In Colobane I buy Air Jordans and ataaya,
bargin for quarters and wonder why a
Talibe would salivate over 25 cents
when rent’s so high on a student budget
and style’s a stone’s throw away.
Everything around me is American –
the clothing, the culture, the bins of used T’s
and flip-flops on the corner.
It’s less comforting than creepy, actually.

‘Cause I’m fresh off the boat and my skin is still sore
and the sun just makes me feel more and more
white, like I’m reflecting off the light others absorb.
And I’ve warded off beggars before but I still keep my hands
in my pockets to watch for my wallet
like the guidebook said. I lower my head
when a boy sticks his bright red can in my face
and I mutter something like “amuma xaalis. ”

I don’t know where that came from
but I shrug it off and buy some Oreos
when he’s behind me again. And I’m staring
at his toes, little bubbles curled up and gross,
and whether it’s the snot on his chin or that he’s
ridiculously thin I begin to feel a bond with him,
I get the change and throw it in his bucket, thinking
that’s enough for it but now he won’t leave me alone.
His tomato can’s filled with bread and a few
scraps of bone from a chicken, or maybe a goat.

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 paths of Colobane are tight but we weave in and out
through the shouted demands and imported brands lobbied
at the sight of me: the Toubab on the street:
Bon Prix!
Kaay fii!
Just for you, come see!
Naka suba si/njang mi/liggeey li/waa ker ki?
What does it mean, you want privacy?
Donne-moi cadeau – Echangeons nos numéros!
It’s enough to make my head explode.

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.

About a mile from this “Creamy Inn”
I feel from within the university
the sounds of poetry.
Or maybe that’s blasphemy
It’s has to be,
and I stole that line from MC Kwali
but the rhymes I’m hearing remind me
of Hip-Hop. Ghetto Philosophy.
A street-side prophesy.

But this isn’t any concert or show
cause though there are rappers en haut
the audience below isn’t throwing
beach balls or blunts
they’re armed with tear gas and guns.
Ousmane slips away to hide in the shade
but I stand in the smoke transfixed and amazed.
I didn’t understand but I still had to stay,
the language of the law and the
students’ slang colliding
over the walkway.

And the students say:

Sunu diamono agsi, seeni diamono baayi!
Nun wox ngeen dimbali.
Nun wox ngeen tambali
Ñibbi.
Kon yeenangi ñibbi
Bulleen dem seeni ker gi!
Menuleen yokk le prix
sunu uniwersiti!

Les Policiers répondent :
Tais- toi, écoute-moi !
Nous ne connaissons pas la raison pour ça !
La jeunesse ne pense que tout est dû
Mais les jeunesses sont parrasseux !
La parole des vieux est bonne !

De vous dama Sonn
Meanwhile, I have no idea what’s going on
Soxla nanu waxtaan
te soxla ngeen jang
buleen seetan:
Nungi tabax xam-xam,
ndaw-yi jefandikoo ndam,
ci nun lañu am sañ-sañ tánn.
Danuy xaar liberté –
kañ? Nan? Fan?

Bu ngeen paree
Nous allons entrer.
Vous voulez entrer òu ?
Pour la plupart, vous êtes fous,
malades à cause d’émissions américaines,
la musique de l’argent, voitures, et la femme.
Sur le plan politique, vous n’avez pas assez d’ans
Sur le plan économique, vous n’avez pas le bon sens.
L’université est pleine, il y a trop de jeunes
qui pensent qu’ils sont l’un
qui vont changer le monde.
N’entre pas-
Retourne-toi
à ta chambre

Liberté lanuy yaakaar
de vous Y’en a maar !

But I’m paying attention no more.

A l’université je la regarde. Entre fumee
des policiers elle marche, la tête haute.
Vraiment, elle est venue des Cieux ! L’air
près de moi devient chaud et…
Holy shit, I’m speaking French !
Overcome by love or culture or the
passion of expression the words are pressing
against my head like some sort of
holy blessing.

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.

