Gammu in N’diguel

The drums become quieter. As if they were moving away. Tumm, dum, tumm, dum … Now I hear only two, … now the last one … dum, dum, dum … goes wherever … home …I lie in my sleeping bag. Only now, at dawn. All night I have been sitting with the women and girls of N’diguel village, at the edge of the open communal hall. In the middle, under the overhanging wooden roof, men are beating wooden sticks on drums attached with a leather strap, hanging in front of their legs. There are also some boys in the circle, which is enclosed by another. Tall men moving rhythmically in a circle, counter-clockwise, to the sound of the drums. Body to body. Very close. Chanting Zikr. With the right hand, temporarily covering one ear or both, in order to get into a trance more easily. Holding the “La ilaha illa llah (There is no God but God)” in the head. It is the birth festival of the Prophet Mohammed, called “Gammu” in Senegal.

The women wear turbans or veils, floor-length dresses in bright colours, sit, watch the men. They are not allowed to sing along. Their men are Baye Fall, members of a Sufi brotherhood, and dressed in colourful patchwork robes gathered around their hips with wide leather belts. Some feet are in socks. The nights in the Sahel are cool.

The drums are loud. Intensely they drone. The circle of dancing bodies swaying to the rhythm of the drums fascinates me. Intoxicating joy. I feel the spiritual energy. Intense. In the air. In the people. On my skin. Would love to step into the circle. Dance along. Sing along. Can’t. Mustn’t. Drink Café Touba for strength. Today it’s for women and children. For the men, Café Manuscha, the even more peppery and bitter version. Both heavily sweetened.

Tomorrow is the full moon and I will have an audience with Marabout Mame Massamba. The spiritual teacher is well over a hundred years old, I am told, the oldest man in Senegal. I am aware of the honour. Am excited, can’t sleep, just doze. Until lunch. In the early afternoon, I am led to one of the whitewashed houses. The sand creeping into my sandals is hot. I take off my sandals before entering. In the middle of the room a wide bed. On it the old man. Next to him is a young man who helps him to get up.

Handing the food I was told to bring to the old man with both hands. Kneeling in front of him, of course. The kola nuts with the right hand, they whisper to me. I know, I know. I am nervous, a nut almost falls out of my hand. Nevertheless, I receive a blessing. “Go back and return in peace,” the marabout has said, I am translated. “Inshallah! If it is God’s will,” I reply.