When the lights go off at 10 pm, our forks still stuck in a big plate of spaghetti, someone quick fetches an emergency lamp and we carry the plate to the roof. We gather around the plate, everyone steadily shoveling pasta in, and finish dinner quietly. I, the guest, am told to stay on the roof where it’s cooler, and Moussa goes to get me a chair to sit in. On the rooftop after dinner there are two lights. Moussa’s cigarette. Moussa’s cell phone.
My neighbor stretches his long arms behind his head and reclines on the colorful straw mat he’s taken to sleeping on this week, up on the roof. Power outages have been rampant this week, but Moussa’s easy-going about it. It’s nice sleeping here, he tells me. There’s fresh air. The Senegalese electric company, Senelec, is shit, but the stars are bright.
The stars are clear above Mermoz, our middle class quartier in Dakar, Senegal. The breeze is sticky and refreshing, coming straight from the ocean. Even in the darkness our neighbors are strolling up and down the street, welcoming the nighttime breeze and respite from the deeply hot and humid day.