« Je m’appelle Ousman, l’écrivain.
Ami du prophète et redacteur de la Koran
C’est la main qui a créé le Jihadd et hadjj,
qui a dessiné Muhamed dans les lettres
et bâti Mekka dans le desert.
Donne-moi une chance et je te donne un chant,
Je suis American mais je suis en bonne santé,
plus fort, intelligent, et vraiment élégant.
Vide d’argent mais plein de rimes émouvantes –
Alors – laisse-moi de te monter !
Montrer. Oui, te montrer...
Desolee… »

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:

« Pour le poète d’amour, petit Américain,
qui chante le soleil -- ton français brille bien.
Mais tu ne parles pas de toi, caché dans les beaux mots
qui ont créé l’image du personnage tout faux.
La couleur de ta peau et ton accent étrange
donnent à ton vers et parole une très mauvais mélange
des idées et clichés, d’Afrique et de moi –
pays de Senghor – poèt, prophète, et roi,
ça c’est juste le début. Qu’est-ce que tu connais
de jeunesse et ton argot, de le langue plus vrai
du Tam-Tam, du griot ? De vie sénégalaise ?
Tu vas oublier tout, si parle correctement français. »

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.

But before I can continue
a fleeing student runs into me and
I see the wave of angry faces
racing at us. And I
turn to run for it.
It’s only a matter of time before I realize
my friends have left.
I’m lost and alone on the Corniche Ouest .
I ask how people are doing,
but everyone’s ears have gone “def.”

Maangi jubal doxantu .
I don’t need you,
Ousman.
Je suis plus qu’un American,
ma belle femme.
Here the streets are uncracked,
the sidewalks aren’t racked with
begging boys and white noise,
the air is clean and us Toubabs
can walk with poise.

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.

Je crois, je vois, je suis—
what ?

Donne-moi une langue universelle, fluide et vraie,
et je te donne une morceau de paix.
Mais si j’essaye d’utiliser juste mon français
le peigne me laisse avec rien.
Jette-moi dans la Sienne,
Me laverai un jour, me lèverai le jour prochain :
A new man.

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.

Instead I sit and spin these webs I’m in
with words and meanings I only half comprehend.
Perdu dans des definitions que j’amène mais ne comprends
pas – les mots n’expriment rien
sauf l’inutilité de moi-même
à être entendu. Je suis perdu
Dans la Rue de Ouakam ou le Corniche Ouest,
my quest to be heard falls short with
every new person I meet,
Sama xaalis walla sama xaarit ,
it’s one or the other when someone greets
me in the streets, but if I can’t tell the difference
whats the point to even try and speak?

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.

The sun sets over the city at my back.
Le maison d’esclaves m’attaque
avec l’odeur d’histoire.
Sama rakk bu goor, Ousman,
mungi xaar man.
And she does too.
Jupe bleu, comme la mer,
Maangi yendu fii benn bes,
waayé maangi dekk fii torop weer.
I smile, and they disappear
inside.

We’re staring through windows too small
for a fist to fit through. New York, I miss you
but I’m not sure if you miss me, these shark infested seas in between
are riddled with memories, with nothing but a rickety bridge
to the boat the slaves jumped from to be free –
they’d rather risk being eaten alive then left to die
on a sugar plantation or sowing cotton and songs
that we stole, sent back to Senegal and called it
culture. To think that’s the choice that my ancestors
forced. A decision existential past expression:
to die with passion or live life in possession.
Duma jaam. Menuma tànn.
Begguma fatte, Amuma jamm.

And my companions, my better thirds,
turn to me and take my hands to the sea.
« Nous sommes ensemble. »
« Nammanaa la »
Le sentiment fait de moi un homme capable
de tout.
Because though no one understands but me –
Je crois, je vois, je suis
Ousmane. Moustapha. Et Nicholas.
Born in the Habanero heat of Southern Soil,
élevé dans les feuilles des livres, et en vivant,
tukki naa as ndekk Kedougou tey
nibbi na Ndakaaru
born anew.
Mes amis ont disparu,
but I can feel them still,
Dangeendi sax sama lammíñ.
Dangeendi dekk sama gémmíñ.

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.