The Unk and the Ants Unite
Women wash clothes--scrubbing each inch of colourful fabric between their powerful knuckles, hands becoming 3-inch square washboards—we peel onions, braid each other’s hair and visit. Our slippery Caucasian hair requires elastics to keep the rows of braids in place. The scent of salt air and frankincense fills me with a strange sense of home, and longing for home. Brilliant textiles dry on clotheslines, children play with old tires, and rejoice each time that we return, singing: “Toubaby, noumana, toubaby noumana:” the white skins are back.
All the while, the West African sun beats down. As I lean against the cement wall while sitting on the mosaic tiles, I find the heat almost bearable. A gentle breeze blows through the centrally located courtyard, though most days sweat gushes from my pores. My little sister and I have been in Sénégal for almost two weeks and have gone from drinking five litres to three litres of bottled water each day. Still, I hardly ever pee.
I notice a gecko, called unk in Wolof, on the wall opposite me. An invasive species that has made it all the way to the Americas, likely crossing on the same ships that carried slaves across the Atlantic. The unk is scurrying about catching flies and other insects, one moment deathly still, the next in rapid assault. The reptile’s keen eye catches a glimpse of something trundling through the sand, and in a flash it attacks. For a moment I think the gecko has decided that the bug is too large and has simply flipped it over. Feeling sorry for the overturned creature and having assigned myself the role of rescuer, I slowly walk the short but scalding stretch of sand to right it.
Only now do I realize that the odd bug, some kind of centipede perhaps, has been injured. One quick nip and the unk has removed some vital part of the creature’s form, some body part that kept it upright.
Why did the gecko leave this many legged-bug to suffer? Why didn’t it gobble it up instead of wasting its life source? Often, when faced with suffering creatures, I become the merciful killer and crush them; this time, being a visitor to this world, I leave the bug to die as it may, on its back, legs flailing beneath the intense heat of the mid-afternoon sun. It’s not my responsibility to fix this trauma, is it? But if not me, then who will?
I return to my seat against the wall as a young girl named Amicole runs past yelling, “Bonjour toubab! Comment ça va?” The children love us, pull our arm hair, and cuddle up in our laps. I ask Amicole: “Pourquoi tu nous aimes?” Why do you like us? “Parce qu’on est Toubab?” “Because we’re white skins?”
But not all the children feel this love and curiousity. Just yesterday, one young child screamed in horror when she saw our white skin and became inconsolable. On our first day little Mamlibasse studied us closely, then looked to the shared television as if trying to figure out how we had walked out of the Spanish tele-novelas that were so popular there.
I begin to wonder if my volunteering as a teacher here is helping or is it futile, perhaps even harmful. Am I here for selfish reasons? All I have really accomplished here is translating the hokey-pokey into French, and even that caused harm. As our class performed the song, I accidentally smacked a young girl in the face with an over-exaggerated sweep of my arm. “Main gauche en avant…” the innocent instruction of left and right brings pain.
My pondering is interrupted as Madame Awa approaches.
“Salamalekum,” she greets me.
“Malekumsalam,” I reply.
Are we at peace?
I think we might be, in these moments, while the heat of the equatorial sun melts any negative energies from our bodies, muscles relaxing and dripping with sweat.
I glance back across the sand to discover that the doomed centipede is anything but at peace, its helpless body completely enveloped by an army of ants. As they continue to consume the live flesh of the flailing bug, I notice that the school children are returning.
I take a gulp of water and prepare myself for the onslaught of play.
