In Senegal during the holy month of Ramadan everything shuts down. The man on the corner who usually sells me newspapers is rarely there at 8 as he usually is, and there is a lot less traffic than usual. Friends who have never been grumpy start being short with me and I can walk all the way through Sandaga market without anyone trying to sell me phone credit. Clubs are empty or shut; those who do go out do so discretely.

On Saturday night, I went with two friends visiting from London to see Souleyman Faye play, forgetting it was Ramadan and the night was likely to be a quiet one. When we go to the bar, it was empty save for Souleymane and two band members sitting in a dark corner. Undeterred, I went over to announce our arrival. He humoured me, and got up to start the gig. A bass guitar, Souleyman on the lead, and Aziz, his faithful sabar drum player.



Even though there were only a handful of people in the audience, or perhaps because there were only a few people there, he gave it everything. Always introducing the song with some amusing anecdote in French or Wolof, he had the audience laughing before starting on a heart-breaking Wolof version of ‘ne me quitte pas’ or a rocking tale of the spirits of Dakar. He has an extraordinary voice, one which can make you forget there are only three people on stage when there should be seven and which can make you feel you are alone in the room with just the music, sung for you.

His final song launched mid-way into a cover of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Let’s get it on’. He gave it a go, and it could have gone so badly wrong, but it totally worked.

www.myspace.com/souleymanfaye

*****

Minding my own business on Saturday, I noticed that what I thought was an ant bite on my leg had grown more swollen and itchy in the three days I had had it. On closer inspection, I noticed a black spot. On prodding with a needle, I had hooked a black tumba worm out of my leg.

These nasty little creatures come about when the fly lays an egg on wet sand or clothes hanging out to dry. You sit on the sand, or put the clothes on, and the larvae burrows into your skin. The egg hatches and a worm grows. Eventually, I imagine (mine never got the chance), it becomes a fly, and the whole process begins again. I’ve never heard of these worms in Senegal; it is much too tame here. But since regaling my friends with my war story, I’ve discovered that loads of people have had them, or know people who have, and they’re really rather common garden. What a disappointment.