Dakar: Africa’s expressive city
IN Kampala, the boys are seen squatting, polishing ladies’ nails. In Dakar, there are no nails to polish but plenty of shoes to shine. This girl is sitting with two elderly women, waiting for customers (or patrons as men who solicit for sex are called in Dakar). She is having her shoes polished. I
By Henry Mujunga
IN Kampala, the boys are seen squatting, polishing ladies’ nails. In Dakar, there are no nails to polish but plenty of shoes to shine. This girl is sitting with two elderly women, waiting for customers (or patrons as men who solicit for sex are called in Dakar). She is having her shoes polished. In comes a man in a checkered jacket.
He is in urgent need of her services so she borrows her colleague’s slippers and dashes upstairs with the man.
The shoeshine goes on with his business like nothing has happened.
This is Dakar for you, day or night. I enjoyed the way the girls watched me and tried to capture my darting eyes. There was this particular girl outside my hotel that I had been studying for a while.
She had a robust physique vibrating with youthful energy and was aware of it.
She seemed to be the only one who cared less about my presence. Perhaps she knew that I was the only one who knew who she really was.
She cared less for the little men she took upstairs. All she identified with was their money.
To her, it was a game of poker in which she had all the aces; a race in which she was sprinting far ahead of all the other fat, tired and sloppy athletes in flowing African garb. The latter, I must say, took note of all detail.
They scanned their surroundings hoping that any roach would suffice. They are the ones who kept winking and mumbling sweet nothings at me perched above them.
I was there and yet unattainable for despite the willingness of my body, my spirit and soul were thousands of miles away with my little girl and true conqueror.
In the past, I would have put to good use those lonely nights in a foreign hotel. Not that I was in the habit of engaging sex workers; I dread the dirt and disease they often carry.
I had seen this poor girl who, in broad daylight, wore her yellow (yes, they were yellow!) knickers half-way her long skinny legs due to some unthinkable affliction in the place they ought to have been. Poor thing!
Abdoulaye Wade (president of Senegal) is building where his predecessors stopped. He has widened and modernised the highways.
In fact Dakar could pass for another city in France. The traffic is well directed as most of the roads are one-way. It took me time to realise that it was more convenient to cross at the zebra-crossing, and that one has to look left, look right and look left again before crossing the road since they drove on the right side of the road!
Whereever I go, my heart feels out for the pulse of the people. Dakar has a vibrant upper class gauging from the sophisticated beauties behind humongous wheels, the likes of Hammers and Chevys.
I was reliably informed they have their own Bel Air, complete with huge mansions and Olympic-size swimming pools.
But my stethoscope was on the ordinary folk on the street. There were too many vagrants and beggars.
Most of them able-bodied, I observed. At the market place where I had my regular meals, it was a common sight to see people eating half-way through their meals only to leave a portion for the little boys with begging tins and street men.
It was a touching sight of communalism. I am hesitant to point out, without offending some, that the Islamic teaching of sharing has only exacerbated the problem of dependence in Dakar.
The problem is made worse by the shortage of food. For the entire 10 days I spent in Dakar, my diet consisted of rice, bread, fish and beef. I wonder what happened to cassava, potatoes and yams in this region. Fruit, though in plenty, were unaffordable as most of it was imported.
For the fast-food lovers, forget the Rollex. There was a mega sandwich; pieces of meat with lots of onions, an egg, mustard and mayonnaise, all wedged in 30 centimetres of French bread.
This stuff could knock out even the hungriest night reveller. Dakar is an expensive city. Hotel rooms range from sh12,000 to sh50,000 CFA (1 CFA is the equivalent of about 4 shillings. Hotel Du Marche, where I was holed up, was down at the bottom of the comfort chain.
No wonder half of it was used as a brothel. It was from here that I departed to mingle with the high and mighty of the art world attending the Dak’ Art 2008 Biennale.
