So, here’s to the moment when we turn the page from 2012 to 2013. Wishing all my dear family and friends much happiness, joy, health and success - a year full of inspiration, love and creativity.
What are you waiting for - let’s dive in! On your marks….
Mamy announces that she has to leave the studio promptly this evening as she’s performing with Baaba Maal at Le Must in town. (I love the way that places with an English name in Dakar somehow makes them seem more ‘chic’). True to form, everything is running later than planned, and Mamy makes a couple of anxious calls in the car as we drive across town to her house.
We wait while Mamy puts the final touches to her make-up and chooses a pair of intricate yellow-gold earrings and an enormous ring from a large jewellery box. She skillfully wraps a length of fabric round her head, and takes one last look in the mirror to check her lipstick before we set off.
There’s a crowd hanging out at the entrance of Le Must, and Mamy pushes through to speak to the guy on the door. She tries to wangle free tickets for us, but to no avail. At 10,000 CFA each, it’s not cheap, but I’m excited about seeing Baaba Maal perform in the intimate setting of a Dakar club. We climb the narrow staircase, standing back against the wall to let a stream of others pass on their way down. Le Must is crowded and buzzing with anticipation. Cigarette smoke already hangs heavy in the air. Two chairs are squeezed in for us right at the front, literally at the foot of the low stage. The manager of the club sees our cameras and makes it clear that we don’t have permission to film or photograph - despite the fact that he knows we’re with Mamy. I manage to sneak in one shot before Mamy goes on stage.
Baaba Maal starts his set alone on stage, and is quickly joined by his kora player, Mamy on vocals, and another singer - an elderly, blind man who makes punchy declamations that complement Mamy’s elaborate improvisations. Within half an hour the full band of 10 musicians is crammed onto the tiny stage. The elderly ngoni player is a small man wearing a shiny dark grey suit that’s at least two sizes too big for him, and black patent shoes. His ngoni looks worryingly fragile, and he struggles to plug in the amp, but like all the other musicians on stage, he’s a really fine player.
As the performance gets into its stride, members of the audience make their way to the front of the stage to present Baaba Maal with money to show their appreciation. Some notes are scrumpled and simply thrown at his feet. Others make more of a conscious display, carefully producing crisp new notes from their wallet one by one and presenting them to Baaba Maal in a deliberate manner, ensuring that the audience witnesses their display of wealth and generosity. Baaba Maal’s manager gathers up the cash at regular intervals, replenishes his pot of tea and leaves notes written in heavy capital letters to indicate, for example, that the Minister for Communication is in the house.
The concert draws to a rousing conclusion and we leave to join Ngnima, Cheikh and Jules at Almadies - the ‘Las Vegas strip of Dakar’, as Daliso describes it. Everyone is dressed up for a night out on the town.
“Young women here automatically assume they need to wear something short to look sexy”, says Ngnima.
Right on cue, a young woman in an impossibly short skirt takes a tumble down the four concrete steps ahead of us. The gold ankle strap on her precariously high heeled shoes snaps, but she gets to her feet, apparently unhurt and continues on her way.
“I want to show you the bunker” says Ngnima excitedly. “I used to go there all the time as a kid. From the top you get the most blissful view of the sea”. The bunker is the reason that Ngnima suggested I put jeans and trainers on this morning. “We need to scale a wall”, she tells me. “But don’t worry, it’s easy!”, she adds, obviously sensing my anxiety. Scaling walls has never been my strong point.
Leaning against the bottom of the wall is an old cupboard door. And about a third of the way from the top of the wall are two rusty metal brackets. Ngnima climbs up effortlessly - bare foot, skillfully hitching up her skirt as she goes. She’s at the top and over the other side in no time.
“There’s no way I’m doing this”, I say, laughing. “I know my limits!” Ngnima and Daliso spend the next five minutes coaxing me. “I want you to see my secret view of the sea. Trust me - you won’t regret it, ” Ngnima promises. Somehow I make it up there and then immediately start worrying about how I’m going to get back down. But the view takes my mind off things. It’s stunning - enhanced by the feeling of being somewhere we shouldn’t.
Ngnima’s conversation is animated as she talks rapidly about how she used to sit up here looking out to the islands.
The kora and drums are in place and the kids are gathering round Noumoucounda.
We’re treated to a series of dances, first by the young girls, and then by the teenagers.
Noumoucounda and some of the other senior members of the family talk to us about the Griot tradition and what it represents for them.
Time and time again we come back to the importance of knowing who you are and where you’ve come from - understanding your shared histories. There’s a sense of regret amongst the elders that it is becoming harder and harder to maintain these connections between generations. Judging by the few hours we spent here, musical and cultural traditions seem to be alive and well in this family community.
The afternoon is slipping away and we still have to visit Mamy’s extended family across town in Patte d’Oie. It’s dusk when we arrive and I’m wondering how we’re going to find enough light to shoot anything worthwhile here.
We’re surrounded by several generations of this renowned Griot family descended from the Kanoutés and the Cissohkos.
Bannaya means ‘Bana family’ in Mandingue and is a tribute to the kora player Bana Cissohko. Noumoucounda Cissoko is thrilled to see us and anxious to introduce us to uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews…
Rightly anticipating that we’re going to be entertained with some more music and dancing, we identify a good spot to film and take photos - a small, sheltered area under a tree in front of a house with access to electricity. Wires are trailed across the paving, wound round the branches of the tree and into the house through the open window to a dodgy looking plug, and suddenly we have some bright fluorescent light.
