You’re cordially invited to dinner with the Ndiaye Family

“Kaay Lekk!” Fatimata calls, “Come Eat!” Dibor, the maid (21 years), brings out a large aluminum platter and places it on the mat in the middle of the living/dining room floor. I kneel down, in what has become my usual spot between Fatimata and Dibor. “Are you going to use your hand tonight or are you tired?” someone asks. “Spoon,” I respond, heading for the bowl of silverware. Everyone’s settled in, and forming balls of rice with their hands and popping them into their mouths. The boys are using spoons and sitting on little stools, while the women all sit on the ground, using their right hands. They joke in Wolof and I stare, trying to pick out the few words I know. Rice, vegetables and fish in various combinations are served for lunch and dinner almost everyday. Tonight it’s red rice with red sauce. Fish bones and inedible bits are picked out or spat out onto the mat. The boys eat fast, spilling rice on the floor as the spoon travels from the platter to their mouths. Fatimata picks apart the fish and breaks off pieces of carrot and sweet potato, depositing chunks in front of me. “Lekkal, Alice, Lekkal!” Eat, Eat. She squeezes some lime juice onto the rice in front of everyone in turn.

The other day some sort of spicy pepper juice found its way into the rice in front of me and I ate it without realizing. I heard them talking about it but didn’t understand the significance until they were all staring at me. My nose was dripping and my face was red. “Alice ate the pepper,” Fatimata observed, “Look, she’s sweating!” “Why didn’t you say anything?” Khady demanded. “You’re being too polite.” Okay, but it’s not about being polite. We eat out of a communal bowl of rice; how am I supposed to know that the rice in front of me tastes different from the rice in front of anyone else? The boys were amused, but I was a little embarrassed which didn’t help my red face.

Now I’m starting to be full, but I doubt they’ll let me stop eating, so I slow down. When Dibor and Maman Ndiaye leave, I hazard a “suur na” and try to get up. Fatimata grabs my wrist. “Eat, Alice,” and places more fish in front of me. “No, really, suur na!” I say. ‘Just eat this then.” She pleads, and I shovel another spoonful in my mouth. Feeling thoroughly stuffed, I get up and place my spoon in the sink. Fatimata continues eating with the older boys until they’ve cleaned the bottom of the platter. She eats like a horse but you wouldn’t know it; she’s got a slight frame, about my height and probably 20 pounds lighter. She and Khady frequently engage in “who’s the fattest daughter?” contests with me as the judge. At first I tried to stay neutral, but I after a lot of nagging I conceded that Khady was ever so slightly bigger, though she’s also 9 years older. “I knew it!” Fatimata frowned, “I’m too little.” Now when they ask I just grin. “Me! I’m the fattest!” And they nod. It’s true.

The boys finish eating and sit back down in front of the television or listening to the mp3 player. Khady goes back to her studying (she’s in med school) and Fatimata helps Dibor clean up and prepares Papa Ndiaye’s dinner. He eats by himself downstairs on the couch and it’s always one of two things; 2 mini-baguettes and 3 fried eggs or 2 mini-baguettes and 3 fried fish.

If it seems like I’ve been talking about food a lot lately it’s because it’s constantly on my mind. I was teaching Dibor some English a few days ago and the first thing she wanted to know how to say was how to call someone to eat. It wasn’t “my name is,” or “thank you,” it was “come eat.” The first phrase I learned in Wolof was “jërejëf” (thank you), followed immediately by, “suur na,” (I’ve had enough to eat!) and “khiff na,” (I’m hungry). In Wolof class we learned a stronger version of ‘suur na,’ which is “dama suur,” and it provoked half an hour of questions about what else we could say to get them to stop forcing food on us. Sidy, our Wolof professor, says that Senegalese women are expected to gain weight after marriage or else people will think they’re unhappy or their husband doesn’t treat them well. It’s strange though, because culturally, bigger is beautiful, but a lot of what is shown on television are American TV shows and music videos and Telenovelas from South America, all of which depict beauty as the opposite. Talk about mixed messages. And maybe it’s the food, but I haven’t seen very many ‘big’ girls around.

Also, a big concern is that I might lose weight during my stay, and that my family would feel responsible. I’m supposed to go home fat[ter] so that everyone knows I had a good time and was well taken care of. Talk about pressure! At first I thought the lack of diet and exercise talk was a nice change from American college life, but now I’ve come to understand that it’s the same pressure in a different form; more ridiculous beauty norms. Also, fish and rice being the staple food here, a curvaceous body might be just as hard to attain as a stick figure in McDonald’s Land.

Well, I’m not about to make them feel bad, the food’s delicious… good thing I brought some skirts with elastic waistbands!