Penda and the Baby

Ziguinchor, Senegal

I met Penda outside my hotel in Ziguinchor. She sat in her crafts stall, selling wooden carvings and trinkets made by her husband. Normally, I ignore the incessant chatter of souvenir vendors, but when she called me over, I went to her obediently.
"My sister," she said as she introduced herself.
Penda was a large, dark-skinned Wolof woman born in the Cassamance region of Senegal. She had a big, white smile that made me want to know her, and her apple cheeks reminded me of a Ghanaian's. I knew what was coming. I knew she wanted me to spend my money, and I could have turned away, but I stayed and listened to her anyway. She invited me to sit down, and for the next fifteen minutes or so she asked me about myself, every so often placing necklaces and keychains in front of me.
When I stood to leave, Penda asked me if I wanted to visit her home and family. I hesitated for a moment, thinking this was part of the sell, and I'd be forced to pay some extortionate price at the end of the visit. But how often had an African woman invited me into her life? I had come across many men who'd invited me to their homes to meet and dine with their families, but with women it hadn't been the same. They'd chat with me at their shops and restaurants, but forming friendships had been difficult. Considering this, I decided I did not care how much I had to pay. I wanted to experience Penda's life.
We took a taxi to the small house she shared with her sister, mother, nieces and nephews. I stood on Penda's porch and met her tiny daughter, who looked so much like her mother. Penda's own mother was there as well, and although she could not speak any French, she graciously accepted me into her home.
"Do you want to see the baby?" Penda asked.
"What baby? Do you have another child?"
"No," she smiled at me. "My sister has a new baby. He is three days old."
I followed her into the home. There was no door, just a sheet hanging from the top of the frame. It covered my face as Penda stepped into the room before me. I pulled it away and was met with a beautiful sight: mother and new baby, resting on a mattress on the floor of a bare room. There was a bag with some clothes in it and a floor fan plugged into the wall. Other than these two items, there was nothing. Nothing but people living in this house. People and this tiny, tiny baby.
Penda's sister sat up when she saw me. I greeted her and quickly apologized for disturbing her. "You must be very tired," I said.
She just smiled and looked down at her baby, a boy. He was wrapped in wax print cloth with only his fair-skinned head sticking out. He opened and closed his mouth slowly, as if tasting the new world around him. His mother scooped him up and held him for a minute before offering him in my direction. My arms hung motionless at my sides as I considered what this woman was giving me. She was about to hand me her newborn child. Me, a stranger, a white woman who could not speak her language or tell her how grateful I was to be there at that very moment. Slowly, I raised my hands to take her child, afraid to move too quickly around something so delicate.
I held this tiny thing tightly and looked at its big eyes, the little ears. I felt its soft, curly hair, not yet African to the touch. I smelled its head and recognized that new baby smell. I noticed, with some sense of familiarity, the small, white dots across the baby's nose. That's when I remembered holding another infant, this one in a hospital, way back in December 1990. My youngest sister was a similar size and she had the same white dots on her nose. I held her in my lap, just as carefully, but I could not remember feeling any overwhelming sense of amazement at the time. I felt it now, though, for the both of them, for baby Maisie and this little boy. It was a good feeling.
Penda sat next to me with her own daughter and beamed proudly at her sister and nephew. I sat with these two women for several hours , with this baby in my arms, and I floated between December 1990 and that moment. I thought of nothing else, not of where I had been or where I was going. I was grounded in this personal moment, and I reveled in its simplicity and natural beauty.
I stayed in Ziguinchor for two days, and in that time Penda invited me home twice more, feeding me on both occasions. I bought a couple of knick-knacks from her stall and a gift for the new baby, but she never asked me for money, as I had initially expected. By the end of our time together, it was clear that she enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. Perhaps that was enough, or perhaps she'd never wanted anything from me in the first place. Later I thought about how trusting Penda and her sister had been to let me into their home, and I felt slightly guilty for not treating my new friend in the same way. But somewhere along the line we are taught to think this way. Someone, perhaps a parent, our teachers, or the media, warns us against putting too much trust in humanity. And we listen, we do, and many times we are better for it. But how many of these experiences have I missed out on as a result? How many times did I brush someone off because I simply could not believe he or she was being genuine? Still, I will never be like Penda. I will never be comfortable enough to invite a stranger into my home to hold my baby. But I am certainly glad she was.