On the eve of Tabaski I joined Sohna and her younger daughter, Amie, on a trip to the market. We set off from their home, which lies just behind mine and next to the Mosque, just after 11 in the morning and walked along the long sandy road that leads down to the NAWEC junction in Soma. The Market itself lies on the other side of the main street and because of an extraordinarily high volume and speed of the traffic we had to take great care crossing. However this was as nothing compared to the bustle in the market. The pathways between the stalls are narrow: wide enough for only two lines of people to pass. With so many shoppers eager to buy their last few provisions for the Tabaski feast all movement came to a standstill at every corner and around the more popular biticos or stalls. Sohna, like every woman in her home town anywhere in the world, knew exactly where to get each of the things she needed. Mostly we bought vegetables and fruit. Amie positioned her mother’s basket on her head and despite her delicate frame, happily kept up the pace for the walk back.
On the way we called in on Sohna’s sister, Gas, who works in the local beauty salon. I watched a woman having her hair done by the shop owner, Maryama. The middle aged customer had already had her nails painted elaborately and had false eyelashes attached. She sat on the floor as Maryama wrestled to comb back and fix down her hair in readiness for an additional swathe of Brazilian hair. This is very popular here in Gambia. Hair pieces or full wigs are a usual part of the daily dress and add a very glamorous touch to their appearance.
After a while Sohna, Amie and I completed our journey home. We arrived to find that Sohna’s husband’s young apprentices had thoroughly washed the tethered Tabaski ram who stood gleaming white in one corner of the front garden. As we sat drinking cold water in the lounge, we suddenly realised it was Amie’s eighth birthday. In all the excitement of Tabaski this had nearly passed by un-noticed. It made me think of Chris back home who always values the marking of her Christmas day birthday each year.
The next day was Tabaski itself, Monday 7th November and I arrived just after 10 a.m. with my vegetable knife in my bag as requested. The ram still stood where I’d last seen him the day before but Sohna was out, paying a brief call on a neighbour while husband, Ousman was at prayer in the Mosque. Gas, was still practicing her hairdressing skills, this time on a friend while Amie and older sister Isatu watched. It was obvious that Amie had been the morning’s first customer as my little shopping partner from the day before had been transformed into a tiny fashion mannequin.
A matter of minutes only passed before both Sohna and Ousman returned, followed almost immediately by a Senegalese man with a toddler daughter and a highly specialised skill.
As I sat on the front porch, pealing and slicing potatoes and onions, I became transfixed, watching the main business of the day. First Sohna’s best kitchen knife was sharpened on the stone front step while an axe style implement was used to break up a small area of the red sandy soil about midway along by the front fence. The Omo bright sparkling ram was led over to this spot and turned over onto his side before being untied. His protestations were mild, almost resigned as he was handled firmly but not roughly by three men: the Senegalese, Ousman and his main apprentice. The ram’s front and rear legs were held together in pairs and his neck was stretched as his head was pulled back. The knife was wielded with swift efficiency and soon the blood ran freely into the disturbed soil beneath. After the cut to sever the main artery, the ram’s head was twisted suddenly to stop any unnecessary suffering. His body juddered and twitched but was held secure by Ousman and the apprentice, still holding the legs down. This ancient ritual was then heightened by a touch of 21st century life. Sohna’s mobile rang. Like all wives when their husbands are busy with a rather messy job around the house, she took the phone over and held it for him, enabling him to have the conversation without leaving the task in hand!
After some time, the ram’s tail was given a number of strong pulls which signalled the end of the first phase of preparing the meat for the meal. The body was taken over to the edge of the porch and tied up by the neck. This was not messy. There was no dripping of blood as there was none left to drip. The Senegalese man, watched patiently by his daughter and her doll, cut down through the ram’s underbelly skin. He rolled it back and cut it free from the membrane that held the internal organs in place. Cut by cut the entire fleece was removed and placed on the ground. This then served as a hygienic surface to place the joints and cuts as they were removed. Some of these were given away to neighbours. The ribs were jointed as they hung. Nothing of the ram was wasted save the completely inedible pieces and there seemed to be remarkably few of those. The apprentices washed out the intestines in the adjacent field to be added to the “good meat” pile. The face was stripped of skin before it too joined the tripe, lungs and heart in this pile. The liver was large and rich. This was the first of the meat to be cooked, in oil with spice and onions. Sohna explained that as is the Islamic tradition her husband had been fasting since the day before. The liver would be the meat to break this fast. However, Ousman did not eat it alone and the dish of liver, onions and mustard was shared by all and tasted delicious. As I took my portion with the fingers of my right hand, I could not help but think that the animal from which it came had been alive not more than two hours before.
Sohna cooked skilfully with spices and herbs throughout the rest of the day, before and after the main meal which was eaten around 2.30 p.m. She cooks at the back of the main house in a separate room, joined to the main building by a sack-cloth canopy. In the centre of this building she makes a wood fire, around which are positioned small rocks to support the cooking pot. There is no table or work surface, and no sink either. In fact the water is fetched by the women of the house each morning from the compound nearby. Sohna followed an unspoken routine, cooking certain joints and meats in order, some for today and others to be dried for days to come. Eventually she served up the delicious Tabaski meal of spiced ram on a bed of couscous with pieces of carrot, topped by rounds of fried potatoes. Almost every other day of the year here, rice is the staple food but it is tradition for people from the Gambian Wolof tribe not to eat rice on Tabaski. Several meals, identical to ours, were sent round to neighbours in large food bowls, covered with another. These were delivered by Isatu; her glamorously coiffured head piled high with plates.
After clearing away the dishes and sweeping up it was time to sit and chat together. The children put on their best clothes and shoes to clatter and shimmer their way around the locality looking for Salibu. This is a small amount of cash, given as a treat to help them celebrate further with a trip to the local bitic. It reminded me of the November “Penny for the Guy” efforts of my younger brother Geoff, when he was a boy. Just as Isatu and Aime left us looking for Salibu, the neighbours’ children came to us looking for the same thing.
Before I went home for the night, I called on my compound caretaker and his family to spend some time chatting under the mango tree with them. While we sat, their youngest daughter had her hair done by her older sister, put on her new clothes and joined her friends in the hunt for Salibu.
Eventually I went home exhausted but certain that I had found a type of Salibu in the company of very generous friends who allowed me to share in Tabaski, a religious festival and a very special family day.
