Entry Eight – Coda

I am back in Memphis and as you might imagine I am kind of down about being away from Bintou and the world I just left behind. That bubble has burst and Dorothy I'm back in Kansas. Once again the jet lag seems to have hit me several days after the fact. I have a hundred things to do now that I am back, but you can probably guess where my mind and heart are. I have gotten a few “Tom, you are crazy” comments from a miniscule percentage of friends and relatives and on the face of it I’m sure it all seems that way. But I would not take a million dollars for the experience of Dakar and Bintou. People told me I was crazy for even going to Africa. Well, they were dead wrong. It is the smartest thing I have ever done in my life.

What are the things I remember? The teeming marketplaces where you could go from booth to booth selecting from hundreds if not thousands of different colored cloths. The look on Bintou’s face when she bit into her first ever pizza and remarked, “Tom, you know I could spend every penny I have on pizza!” The taxi drivers and their split second decisions that every time avoided a crash. I was lucky. The little plastic bags of water sold at each intersection practically, which taxi drivers or passengers buy for about a cent and then bite a tiny hole in to slowly suck out the cool water, or bite a bigger hole and drink it all down. The way they peel oranges leaving the white rind on, then slicing them crossways in slices like pineapple rings, which they also eat in a peculiar way. The way men here hold hands as a gesture of friendship. It was not uncommon to see friends, both male and female, walking along hand in hand and gesturing with the other hands. Being a son of the South you can imagine the first thought that shot through my mind when Bintou’s brother Mustapha held my hand when we were negotiating a particularly bustling street. Again, I can on occasion figure things out and the hand-holding quickly was correctly interpreted as a gesture of friendship and respect. Later that day I noticed Tina and Mustapha holding hands just as lovers would in the U.S. I asked Bintou if the two of them were or had been involved. Bintou thought the very idea funny enough to announce my question to them then and there and they all had a good laugh at my confusion. I learned the subtle differences of hand-holding during my stay. I learned quickly to tell by her hand holding how tired Bintou was, how anxious or happy she was, how sad, or how romantic. We Americans have much to learn in this regard I’m afraid. Other things remembered: The toilets that flush by pulling up on a little knob on top of the tank. The hand shower in the bathroom that had no shower curtain or partition. You just bathe and let the water drain down a hole in the tile. The friendliness, the great sense of humor, the dancing (my God, the dancing), and their shock at the fact this big white boy has rhythm and can dance with soul, something the French and the European and South African tourists are incapable of, their shock when I told them I thought Whitney Houston was nuts and that Michael Jackson very likely is a pedophile, their belief that gangsta rap is just a pose, like playing cowboys and Indians and that ghetto life could not possibly be that violent, so many, many things. Bintou singing to me. The look on their faces when I passed around a package of Pop Rocks, that candy that pops and fizzles in your mouth, that I intentionally brought from home to use as a prank. No one laughed when they tasted it. To a one they each just got more and more wide-eyed as the rocks popped. The way they flipped out over the breath strips I brought and hadn’t given a second thought to. They had never seen breath strips before. They disappeared after a few days -- I suspect brother Mustapha could not resist trying them on his friends at the university, the strands of waist beads Bintou wore most of the time (beautiful!), the fancy cars parked up and down the street when Youssou N'Dour played at his club down the street on the night I had to go back home, the three separate security searches at the Dakar airport for everyone, the beagle dog that sniffed out the sack of African tomatoes I tried to smuggle into the country but were taken away by sharp customs officials. So many, many things.

The airport. The moment of dread. Before leaving, Bintou and Tina had me stand in a prayer circle with them as each one prayed out loud at the same time. People, these prayers were eloquent and from the heart. Then the two sang a gospel song of great feeling and emotion. Mustapha is a Muslim and is not permitted in the prayer circle, but silently prayed by himself. They do not quite know what to make of my inward spirituality and the philosophical, quiet contemplation of the universe. They especially were confused about my not saying a prayer before eating. I don't think any explanation would quite do. The taxi driver at 2:00 a.m. took a short cut through a new construction area and I’m surprised my liver was not left behind on one of those dusty pot-holed streets. I had to check in my baggage, then come back for the farewells. Truthfully, the South African Airlines personnel told me I needed to hurry and get to my departing gate, so I went back, shook hands quickly with Mustapha, hugged Tina, and through iron will kept from breaking down while saying my goodbyes to Bintou as I was clinging to her with all my strength. I gave her my final kiss, turned and walked away without dare looking back. Had I done so…well, someone would have had to carry me on board the plane. As for Bintou, I will pass on her description of the same from her last email to me:

Hi my lovely babe, how I missed you so much. Honey our being a couple is the talk of the town. My friends went and tell all those that didn’t see you how you're good looking and how intelligent you are and also how we love each other so much. Presently I am a queen in this city.

Today I went somewhere to visit and I met some Liberians in the house that I went. Honey if you see how they jump on me with joy. I don’t know how the news reach them; I was so surprised. Every one of them was happy.

When we depart from each other in the airport I wanted to keep my tears, but I couldn’t stand it honey. I cried bitterly; I started crying from the airport to our room. I couldn’t go back to sleep until daybreak. I couldn’t make it to stay long there alone. I just pack my things and went to my cousin's house.

Well, now all of you have the whole story, of the beginning anyway. More chapters in this book are yet to be written. I am encouraging Bintou to keep her own journal. If she makes it to Memphis I’d love for her to record her impressions of Memphis and America. An African In Memphis – wouldn’t that make a hell of a title and a hell of a read?

This door closes and another opens. Stay tuned.