I met and engaged important art curators, critiques, acclaimed artists and art financiers from all corners of the art world. At the major exhibitions and discussion forums, French was the lingua. So possessing a limited vocabulary, I resorted to what an artist does best; observing phenomena.
hmujunga@yahoo.com
IN Kampala, the boys are seen squatting, polishing ladies’ nails. In Dakar, there are no nails to polish but plenty of shoes to shine. This girl is sitting with two elderly women, waiting for customers (or patrons as men who solicit for sex are called in Dakar). She is having her shoes polished. In comes a man in a checkered jacket.
He is in urgent need of her services so she borrows her colleague’s slippers and dashes upstairs with the man.
The shoeshine goes on with his business like nothing has happened.
This is Dakar for you, day or night. I enjoyed the way the girls watched me and tried to capture my darting eyes. There was this particular girl outside my hotel that I had been studying for a while.
She had a robust physique vibrating with youthful energy and was aware of it.
She seemed to be the only one who cared less about my presence. Perhaps she knew that I was the only one who knew who she really was.
She cared less for the little men she took upstairs. All she identified with was their money.
To her, it was a game of poker in which she had all the aces; a race in which she was sprinting far ahead of all the other fat, tired and sloppy athletes in flowing African garb. The latter, I must say, took note of all detail.
They scanned their surroundings hoping that any roach would suffice. They are the ones who kept winking and mumbling sweet nothings at me perched above them.
I was there and yet unattainable for despite the willingness of my body, my spirit and soul were thousands of miles away with my little girl and true conqueror.
In the past, I would have put to good use those lonely nights in a foreign hotel. Not that I was in the habit of engaging sex workers; I dread the dirt and disease they often carry.
I had seen this poor girl who, in broad daylight, wore her yellow (yes, they were yellow!) knickers half-way her long skinny legs due to some unthinkable affliction in the place they ought to have been. Poor thing!
Abdoulaye Wade (president of Senegal) is building where his predecessors stopped. He has widened and modernised the highways.
In fact Dakar could pass for another city in France. The traffic is well directed as most of the roads are one-way. It took me time to realise that it was more convenient to cross at the zebra-crossing, and that one has to look left, look right and look left again before crossing the road since they drove on the right side of the road!
Whereever I go, my heart feels out for the pulse of the people. Dakar has a vibrant upper class gauging from the sophisticated beauties behind humongous wheels, the likes of Hammers and Chevys.
I was reliably informed they have their own Bel Air, complete with huge mansions and Olympic-size swimming pools.
But my stethoscope was on the ordinary folk on the street. There were too many vagrants and beggars.
Most of them able-bodied, I observed. At the market place where I had my regular meals, it was a common sight to see people eating half-way through their meals only to leave a portion for the little boys with begging tins and street men.
It was a touching sight of communalism. I am hesitant to point out, without offending some, that the Islamic teaching of sharing has only exacerbated the problem of dependence in Dakar.
The problem is made worse by the shortage of food. For the entire 10 days I spent in Dakar, my diet consisted of rice, bread, fish and beef. I wonder what happened to cassava, potatoes and yams in this region. Fruit, though in plenty, were unaffordable as most of it was imported.
For the fast-food lovers, forget the Rollex. There was a mega sandwich; pieces of meat with lots of onions, an egg, mustard and mayonnaise, all wedged in 30 centimetres of French bread.
This stuff could knock out even the hungriest night reveller. Dakar is an expensive city. Hotel rooms range from sh12,000 to sh50,000 CFA (1 CFA is the equivalent of about 4 shillings. Hotel Du Marche, where I was holed up, was down at the bottom of the comfort chain.
No wonder half of it was used as a brothel. It was from here that I departed to mingle with the high and mighty of the art world attending the Dak’ Art 2008 Biennale.
I met and engaged important art curators, critiques, acclaimed artists and art financiers from all corners of the art world. At the major exhibitions and discussion forums, French was the lingua. So possessing a limited vocabulary, I resorted to what an artist does best; observing phenomena.
hmujunga@yahoo.com