Peter Forberg

At Sandaga Market, the sharks eat the minnows.

Here’s the sun, setting over flat, low roofs. People do not live here; people sell. Pharmacies, hotels, restaurants, and clothing stores reign supreme, their terraces devoid of clotheslines and goat pens. When the fire goes out, there are no lamps to guide your way. It is darkness, starlit and cold, without passing dining room candles to spark alleyways, all windows converted into pull-down metal doors that eschew light and loitering. Only the passing motorbike, swerving out of sand heaps, will perforate the black streets, dust defining its cyclops headlight’s diffusion. But there is little diffusion. Even the light huddles close together, like tourists fooled by the long days now suspicious of the sudden night. Sunsets are short, daylight deceptive.

Here’s the roundabout, an infinite loop of taxi drivers shipping and receiving the day’s latest catches. Most emerge confident, vanishing into the crowd, deftly dispatching peddlers and market guides. “J’ai pas d’argent,” they say, as they enter a market.

But here are the minnows. They’re spotted even before the taxi drops them off. They’re spotted by the police officers who lounge in the traffic’s center, they’re spotted by the shoppers who know family from foreigners, and they’re spotted by the sharks, who rise with glowing smiles and hearty laughs, dollar signs in their eyes. La peau blanche.

They will ask you all the same questions, like “where are you from?” and “can you speak any Wolof?” and “what are you looking for today?” I’m just looking. They’ll practice their English on you, and they’ll feign annoyance at the other peddlers who would merely offer you their goods. You’ll ask to walk slowly. You’ll ask to talk with your friends. They will keep by your side. You’ll ask to be alone. They will show you to a place where you can be alone. You will negotiate with one only to be passed off to another, who claims to be different from the first, who is bringing you to a different place than the first. You will meet one after another, each with his own charm, his own grasp on English, his own care for your needs, his own empathy. But they’ve all watched the same documentary on the Chicago Police Department, and they all glimmer with the same praise: “Tu es un vrai ami.”

Here’s what you’ll do. You’ll be speaking French for 20 minutes now to 5 different men who all want to be your guide to the market, who want to sell you nothing and just show you a shop, a shop with clothes made by the community where you will not be supporting the Chinese knock-offs on the streets. You’ll be fine, because such situations are fine for you. But your friends, who are not speaking French, will be frustrated. This is understandable. Your rapport with your salesmen will be tested by your constant codeswitching to try and communicate the situation, as well as your plan, to those following you. And then you’ll perform. Then you’ll perform the frustrated American, the one who must be rid of all of these men bombarding him, who make him anxious, who just wants to be alone and walk around the market unbothered, thinking in English and not lying in French. But then they’ll believe you. Your friends and your salesmen. And the code will switch. Suddenly, your friends will give in, allowing the salesmen to take them away, but the salesmen will give up, deciding to leave you alone. The two are incommensurable.

And here’s a man. A Senegalese man who has watched your performance. He has read your anger and knows how to cut to your core. He will stand up, dressed in subdued colors that render him a prophet, not a shyster. He will speak fluent English. He will accuse you of being insensitive. He will say, “This is how it is done in African markets. They are not being rude. They are not hassling you. They will not make you buy anything that you don’t want to buy.” They are being rude. They are hassling you. They will make you buy things that you won’t want to buy.

You will give up.

And you will ascend. You will ascend through a crowd hustlers licking their lips. You will fly past the peddlers, your guides parting the sea of swindlers and shoppers. Up three flights of stairs you will arrive in a shop of endless bright colors and magical fabrics that are stacked miles high. You will swim in a pool of hand-painted magnets. You will dance with the drums made fresh from skinned lambs. You will sport the fabrics of ancient imams. But this is not the open air market. You cannot walk away. You will see them, all the familiar faces. The many swindlers have trapped you here. The sharks are circling the minnows. The ones you spoke with, successfully ignored, will scowl at their missed meals, while those who never took to the streets will try to snatch up the ones who have lost a guide. They’re all here, swarming. They will separate you into different rooms and tell you different prices. You will make many excuses. You will bargain at your best. But they know what you’re actually paying for: you’re paying to be left alone.

You will buy an overpriced shirt that is racially insensitive.

Picture not included.