egg sandwiches, oatmeal, espoir, beer bottles, tissu, poission, baobabs, morceau du gateau, gelato, orange credit, ceebu jen, chocopain, l’amour et la haine, carrots, caani, vomi, djembes, dissertations, yére, Yálla, yaamba, musique, mburu, funio, stereotypes, barley written field journals, billets des bus, a half-baked tan, and a half broken heart, scattered in pieces across the hot island sand. Stuffed into a little red can.
No more than the sum of my parts because the parts are so much bigger than we could ever imagine. What this means to you and what this means to me will never be exact. Words are so much more than facts to be defined and dissected, or collected. Because we express what’s around us but it’s the absences, the silences, that align us.
And all that’s left of them is a little red can, rusting in the salt-soaked air, filled with nothing but bread, a few measly bones, and my two cents. I hold it up to my ear and I can hear the sea Better than in any shell. So I pour my poem back into it, an offering: charity à mes cher amis. Menuma woon waxxtaan ko, sans vous. Because communication doesn’t come from a country, or a culture, or a course book. It comes from you.
The Tamba and the call to prayer seep into my ears like a potion, alcoholic and sweet. I strip down to nothing and throw myself in the ocean, let myself dissolve in the commotion of sharks and slaves, of bottle caps and buckets. I pull myself together, pull it all within, and swim to shore.
Embed
About
Genius Annotation1 contributor
Using 3 languages, this poem explores the questions, problems, and nuances of trying to communicate in another culture. A young American finds himself in Senegal, West Africa dealing with the language barrier and suddenly being a minority. His arc inverts the evolution of modern Senegalese art and poetry, which began with the oral tradition brought to America by Slaves and is now returning to Africa through Harlem Renaissance poetry and Hip-Hop.