Dinner with the Mbengues

June 16, 2006

Last night, I approached the dinner bowl like any other night. I had taken my moonlit bucket bath and was reading a much-loved Smithsonian magazine that my mom had sent me in my hut when my 12-year-old host brother Baaba Maal knocked on my tin door. "Fatou?" he called. "Naam," I replied signifying that I recognized my name was being called. "Come eat dinner," he answered quickly and abruptly. "Okay, I’m coming." This is a routine that we are very used to; I grabbed my spoon and flashlight and headed out into the compound. Just beyond my hut, I recognized the dark figures of my host family members gathered around the one large bowl that contained dinner. One spot was open and had a little stool waiting for me to take my place.

I sit down with my knees jutting to my left; my host dad Keba lifts the lid to reveal plain millet couscous under the glow of my flashlight. Generally speaking, there are few surprises when it comes to the food – my host family is fairly poor which means that unless I specifically buy vegetables and other ingredients to make "fish and rice," we are eating some form of peanut sauce. For lunch it’s over rice, for dinner: millet couscous. Thus, the plain millet wasn’t surprising, but the lack of a peanut-sauce ladle was. Then the surprise is revealed. Keba had made the very rare purchase of a chunk of spinal column earlier that day in the big town of Kaffrine. Boiled bits of oddly shaped meat and juicy water that it was boiled in toppled over the edge of a second, smaller bowl. The connected vertebrae came last, landing with a declarative sploosh in the middle of it all. Keba turns to me with a shit-eating grin, "Oh, really, meat!" Choking back my sudden need to vomit, I make a valiant attempt to smile and ask, "what is this?" "Meat!" He repeats enthusiastically. "Yes, but what kind of meat?" "Meat of a lamb" "Okay!" I answer through clenched teeth knowing how proud he is.

I debated saying that my doctor in Dakar told me I could no longer eat meat, but the feast was immediately descended upon by all family members with several pieces tossed specially in my part of the bowl. I quickly grabbed two spoonfuls of millet before the juicy entrails could slide entirely over the bowl. My little brothers were alternately sucking bits off of individual vertebrae when I paused to make it seem like I was at the dinner bowl for longer. I looked across at my 10-year-old brother. He was squatting typical Senegalese style with his bottom just off the sand – a big smile on his face as he stuck his right hand back in the bowl for another bite. All four fingers went into his mouth when I realized that his shorts had finally ripped entirely through the crotch; it’s doubtful that the boy has worn underwear in his entire life – he certainly wasn’t wearing any at that dinner.

Stifling the both amused and troubled look on my face, I stood up and left the bowl saying thank you, I was full. Everyone: "What!? – no, come eat!" "I’m full, and my belly has issues right now," I persisted. After sitting down on the family mat, my host mom and dad reiterate what they tell me at nearly every meal, "Ah, Fatou, when you go back to America, you are going to be so small – your parents will ask where you are!" I joke back saying that my parents will think that I am the size of two people – which is more likely based on my high-carb, low veg diet.

Everyone laughs. They accept the feeble sick excuse from their fair-skinned sister. I must certainly be crazy for giving up meat, but in the end, it means more for them.