Over the door of the photo studio it said Lion Photo, but inside the dingy shop, which looked like somebody's unfinished basement, the name was crossed out and replaced with “Sun Color.” A dozen men sat on rickety wooden benches, sometimes talking to each other, mostly silent, watching the traffic outside. The doors were propped wide open, letting in noise, flies, and worst of all, tons of dust. The photographer in me was appalled.
I wasn’t sure who worked there and who was merely loitering, so I waited until a young man in jeans approached me. I told him I needed photos for a visa, like passport photos. He explained the pricing system, 2000CFA if I want them tomorrow, 2500 if I want to wait. He spoke so rapidly that I needed a few seconds after he finished to process what he said. He interpreted my frown as a counter-offer, and instantly lowered his price. A second man in a blue boubou whisked me into the back room to take my photo.
Out front again, while the first man scribbled a receipt on a dirty scrap of paper for me, I studied the faded sample postcards hanging from a string over the counter: Flowers; beaches; a topless couple embracing under the declaration “Avec toi, c’est gentil!”; a young man’s personalized New Year’s card, featuring a soulful portrait of himself with sunglasses resting on his crown, wishing the recipient a “Bonne et heureuse annee.” I ignored the men --photographers employed by the shop? Hangers-on? Who knows -- who crowded around and tried to talk to me. Then one, stout and boisterous, shouted, “Comprenez-vous Bambara?” Do you understand Bambara? I looked over my shoulder at him. “Nse,” I said. To my relief, the crowd broke up laughing and left me alone.
I silently thanked the people who have taught me a few words of Bambara, and marveled at the ability of a single word to charm a crowd.
Bambara (also known as Bamana) is one of Mali’s many local languages, the most common in the southern part of the country, where we are. French is the official national language -- fluency is required for government or NGO jobs, and most Malians in the big city of Bamako know at least enough to get by at work or in the market. Luckily for the likes of me, French is their second language too, and they are tolerant of poor grammar. (“Does your sister already have the hospital?” I once asked Fanta, concerned. “Yes,” she said without a trace of condescension, “She is still at the hospital.”)
So French might get you a job, and help you with your errands, but Bambara will win you the admiration and friendship of Malians. Everyone I meet urges me to learn it, like the young guardien on our street. He looks the same age as young Mamoutou, but not chubby, and he has intelligent eyes. “I ni sňgňma,” he said the other day, with a wide, friendly smile, and translated, “Bonjour.” I repeated him until I said something close to what he said: I ni sňgňma. Ee-nee-so-go-mah.
He enlisted Fanta’s help. When she arrived Thursday, she didn’t greet me with the usual “Bonjour, madame,” as she slipped out of her sandals on the verandah. Instead, she said slowly, “On so wo ma.” (I’m not sure how to spell it, or what it means; I can’t find it in the Peace Corps “Beginning Bambara” manual.) I repeated, and she shook her head and explained the etiquette: “Moi, je dis ‘On so wo ma.’ Tu dis “Nse.’”
“Nse,” I said. The end is drawn out: Nn-sayyyy.
And so I began learning the Bambara greetings. Barely. They start out simple enough: “I ni sňgňma.” Good morning. Men reply “Nba,” and women, “Nse.” They might say next, “I ka kčnč wa?” How are you? But that’s just the beginning. How is the family? They are fine. How is your husband? He is well. And what about your children? They are fine. Did you sleep well? Very well. How is everything? This last phrase, according to the manual, translates literally as “Is there peace?”
Did you spend the day well? I passed the day in peace. Then the tables turn, and the former respondent becomes the questioner: How was your night? How was your wife’s night? And what about your family? And so on.
At Sun Color, I sat on the bench and waited for my photos. Some of the men looked at negatives, and others had cameras around their necks, but it was difficult to tell who worked there and who was just passing time, sitting in the shade, staring at the street outside. Within minutes my eyes glazed over and I sank into a lethargic state like theirs. I tried not to yawn because I was afraid one of the flies buzzing around my head would zip into my mouth. A man wandered in with three live chickens dangling upside down from each hand, spoke to someone behind the counter, and wandered back out. After a while, the young man next to me leaned over and spoke to me in French.
He asked me if I liked movies, and then he asked me to go to the movies with him. Sorry, no, I said; I’m married. A few minutes later, he asked if he could come over to my house. I don’t think so, I said. You’re married, he said. A little while after that he started speaking to me in English. He spoke fairly well, but apologized for his lack of skills: “It is difficult to learn English. I only speak small-small.” He pinched his thumb and index finger to show me how little he knew.
