By/ U. W. Balde
One Saturday afternoon, in mid-June, 2012, I went for a walk down the streets of Dakar with my uncle Braima and his friend Demba. We ended up at one of the big markets of Dakar,Senegal, Marché Sandaga. There were all kinds of businesses going on between Senegalese, Ghanaians, Nigerians, Arabs, Chinese and almost all nationalities that one can imagine. My uncle Braima went to buy some meat and I waited with Demba outside of the meat market, on the sidewalk. Suddenly, a group of children came to me, carrying big empty tomato sauce cans, dressed in rugs and looking like they haven't seen water (except for drinking), for a long time (See photo of me with the Talibes above). There were more than a hundred of them on the streets around the market, and they moved in groups of five or sometimes less. A small group approached me as if I looked familiar to them. The children stood in front of me without saying a word for a couple of minutes. I was wondering what was going on, are they running from someone or what? but soon I realized, "oh boy, I have forgotten that I was once exactly like them."
I recognized them as Talibes – students of Religion who were "given away by their parents to a Sheikh-a Islamic religious scholar. I asked the smallest of them how old he was and he said he was seven years old. I thought to myself, he really doesn't know his age because he definitely did not look like a seven years old to me; I would guess he would not have been older than five. The others started to laugh at him and said that he is lying, he doesn't know his age. I was not surprised as I know that many people in that part of the world don't know their right age because they are either born at home or have not been registered at birth. I gave them some small change that I had in my pocket and then i continued asking them questions about their studies. All they could do was shout out l some words, not even whole verses of the Qoran. I saw a boy standing alone at a distance, leaning on a very dirty wall. He was very skinny with a miserable look in his eyes and lines of dry tears, or maybe sweat imprinted on his dry little face like a work of art. The rusty wall that he was leaning against was part of an old deserted car garage. There were pieces of all kinds of old engines and carcasses of automobiles that looked like they have been there for thousands of years with a big gate which was locked from the outside with a huge chain and a padlock.
The boy was standing near the gate, a very dirty place used by passers by as a urinal. Even I, who can hardly smell anything, I could not stand the stench. I went to the boy and, "hey, how are you", I said in my tribal language, Fula, putting my hand on his head. He did not answer immediately and looked a little hesitant to talk to me. "What is your name?" I asked. "Amado", he said. "What is your family name?" I continued asking. "my name is Amado Balde", he said. At that moment I felt my heart beating faster, not only because I thought he might be a relative of mine but because of the anger that I felt at that moment for seeing his lips trembling. It was obvious that he did not sleep or eat for days. "And you are from Guinea Bissau like me?" I asked, and he nodded yes. He did not know his exact age but I could tell that he was younger than ten. "Why are you standing here alone and not with your friends?" I went on asking. "They are not my friends, they don't like me" he said. "Aren't you all from the same sheikh?" I asked him and tried hardly to make him smile by rubbing his head and smiling and “don’t be afraid, I was also a Talibe like you”, I said to him. "We are from the same sheikh but I cannot go with them because I did not get 250 francs (less than $1.5). I want to go home". He started crying.
I recognized them as Talibes – students of Religion who were "given away by their parents to a Sheikh-a Islamic religious scholar. I asked the smallest of them how old he was and he said he was seven years old. I thought to myself, he really doesn't know his age because he definitely did not look like a seven years old to me; I would guess he would not have been older than five. The others started to laugh at him and said that he is lying, he doesn't know his age. I was not surprised as I know that many people in that part of the world don't know their right age because they are either born at home or have not been registered at birth. I gave them some small change that I had in my pocket and then i continued asking them questions about their studies. All they could do was shout out l some words, not even whole verses of the Qoran. I saw a boy standing alone at a distance, leaning on a very dirty wall. He was very skinny with a miserable look in his eyes and lines of dry tears, or maybe sweat imprinted on his dry little face like a work of art. The rusty wall that he was leaning against was part of an old deserted car garage. There were pieces of all kinds of old engines and carcasses of automobiles that looked like they have been there for thousands of years with a big gate which was locked from the outside with a huge chain and a padlock.
The boy was standing near the gate, a very dirty place used by passers by as a urinal. Even I, who can hardly smell anything, I could not stand the stench. I went to the boy and, "hey, how are you", I said in my tribal language, Fula, putting my hand on his head. He did not answer immediately and looked a little hesitant to talk to me. "What is your name?" I asked. "Amado", he said. "What is your family name?" I continued asking. "my name is Amado Balde", he said. At that moment I felt my heart beating faster, not only because I thought he might be a relative of mine but because of the anger that I felt at that moment for seeing his lips trembling. It was obvious that he did not sleep or eat for days. "And you are from Guinea Bissau like me?" I asked, and he nodded yes. He did not know his exact age but I could tell that he was younger than ten. "Why are you standing here alone and not with your friends?" I went on asking. "They are not my friends, they don't like me" he said. "Aren't you all from the same sheikh?" I asked him and tried hardly to make him smile by rubbing his head and smiling and “don’t be afraid, I was also a Talibe like you”, I said to him. "We are from the same sheikh but I cannot go with them because I did not get 250 francs (less than $1.5). I want to go home". He started crying.
I admit that I cried with him because I understand his fear. I too was once a Talibe. Luckily, I was not sent to beg like little Amado, but I was enslaved by my sheikh, and beaten up regularly. Ironically, the word Talibe, student in Arabic, is used now for children who might grow up illiterate, spending their school years begging in the streets. I held Amado's hand and took him out of the stinking corner where he was standing and I asked him to come sit down with me on a bench by the sidewalk. The boy told me he was from Pirada, a city in the region of Gabu, east of the country by the border with Senegal. I gave him 500 CFA (less than $1.5) and I saw that he could not believe it, I am sure he felt lucky. I invited him to come with me to a small sandwich shop nearby so that I could buy him some food, but he refused to go with me. He shook his head in rejection.
I could see that he was hungry so I asked "why don't you come to eat with me, am I not your friend now?" and I tried to make him smile by tickling him because he looked so sad. "You are my friend, but if I eat my Cherno (Sheikh) will beat me up", he said. This I know, I have lived the same life when I was a Talibe like him, the only difference between me and this boy is that I was lucky not to have to beg on the streets for food. "But he will not know if you eat, I will not let your friends see us, please come with me" I insisted. "Cherno said that if anyone of us does anything secretly something will happen to us" the boy said. Here I could not ask him any more questions, because he is just a child that believes that his sheikh is a god. I did not bother explaining to him that this is only a way to scare him and that there is god that does things and not the sheikh. I just told him to take care and study well, and said goodbye.
Here in Senegal, a country that is considered the most advanced in terms of education in the region, I was surprised to see that every family has a sheikh that they consider their protector. This is a tradition that has existed for centuries since Islam emerged into Africa, and now it is almost impossible to separate religion from traditional beliefs.
TO BE CONTINUED....
