Counting Fuula Style

There have been some interesting advancements around Now’s shop recently. One evening, when I had been inside all day writing reports on treasury bills issued by the nation of Niger, I went out to have my evening chat with Now. He eagerly showed me the blisters on his hands where he had been gripping a spade and then said, “haven’t you seen what I’ve done?” He took me around to the side of the shop and low and behold, there was a newly erected trellis, the trunks of small slim trees wedged and concreted into the ground next to the frangipani tree, a network of smaller branches criss-crossing overhead, and the foliage which creeps over from the airfield teased along the branches to provide shade. He was so proud, and rightly so. It looks lovely.



For weeks, Now and I have been talking about getting a bench for everyone to sit on. At the moment there are two tiny little stools (which I had actually had made for my nephew but which had been a disaster so I donated them to the shop), a drinks crate, the bottom (and seat) of which has collapsed, and a backless chair. When Naomi and I come along, the boys spring up to let us sit down but someone is always standing, and those who are sitting are not exactly doing so in comfort.

On Friday afternoon, on returning home from town, I saw Laye, our friendly local carpenter. Now and I told him exactly what kind of bench we wanted, and using Laye’s arms (which he knows how to hold out so they are exactly one meter- I know because I found a tape and measured it myself!) we ordered our bench.

Then came the discussions over price. He wanted £10, which I thought was reasonable for a 1.5 metre long bench, but I knew it was too much and was expected to fight him down, so I sucked my teeth and put my hand over my mouth as if he had thrown the most heinous insult and looked at him sideways. Eventually, when I had got over the faux-shock, I said, ‘Laye, am I not your friend?’ to which everybody cracked up and he protested loudly, explaining that it was the price of wood, you see, and everything was just so expensive now. We settled finally on £7 and I decided I would pay him a little more if he did it in the time he said he would- bizarrely, by the next day. In my dreams, I thought.

On saturday evening, as I lay on my sick bed watching Fawlty Towers DVDs, Now came into the house excitedly and said, "Sokhnaci (lady), come see the bench". We ran out to look and there was the new bench, 24 hours after it had been ordered, sitting proudly in the street. It's a bit high, comically high infact, but Laye's going to fix it. But it does mean that we can all now sit down in comfort. Next, Now and I are getting an oil drum and introducing rubbish bins to the street.

Another change in the shop is the new shop-keeper, Now’s nephew, Ali. Now brought him from Casamance when he last when down there and the quiet shy boy has been selling every morning before Now gets there so that Now can have a bit of a rest. I didn’t know that Ali doesn’t speak any French or Wolof so when I went to buy 3 eggs for my steamed pudding last week, we had something of a communication breakdown.

One egg costs 85 francs. 3 should then cost 255 francs. But while I was working this out, Ali did some calculations on the calculator and showed me the number 51. I gave him 300 francs, thinking 51 must be the change. But then it seemed weird that something multiplied by 3 should come out with a one in it, so I tried to tell him he had made a mistake. He refused to believe me, but gave me 45 francs back as change. I walked away shaking my head, wondering what on earth was going on. Behind me stood Now giggling. He had been watching the whole exchange, without me knowing. He asked Ali to do the calculation again on the calculator.

“Seventeen times three equals fifty one,” said Now as we watched Ali tap away on the key pad. “You got the correct change, so there’s no problem, right?”

“Explain to me where the 17 comes from,” I asked Now, bewildered.

“One egg in Fula is 17” he said, and laughed, because he knew I would never understand what he was about to explain to me. “It’s Fuula money”.

Now, and his nephew, and everyone else who hangs out at the shop except for Naomi and I, comes from the Fuula ethnic group where they count money in divisions of five. So one egg of 85 Senegalese francs, is 17 when counted in Fuula. So three eggs in Fuula cost 51. Times it by 5 to get the Senegalese price, 255. Shopping will never be the same again.