The Northshore Journal has set aside this space for anyone living along our beautiful north shore in Lake or Cook County to Leave a Trace by submitting one of their stories to share with our readers. Pick a story, memory or event that means something to you, keep it around 500 words, and submit it to us at northshorejournal@gmail.com with Leave a Trace in the subject line.
We hope to share a new story each week. Remember, your story could inspire others to share their experiences.
The Northshore Journal reserves the right to refuse any submission that falls outside our publication standards.
Senegal Stories
Submitted by Jude Thimke Duluth (French River), MN Retired humanitarian aid worker and world wanderer
Sensing, smelling, taking in the kaleidoscope of colors and textures, fearless and unfettered I roamed the Dakar streets that never slept, greeting every passerby with the obligatory N’anga def? Naka waaker ghi? Naka xhale bi? How are you? How is your family? How are your children? Jam rek!! (Just peace!).
Sometimes at night I’d be the only “toubab” in sight (the West African word for a person of European descent). There was a favorite jazz bar downtown that I liked going to alone. I’d sit up at the bar, have a Flag beer and relax to the live music after an intense day at work. Once someone came in and sat down on the stool next to me. Within seconds he was hitting on me. And within seconds he had been thrown out on the curb by the bartender. I felt safe.
Early mornings on busy Rue Ponty the young boys propelling themselves by gloved hands, their twisted polio-deformed legs precariously arranged on their makeshift boards-on-wheels, would shout out cheerfully to me: Madame!! N’anga def yaw!? How ARE you? And then indignant, in French: Madame!!!! WHERE have you been all this time, we haven’t seen you lately!!! We watch the car? No problem!!!
I was without any doubt secure in this informal network of protection as I weaved my way through the chaos of crowded narrow streets, back alleys, small shops and the cacophony of microbuses and ambulatory street vendors. Sometimes, the demands of my unusual job down at the port demanded that I carry very large sums of money in manila envelopes from the bank to my office. Yet often I chose to walk the 8 blocks rather than drive.
Often, I’d spot ‘Napoleon’ (we never knew his real name) walking in the distance, strikingly thin, ramrod straight and kingly in his frayed strands of ancient beads, his natty dreadlocks and tattered rags, his dusty feet calloused and bare, and his magnificent crown of discarded bottle caps and other shiny metal objects dangling in his eyes and catching the sun’s rays. He was like a black messiah, occupying another dimension, permanently residing in his world of perpetual motion, only stopping to bend down to collect remnants of someone’s cigarette and a scrap of newspaper to roll his own tobacco. Napoleon crossed the Dakar isthmus several times a day, always moving, never stopping. More than once our paths crossed on a narrow side street. He would reach out with his arm and strike me firmly on my shoulder as we passed each other. I felt blessed.
