The summer I turned seven, Dad, Ahmed, and I flew to Senegal with two huge suitcases to see Dad’s family. Mom stayed home. I remember how excited everyone was to see Dad. I thought maybe he was secretly famous in Senegal in a way that he wasn’t in Brooklyn. All of Dad’s younger brothers admired him. Asin was my favorite Senegalese uncle. He was almost as handsome as Dad. He smoked cigarettes and rode a motorcycle. He was what I thought my dad would be if he hadn’t had kids. Dad had a bunch of girlie sisters who loved to dress me up in traditional African dresses and braid my hair. They’d teach dances to Ahmed and me, and laugh and clap their hands while we danced for them. All day long Dad’s mom would make bissap icies and sell them out of the house to neighborhood kids. She looked a lot like my mom, as we know, and loved to hug Ahmed and me and test our Wolof. My grandfather was basically the most superior human I’d ever met. He was like King Jaffe Joffer in Coming to America. He was a tall man with a big laugh. He took all of his meals in his bedroom while everyone else ate together with their hands out of two huge bowls in the kitchen. A bowl for the girls and a bowl for the boys. Grandpa would let us eat with him in his bed. He had a plate and a fork. He was the only man in the world who was the boss of Dad.
The first two weeks of this trip to Senegal were magical. Dad, Asin, and Grandpa took us to Gorée Island to the beach. It was a tourist attraction by then, but Gorée Island started out as a port for the slave trade to America and Europe. We went to the “bush” in Thiès to visit family living on a farm with animals. We took a train to see Saint-Louis (Senegal has its own Saint Louis!!!), and it looked just like New Orleans. We met and played with gorgeous chocolate-and charcoal-skinned kids just like us who played games with us that didn’t require words. Dad took us to shopping malls and food markets, where I ate some of the best things I’ve ever tasted. Foods I still remember to this day. Let me really quickly put you up on game. Chocolate in Senegal is THE BEST! And when you heat it up and slather it on a fresh baguette . . . holy shit!! It’s like a chocolate croissant but somehow better! Get outta here! It’s so fucking good! Everyone wanted to see Dad and his American children with African names, so we went to the homes of a lot of his friends and family and people would always cook delicious meals for us.
But then Dad left. He had planned to stay in Senegal for two weeks and then leave Ahmed and me there for the rest of the summer so that we could get to know his family.
Dad’s family went from being welcoming to being monsters. His mother turned cold and cruel to us. She let Dad’s younger brothers hit us. The girls weren’t any nicer, and the dancing became more mandatory than recreational. They called me Patapoof, which is Wolof for “fat,” and called us both Americans in a snotty way, making it clear that it was an insult. If Mom sent us a care package, we’d have very little time to play with anything before it was gone. If Mom and Dad called us to see how we were doing, someone would stand by us to make sure we weren’t telling. It was horrible. We were seven and eight years old with no real sense of time and no way of knowing if we were ever going to go home. Our parents knew what the plan was—they planned to book a standby flight for the two of us to come home—but Ahmed and I were basically in the dark and just trying to survive. Several times we were driven to the airport thinking we were going home only to be driven right back to Dad’s family.
My grandpa was still hella dope to us! The others wouldn’t hurt us around him. Problem is, he was gone a lot visiting his other families. We never knew when he was coming back. Asin was still nice to us, but he was also gone a lot. He had lots of friends and probably a lot of girls. Ahmed and I found it better to be out of the house. We made friends in the neighborhood and would find solace at the homes of those friends. Much like Dad had learned to do when he found Gabouré.
When we finally left Senegal, we each had a backpack. Whatever was in those two huge suitcases when we arrived belonged to the bush now. We told Mom and Dad what we had endured, and they were very upset. Mom even threw up. This is when I vowed never to step foot in Senegal again. I was pissed. I meant it. I stopped speaking Wolof to Dad when he would speak it to me. I didn’t want to be Senegalese anymore. I decided I would rather be named Lisa Simpson than Gabourey Sidibe. That didn’t last too long. Honestly, the feeling of superiority I got from being “foreign” even though I really wasn’t was too powerful. Every one of our American family members wanted to know all about our time in Senegal. All of my teachers at school wanted to know what Africa was like. It gave me an edge. I knew something they didn’t. And not just the obvious, like how there actually weren’t lions roaming the streets, but also all the beautiful things I got to experience there, like the food, culture, clothes, music, and people—the ones outside my own family. I realized that I didn’t hate Senegal. I hated the Sidibes.
Still, I said I’d never go back to Senegal and I meant it. I’ve gone to South Africa on safari and ate delicious food and did much more. But it wasn’t Senegal. It wasn’t home. Dad has offered to take me with him to Senegal over and over again. I always decline. “I have my own home there! No one’s gonna bother you!” he says. I just shake my head. “We’ll buy your return ticket so that you know when you are leaving. I won’t make you fly standby!” “Nah fam,” I respond. Why? Because I’m an idiot. I made up my mind when I was seven and stuck to it.
That ends here. I’m not a helpless child anymore. I’m a grown-up and I have my own money. I can stay where I want. I just realized that never stepping foot in Senegal is the same as letting a seven-year-old tell me what to do. Fuck outta here. I choose to make up my own grown-up mind about Senegal, and about Dad.
“Dad, am I anything like Gabouré?”
“Oh, yes! Very much so. She is very outgoing like you. She is very smart and outspoken. Very smart. She’s very talkative. Everybody likes her.” It’s so strange to know that in spite of my being a monster asshole to him over the years he still thinks of me in this way. I’m still good enough to carry the African name of the woman who saved him.
As of right now, I plan to go back to Senegal with Dad so I can experience him and his country as an adult. Maybe I’ll even be open to meeting his other little princesses . . . to let them know that I am the queen!
11
MYOB: Mind Your Own Body
I feel really annoyed right now . . . I should eat a few cookies.
—me . . . like all the fucking time!