The Christmas Baobab
This story begins in the arms of Fatou, a 20-year-old African woman. African women - and Africans in general - don't usually hug, but then I don't usually fall apart or burst out crying, and certainly not on this continent where the land relentlessly conveys a vital fire that is almost incompatible with weakness. However, a series of circumstances had led me to be bawling in front of her, and another series of circumstances led her to hug me to comfort me, thereby beginning a sisterhood that will last my whole life. Caparan: a corner of the world where I have another family, who I found on a night when I shouldn't even have been there. A night when I was lost but I found myself.
That morning I had set off from Cap Skirring on the southwest coast of Senegal for Banjul, the capital of Gambia, to catch a plane that would take me home for Christmas. Knowing African roads and timings, I had left plenty of time for the journey so that I could comfortably reach my flight, scheduled to take off just before midnight. The journey would take around four hours, and we were in hour three when the car decided suddenly to splutter to a halt. With the bonnet open, Babucar, my local driver, looked up at me and shook his head with the air of one pronouncing death. “Twenty years, vingt ans,” he explained pointing with his chin to the vehicle, which indeed had clearly been chugging about for a couple of decades.
The inner peace that I had at first drawn on, knowing that at 4pm we could afford a flat tire or two and still arrive on time, had started to frazzle, a bit like my hair, which the Senegalese sun and dirt tracks had sculpted into some interesting forms. The car had decided to pack up and there wasn't a soul on the road who could give me a lift to the airport, or anywhere else for that matter.
I didn't know a lot of things then that I later found out.
That the place where we had been forced to stop was called Caparan.
That there are no cars in Caparan. Not one. Literally, none.
That because of political wrangling between former colonies, driving is banned from 7pm on.
That I would suddenly realise that I wasn't going to make my flight home and would have to wait for the next one in a week’s time, and that despite being an experienced adult who had travelled halfway across the world, I would feel helpless.
That at 6pm a group of volunteers would be on their way back from the dispensary after another hard day’s work building a maternity home for the village women, and that they would bundle me into their car and try to cheer me up.
That the only place they would take me would not be the airport but the village elder, which is always the first thing you must do when you arrive in any village in Africa. That I would have to say to the wise man, in my schoolgirl's French and with a lump in my throat, thank you very much for your hospitality but it was the 23rd of December and I wanted to go home.
That I wouldn't cry in front of this eminence but I would shortly after when Fatou, the woman who opened her house to me, gave me a bucket full of water to have a shower and a dress made of a beautiful African fabric that she had dyed herself.
That this woman who had been born in the heart of Africa to be married off at the age of 16 had rebelled against her destiny and aged 20 would, like me, be seeking her place in the world.
That even though Africans don't hug, Fatou had learned to hug when she'd encountered a woman with her heart on her sleeve, and after a hug of 20 seconds she’d whisper, “Don't worry. Your second family will be here.”
That in that lost world, after weeping like a little girl at the thought of my whole family expecting me for Christmas dinner in Barcelona, the village party would start, because when a stranger comes to town for the first time, she is given a welcome party with dancing and music.
That that night I would learn their songs about life and nature and they would learn my Christmas carols, and that under a giant baobab tree, the villagers of Caparan and I would sit round in a circle to tell stories. That although I don't like speaking in public, I'd unexpectedly feel comfortable and tell them all about how we celebrate this special time at home. What we eat, what we wear, how we decorate a tree with baubles and tinsel, and how on Christmas Eve a fat, bearded man dressed in red called Santa Claus leaves presents under it. The children would love that. How beautiful to watch them laugh like that.
On our way back to Fatou's, tiny as we were under that never-ending sky, we saw a shooting star that I wished upon to look after my new family in Africa, and an aeroplane flying into the distance. It was just after midnight. It would've been mine. But I was no longer sad. Once again, Africa had rocked my soul.
The next morning another great gift awaited me, confirming my hunch that the car accident had not been a coincidence. Covering my eyes, Fatou led me through the village streets. The children were skipping around us, their laughter ringing like bells. Some remembered parts of my carols. I was allowed to open my eyes in front of the tree where we'd shared stories the night before. Lo and behold, it was decorated from top to bottom with baubles and stars made out of wood, bright fabrics, and seeds. The children giggled, pointing to what they had been working on since dawn. The whole village had got involved to surprise me with the best gift I could have been given.
The Christmas baobab.