Torrential, torrential rain. I have lost my umbrella and went out wearing a sun dress.
Taking shelter at a tailor shop, Abou Bacchari Bah and his troop of tailors welcomed me in, found me a wooden chair with a broken seat-back, and told me to hold on until the “river go dry-dry”.
I watched them make my mum a shirt out of a red fabric I bought at the market, ironing the folds with a metal iron filled with hot coals, sending a boy out into the rain to buy ‘stiffening’ to starch the collar with, talking about Pita, the town in Guinea where all their fathers come from and which I know too, from travels last year.
Sitting with so many Fulas, it was like being back in Senegal with Now and the gang. They were delighted with me taking photos of them. Since they have a street address, I can actually send the photos, and this time, I will.
No comments:
Post a Comment