As we’re setting up the lamps, a group of young people run excitedly down the alleyway, shouting and gesticulating. It’s as if they’re chasing someone. Some of the adults follow, but no one knows what’s going on. Word filters back that there’s a thief in the neighbourhood. There’s a further altercation between two brothers. The younger brother is intent on finding the alleged culprit and beating him up. His older brother tries to rationalise with him. Traditionally, as the older sibling, he should have the final say. What happens next is so fast that I’m still not sure it really took place. Without warning, Daliso suddenly pushes me backwards and I look up to see a large stone flying through the air in front of us. There’s a low brick wall immediately behind me, and I stumble backwards over it. Amazingly the stone has hit no one. I pick myself up off the ground, still unclear about what happened. The stone was apparently thrown by the younger brother - wanting to vent his frustration at his older brother. The commotion continues as night falls, and there’s a tangible edginess in the air, but no one is able to tell us any more about the incident, or what, if anything was stolen.
Mamy then takes us on a walkabout in the quartier. We’ve asked her to introduce us to the people who play an important part in her daily life.
First stop is the shop next door, although I really don’t think that Mamy brings them much business……
I just love this wall display, however.
Next we call at her tailors - Khalil Creations, chez Gueye Styliste. This is someone she definitely keeps busy.
Mamy’s son seems perfectly at home, flicking through the style magazines in the shop.
Opposite the tailors is a tiny general store, brimming over with stock. The guy who runs it tells us with great pride that Mamy has one of the best credit records of all his customers.
The next shop has to be my favourite - it’s like an old-fashioned Boots the Chemist. The floor to ceiling shelves behind the counter are packed tightly with bottles, lotions, powders, hair products and accessories. The other wall displays a range of braids and hair pieces.
Walking in the sandy, unevenly paved street in the heat of the afternoon is intense. But Mamy’s firing on all cylinders, loving every minute of our whistle-stop tour. She performs as if she’s fronting a TV show, professional to the end. To escape the heat we visit a neighbour - one of Mamy’s oldest friends, who moved to Dakar with Mamy from the village where they both grew up. She’s a shy, beautiful woman, and talks about Mamy with great affection.
Our final stop in the street is at the house of an elder - clearly someone who Mamy and her mother-in-law respect enormously and to whose words they listen attentively.
As Awa clears lunch, Mamy’s three year old son and his cousin entertain us.
Such style and attitude at such a young age! This is the Griot musical tradition in action. Once the adults join on kora, vocals and drums, some furious dancing follows.
All this, and it’s barely 3pm in the afternoon.
Partly inspired by seeing Noumoucounda Cissoko play in London last week, I’m finally re-immersing myself in images and stories from Senegal a couple of months ago. Noumoucounda is from the same Griot family as Mamy Kanoute, one of the two singers at the heart of the residency in which I participated.
During a busy week in the recording studio, we negotiate some time out for Mamy - to spend a day with her in the city, find out more about her life, and to get a different perspective on Dakar. Mamy seems excited about introducing us to her family and her local neighbourhood. We’ve arranged to meet her at home - at her husband’s family home, that is. We’re greeted warmly by Mamy’s mother-in-law who shows us into the living room on the first floor. I feel as if we’re in the equivalent of a Victorian parlour - a room reserved for visitors on formal occasions.
There’s a buzz of activity around our arrival. Two electric fans are carefully positioned and switched on at full blast. A tray with a chilled bottle of mineral water and four freshly rinsed glasses is placed on the floor at my feet by a shy girl of about ten years old.
Mamy has gone to change, and re-emerges wearing a flamboyant dress and headscarf.
“Lunch first”, Mamy declares. “Then we’ll play some music as we always do after prayers on a Friday”. Lunch has been prepared by Awa, Mamy’s sister-in-law. Awa is also a singer and has been doing the backing vocals on the recording. But she’s clearly a great cook too - her jollof rouge is one of the best I’ve tasted since being in Senegal.
Several of my recent images of the Malian National Swimming Team photographed on location in the dry Olympic swimming pool in Bamako have been selected for the London Independent Photography Annual Exhibition at the Strand Gallery in London. This one has also been chosen for the cover image of the catalogue.
16 - 28 October 2012
The Strand Gallery, 32 John Adam Street, London WC2N 6BP
My alarm goes off at 7.30am and I hit the snooze button. I’m sure that the others won’t be ready to leave before 9am. There’s no response when I first knock on Daliso’s door. I try again, a little harder this time, and there’s a vague, non-committal groan in response. I figure he’s heard me, so I go back upstairs and make coffee. An hour or so later and we’re all set. Except for Cheikh, that is. Cheikh’s still in bed and can’t be roused. He has the car keys.
Today Ngnima is taking us to the house where she spent a large part of her childhood. Her father was a Colonel in the Army and her family lived for a number of years in an apartment in the French colonial-style military barracks in Dakar. The buildings and grounds are a little shabby these days, but other than that, not much has changed about the place, Ngnima tells us. She greets the caretaker sitting outside the entrance and explains that she’s come to show us round her former home.
“That was my little brother’s room”, says Ngnima, pointing to the first floor shuttered window on the end of the building. “And we played for hours in the shade of that tree over there”.
Ngnima runs into the entrance hall of the block on our left. “We used to do the washing here and we’d trail a long lead down the stairwell so we could play music on our ghetto blaster.” I look up and see an old socket hanging from the first floor ceiling.
Ngnima talks affectionately of her childhood days spent here, as she stands in the stairway outside her old front door.
“I want to show you my secret view of the sea next,” Ngnima says excitedly. “I haven’t been back there for years”.
