I am a feeder. If I eat a mango, I slice off sections for the people around me. I buy beignets for my study abroad friends, and I bring madeleines to the office to share. There is happiness in the simple pleasure of giving food.
My feeding also extends to animals. In the villa where I live, the madame keeps a black Labrador, a silly thing that rolls on her belly the instant she meets you. But she has a deep bark that keeps the curious away. In the mornings, I tuck away a portion of my buttered breakfast roll, and when I come home at night, I feed the bread to Blackie. She wags her tail and lets me rub her belly then sneaks off to wolf down the snack.
On a recent morning, the bakery was out of the usual soft rolls, so I bought a baguette instead. That night, Blackie and I went through our usual routine: Wag, belly rub, bread. She crept away to the dark backside of the house with the dry baguette hanging out of her mouth.
I was boiling water for tea the next morning when the girl who cleans the villa stepped into the kitchen. Her name is Rama, and she is 15. When I wake in the mornings at 7:30, she is already at work sweeping the courtyard. She scrubs the tiles while I eat breakfast. When I come home in the evenings, she’s chopping onions or washing the laundry in large plastic tubs. I bumped into her once at night, asleep in the kitchen. There are four unused beds in the villa—bedrooms for when the madame’s children visit from France and Canada—and yet Rama sleeps on the floor.
I pulled the tea kettle from the gas burner, and she stood in the doorway.
“I saw you gave the dog bread last night,” Rama said.
I thought: busted. I wondered if she would chastise me for feeding Blackie people-food.
“The next time you have bread left over, you shouldn’t give it to the dog,” she said. “Wrap it in a bag and save it for me.”
I looked at her, and a hard, tight knot formed in the back of my throat.
“The madame gives me money every day, but it’s not enough for breakfast,” Rama said. “I don’t eat in the mornings.”
I thought of all the times I sat on the patio with my tea and roll while Rama swept at my feet. For her day’s toil, from sunup until after sundown, she earns just enough to cover her evening meal. In a country where almost 50% of the population is unemployed, the madame knows she can get away with paying those rates. This then is the face of poverty in Senegal. Not because there is not enough—in this household, there is plenty—but because those who have enough refuse to share with those who don’t.
I asked Rama if she wanted me to buy her breakfast. She lowered her eyes to the counter and nodded her head in a quick jerk. I bought her a roll that morning and the next one, too. But I’m moving out of the villa soon, and Rama will be back to fending for herself.
