It was an enchanting afternoon in front of the Atlantic, a couple of kilometers up-beach from the village of Palmarin, somewhere along the Senegalese coast. A friend and I had just arrived there after a long, hot, and dusty day driving in an about-to-break-apart, curio car, first; and on top of a luggage load on top of a small bus, then; through the flat, arid, and dirty desolation of the yonder environs. Our stuff left in that Mauritanian tent we found to rent, it was the right time for a refreshing dip in the immensity of the ocean.
Upon the very moment I stepped on land again, I noticed a man approaching me at a vivid and hasty pace. He was in a football outfit and reminded of a footballer given an excellent opportunity to score a goal. The possible chance of a lifetime I presented him with made every muscle of his face dilate with joy. He introduced himself as Dominic.
Throughout the conversation that thus started between us, I came to the following conclusion…
I had already observed that the majority of people you get to talk to in this part of the world have their thoughts directed towards two principal objectives: 1) to extract from you a profit by any of the possible immediate means, varying from begging to fixing girls; and 2) to realize their dream of migrating to Europe, which alone, in their understanding, equals to living the life of an African football star. Most of them – out of experience, I guess – will aim the bulk of their efforts towards the first goal. Dominic, making the exception, was rather more focused on the second, higher goal. He was spending his days patiently waiting for the beautiful blond bride, the football talent hunter, or any sort of mentor/benefactor who would elevate his life forever to dimensions of greatness. Dominic was an idealist.
That introductory interaction of ours ended with an agreement to meet again on the same spot later that evening. He had invited us to his house in the village for dinner.
A couple of hours passed, and we headed down to the beach once again. We found out that Dominic had never left, but had been waiting for us there all the while. A broad smile manifesting deep satisfaction appeared on his face as he started to run towards our part upon the very instant he took notice of us coming. So we began striding along the broad, exotic beach while the sun was slowly plunging behind the distant oceanic horizon.
By the time we made it to the little village of Palmarin, it was forsaken to absolute darkness. There was no lamp illuminating the sandy roads and the shadowy figures of the few people walking along them. A faint light coming from a small tv led us through the outer yard into the inner yard of Dominic’s house.
There was his grandma sitting on a stool right in from of the light’s source, barely noticing our arrival at all. And that was the exact thing she kept doing during the entire time of our stay: sitting on the stool, still as a statue, abstractedly watching the soap opera on the screen, without giving any attention to anything else happening around her. She gave me the impression that she’d lost faith in her grandson’s grand aspirations, and she would prefer him to go out fishing or get any regular job, like the rest of her grandchildren.
Besides the old lady, there also was a group of four little children waiting for us in the yard – Dominic’s siblings, cousins, siblings’ children? It’s never easy to say in an African family. They knew we were coming, and they perfectly played the role they were instructed to play every time a candidate family benefactor was visiting. They ran and gave us a hug, each one in turn. And then they all sat still and quiet on a bench by the wall, attending us curiously.
We moved into the house’s interior. It was quite spacious and tidy for the average of an African village and neatly and frugally furnished. The walls were plentifully decorated with paintings of the last supper, various saints, and other Christian artifacts, on which people often rely to sustain their hopes for this life and relieve their fears for the afterlife. We sat on the couch and enjoyed the delicious fish dinner that some of Dominic’s neighbors cooked and delivered.
Having abundantly filled our stomachs with food, it was time to fill our heads with merriment by means of alcohol. We proceeded to the larger village of Djifer. We spent a long night roaming around that bizarre, debauched village and interacting with its many drunkards.
The night ended with Dominic joining us all the way to the beach in front of our lodging, the exact same spot where we had earlier met him. We bid each other good night and agreed to meet again there sometime tomorrow.
Coming down to the beach, by late next morning, the first thing we saw was Dominic trotting joyfully towards our part, no sooner than we appeared within his sight. He let us know that he’d been waiting for us there since sunrise.
Thenceforth, for all the rest of our stay, that exact coincidence was repeated many a time. Every time we headed down to the beach, we knew with absolute certainty that Dominic will be there, running towards us as soon as we passed the lodge’s gate. Every day, from sunrise to sunset, he’d always be there waiting for us patiently.
He apparently had laid too high hopes on us. I could not surmise what sort of logic led him to regard my friend and me as his potential benefactors. We’d already made it clear that we have no relation to the football industry, and our ability to fix for him a contract in a European team was no greater than our ability to have him employed by NASA and sent to Mars.
We also made clear that we do not operate a dating agency, and fixing a European wife for him is not as simple a task as he imagined, no matter how many local girls he was willing to give in exchange.
The only thing I managed to do for him was to offer some advice on the following matter: There was that Dutch dude with his French girlfriend staying in the same lodge. Dominic had already proposed to him to swap his girlfriend for four local girls from Palmarin – but in vain. One noon, the couple was relaxing on the beach. I suggested to Dominic that four girls was a somewhat low offer. Was he to offer ten instead, the guy would surely reconsider the proposition. He pondered my recommendation for a few seconds and walked towards the couple to place his new bid… The middle finger the French girl pointed at me signified that he was turned down again.
Dominic was not daunted, however. He kept insisting on his effort indefatigably. He came up with many creative ideas for services he could provide us with in case we bring him along with us to Europe. But none of them was enticing enough. So, that last noon of our stay there, we bid him goodbye and wished him the best. He mournfully watched us walking away for some moments, and then he sat on the sand, staring at the ocean and waiting for his fortune.
The story you've just read is a part of my "Real Stories of Real People" collection, wherein I narrate my encounters with various remarkable characters I've run into while traveling around the world. The entire collection is published on my blog and may be read here. But if you'd like to get them with you to the beach in your ebook reader or as a physical book, and very appreciatedly support my creative activity, go ahead and grab your copy from Amazon for the cost of a cup of coffee.
