A Tale of Thanksgiving

February 4, 2009

Moor Laam’s Bone is the title of a play, first staged in 1967/68, written by a Senegalese playwright named Birago Diop. It is the sort of thing every Senegalese child knows and many have memorized in school, it is an integral part of their national cultural heritage, perhaps the way the Flintstones are for American children. The story is a simple comedy, but remarkably illustrative of the values of Senegalese society: in a poor community where people haven’t eaten red meat in so long that they cannot remember its taste, one villager has the good fortune to receive a big and luscious piece, still on the bone.

In Senegal, land of teranga, or hospitality, people can stop by at mealtime and will always be invited to dig in. However, in this particular instance, rumor has it that our protagonist Moor Laam wants to keep his doors firmly shut against all and sundry, including his best friend and even the stray fly! His one obsessive thought is having his wife prepare a dish so tender and succulent that the meat will fall off the bone, hence his repeated question as to whether she has correctly prepared and seasoned the mouthwatering dish, a question that constitutes a sort of refrain throughout the play.

Laam’s friends are shocked beyond belief that anyone could be so greedy and selfish, as this contravenes the values of communal sharing that dominate here. His best friend recalls the initiation ceremony in which they had both participated as youngsters and their subsequent years of friendship, sharing life’s highs and lows - now, his friend wants to bar the door against him? Impossible! He vows to go and put everyone’s suspicions to the test. He arrives, annoyingly garrulous and friendly, and is answered in curt monosyllables by his erstwhile friend.

Moor Laam first pretends to be ill, hoping that his cheerful friend will run for the doctor. When that ruse does not work, he feigns death, once again assuming that his friend will go rouse the villagers, thus allowing him to eat in peace. Laam’s wife suggests repeatedly that he is taking the joke too far; she is frightened when the friends arrive to wash and prepare the body for burial. The best friend staunchly vows not to leave Laam’s side, but Laam, undaunted, tells his wife not to worry, they can even inter him and he will not mind. Precisely this is what happens, of course, and as soon as Laam is neatly disposed of, the best friend is awarded not only Laam’s wife but – how could it be otherwise? - the tasty contents of her simmering pot.

During my stay here, I have often been the recipient of teranga – when I pass the local sentries, they will always offer me tea, or, on the odd occasion, even half a coconut! If the guards happen to be grouped around a bowl, I will be handed a spoon and whether or not I have just eaten, I am expected to taste at the very least, as the act of sharing is at least as important as the idea of nourishment. When I was recently traveling in the Casamance region, a family of about 13 offered me a spoon to share their rice and fish.

What brought tears to my eyes was the fact that there was but one fish in the bowl for all to share, yet all the members of the family eagerly encouraged me to eat my fill. I do not know how many Westerners would have been capable of a gift of this magnitude, but I can say that my own life has changed immeasurably for having experienced this kind of generosity, and hence I thought it warranted a traveler’s tale all its own.

 About the Author : Tamara-Diana Braunstein brings us her stories from Senegal every week. She was born in Brooklyn, New York. She is a restless wanderer who earned an MA from the University of Freiburg and has worked in a youth hostel in the French Alps, a law firm in Montreal, the Metropolitan Museum of Art as well as in university press publishing. At the moment her home base is Dakar, Senegal, where she is supposed to be teaching but is doing far more learning, as you will see by reading her blog at www.senegalschoolmarm.blogspot.com