Glowing sunset. I only appreciate these kinds of visual representations when we talk about fire. Sorry, Myriah.

I’m perched in an excellent red La-Z-Boy, taking my best stab at “educating myself broadly” today by finishing up African Friends and Money Matters  (at last, someone explains to me why it is acceptable to change a taxi’s flat tire in the middle of a highway).  It is long since pitch black outside, and I can hear the usual din of drums and singing that serves as background music to most of my very chill Dakar evenings.

You know how when you are completely absorbed in an activity (okay, I wasn’t engrossed in this study- I just want to finish the damn book), and suddenly something creeps into your consciousness?  Well I was just reading about how I will never be repaid for a loan, should I decide to give one in this country, when I was suddenly brought back to a time when I was a little kid. The journey was effortless, yet immediate.

What was the memory? It was of me, half asleep on my Dad’s chest, as he was propped up on his own red recliner and watching television (I don’t think he cared about, nor had any African friends and money matters at the time). He’s got a Marlboro in his hand, and I know this because I can smell the smoke as it dissipates around me (c’est quoi, second hand smoke?).  Fast-forward now to over 25 years later and I suddenly find myself half-smiling at the far-removed, yet oddly comforting memory.  

Wait- why am I suddenly remembering this, and is it because I really do smell smoke in my house? The trace is so faint that I can’t be sure if I am imagining things. Memory jousts with reality, and my brain goes back and forth for about five minutes while I debate whether the scent really is present. 

 

 A picture of my sister, because we’re talking about fire. And not just because she tried to burn the kitchen down when we were kids. More because I’m super proud of her.

So should I get up and investigate? This is Dakar after all, and they’re probably just burning stuff down below my bastion of modernity again. Besides, I have confidence in my smoke detectors and fire extinguisher. The smell must be coming from outside- perhaps some form of pre-Ramadan ritual that my book isn’t telling me about. Or maybe I really don’t smell it at all, and I’m just going a little nuts….

Then I start to ask myself if I am now ignoring a problem that is only getting worse because I am burying my head in the sand. The more I contemplate this fact (and completely start to forget my book), the more I have visions of my father yelling at me for sitting on my ass for this long already. After living with more than our fair share of fire-related incidents while growing up, I shouldn’t be sitting down and pretending that Dakar, and not my apartment, is on fire. 

Okay Dad, I hear you. I hop up and make my way over to the balcony.

It’s Dakar.

 Yes this is a photo I took of outside, after I confirmed my suspicions. Look towards the bottom, and you might locate the tiny red glow disturbing my serenity. 

Investigation complete. And I think it is safe to say that the right child in the family chose the route of firefighter as a profession.

Back to the book.