Teranga

The Wolof word teranga, meaning hospitality and welcoming generosity, is a quintessential definition of my second village stay at Keur Sadaro. At my homestay, I was given a surprisingly luxurious bedroom, which I eventually figured out was the master bedroom. The only problem I encountered was an acute over-generosity -- for example, I received three giant dinners each night, and my family considered it unaccetable for me to not eat it all. I aspire to be as unselfish as the Mbodji family of Keur Sadaro, who measures their wealth by how much they give rather than how much they have.

I felt immediately connected and adopted by my family and the village. Every new person I encountered in the village would ask my name (Dialla Mbodji), and then ask the name of my mother and my father. After having received this essential information, they'd pat me on the back or touch my face affectionately, and it was like we'd been family for years. My mother was 27, and although she spoke only several words of French and I spoke only a few words of Wolof, I felt extremely deeply connected to her.

I will remember my last night in Keur Sadaro for the rest of my life. After helping make dinner, grinding garlic and spices and cutting haricots, and eating what turned out to be the best yassa of my life, I sat around a fire with my mother and kids for two hours making beignettes, little fried balls of dough that she gave the next morning as a delicious parting gift. My mother asked me if I wanted fouden, the Senegalese version of henna. When I eagerly said yes, she took me by the hand to her bedroom, where we sat by candlelight surrounded by children. As she ripped a plastic bag into strips and smoothed them into my palms to create a grid-like orange design, a hushed and reverent silence accompanied the candle flicker. As my mother mixed the fouden powder into a paste with sugar and water and gently smoothed the brown mud on my hands, my cousin Matar asked me, "pourquoi tu es calme?" Meaning, I think, why are you so quiet? Why are we all so quiet? Why does the silence of this moment feel so weighty? I answered: "parce que je suis contente, Matar." By a miraculous stroke of language ability and stretched memory, I remembered a Wolof class weeks ago when we learned how to express happiness. Kontaan naa, I said. My mother and all the children surrounding us on the bed smiled and nodded. Kontaan naa.