The frigo blues (dreaming of grids)

My wife she buy food in the marché,
each morning she go there, each day,
a long way but she don’t complain none,
she get muddy wet when the rain come.

Me and my pick work the well hole,
so she can put fresh in the lunch bowl,
today’s is as far as she go,
cuz I can’t afford her a frigo.

She go with Maymuna from next door,
they both dress up nice–we don’t look poor,
they greet and they smile and they talk price,
and they fill up their bowls with the white rice.

The women they sell from the hard ground,
some come from the bush, some from town.
The villagers’ produce they price small,
so they can sell out when the bush call.

The men with the tables do good trade,
some under tin roof in the hot shade,
some sellin’ strange clothes worn by toubabs,
don’t know if they dead, or jus’ robbed.

My wife find whatever she needin’,
and she hurry ‘fore sellers start leavin,’
when they gone just ground scraps survive,
for the beggars and vultures and flies.

She and Maymuna they come home,
she set the black pot on the three stones,
and go to my well, draw the water,
then she fire up the wood that I brought ‘er.

She don’t mind no frigo, she once say,
(or leavin’ the house for the marché,
and the talk at the end of the long hike),
it’s poundin’ the millet she don’t like.

The woman work hard what does she get?
even Friday she work until sunset,
when I get paid I’ll start lookin,’
for a young wife to help with the cookin.’

One day the hut buzz with that cool noise,
shelves full of food for my two boys,
might even take a warm shower,
but frigos don’t work without power.

The (agri) bizness

Dirt is dirt and a hoe’s a hoe
and our company man can triple your yields,
the wheels of progress never turned faster
(ask a squirrel what it thinks of a wheel).

You’ll have to catch up to the bus of change
before it catches up to you,
the smoke in the rear may steal your breath–
it’s better than what the front bumper will do.

As you probably know, we’re in the bizness
of helping, so let’s get down to brass tacks,
famine means bizness and bizness means profit
and we’re getting stockholders off of our backs.

We’ve developed a seed that’ll grow in the desert
with our fertilizer made especially for you,
and all for one unbeatable price,
we’ll even throw in some banned pesticides, too.

We’re feeding the world, don’t you watch our commercials?
how can you say that we’re driven by greed?
with pesticide warnings in English and French and
a special precaution for those who can’t read?

A tongue droopin’ dog on the hunt in the woods,
the ants have no chance in the crunch for the kill,
if the dog’s too slow he’ll go home to his dish,
so don’t mind me if I root for the squirrel.

Cheap wood, priceless forest

We plant the millet every year
and pray the rains will come,
our eyes fixed on the ground, we scrape
and listen for the mighty drum.

The wind and rain rise from the east
behind the blackened sky,
the children watch it cross the fields
the first to spot it gives a cry.

They scurry for the closest hut
beneath the pelted grass,
we feel the chill and hear the wind
and hope the hut was built to last.

Rain left behind the wind goes toward
the village down the road,
where children scan it for a sign
and hope it hasn’t dumped its load.

The times the sky brings only dust
the harvest isn’t good,
a long lean dry season’s one of
the reasons Allah gave us wood.

We cut the trees down, split them up
and take the wood to town,
and then the ones who make black coals
they burn the tree down to the ground.

The city people buy it up
like there were no more trees,
the women light the wood to cook
the men burn coals to brew the tea.

I take the money that I made
and spend it all on grain.
And ride the empty cart back home
and wake at dawn to start again.

La Petite côte

The time
I was at the coast
what I remember most
was walking home from market day
and something like a giant Mosque
was in my way.

The trail
it split in two
and went around a fence
and since I knew
the beach was hardly out of reach,
that path I took
to go around and take a look.

Behind the wall
the grass was green
as leaves on trees
in rainy season,
water sprayed up from the ground
in little spurts,
then came back down, that
grass as short as my donkey’s mane–
he craned his neck to reach
some fresh
and the mosque was high as the sky
and the huts were big as a
shade tree–the way the post office be
so that’s where they sleep
and the toubabs were there
like I saw on a bus once,
windows rolled up
drinkin’ out of their cups.

They were walkin’ around
with the glasses in hand,
the men with their bellies
white as the sand
and asses as flat as a rock
but the women
were more of a shock
with the undies on bottom
and bras on the top
not a skirt or a shirt
or a scarf for their heads
they were red from the sun
some would walk some would run
to the blue water pool
where they’d wash and keep cool.

We turned at the sand
and headed up land
and a black man was coming
with something to say
but the pink-breasted toubabs
were beached in his way where they cooked
on the ground so he skirted
around and we met further down
and he said something French and
my head shook
and pointing I showed him the fence
he said ‘this is for toubabs
so hurry on by and the next time
you pass don’t come on this side.’
I asked ‘since when do toubabs have mosques?
it must cost.’
‘that’s no mosque’ he said
‘it’s full of water
to keep the grass green
and we water each hour to keep
all the flowers in bloom
and the showers are in
every room and the bar
and the pool and the cars we wash
toubabs are picky they gripe some
and don’t like things sticky
and do as they please and
are liable to switch to Hotel Lebanese
or the German resort–the one
north of the port and we’re
dead if they find out Club Med
costs the same, but what’s in a name?’

I said ‘what is the name?’ and he
looked down the coast and
the shoreline of fishermen’s boats
and said ‘la petite côte‘–all the way
from Dakar past this spot
and one day all this land’ll be bought.’
I said ‘oh’ and thanked Allah we lived
Where no toubab would go
(but would sure like that mosque full of water).
He left in a hurry to chase off two boys
by the fence made a noise caught a glimpse
cuz the blistering fools
in the sun by the pool
want it quiet and after all
didn’t they buy it?

But no matter how much you preach
if a donkey is ready
he’ll shit on the beach
it was green and I left it
there for the black man to clean
it was his job–he’s paid by the toubabs and
why do they come with their
backs to our land and
their toes in the sand (do they work)?
Just to let their hides tan??
We save that for a goat,
But then we don’t live on ‘la petite côte.’