This section on Senegal is taking longer than I thought. I was thinking of generalizing it, but so much of what I experienced in Senegal impacts the rest of my life. I’ll just try to write naturally and leave out some of the more tedious moments.

If this is your first time on this semi-autobiography of Islam in America through my life, then you should read the first three installments to understand what’s going on.

Part 1

Part 2a

Part 2b

Alright, eventually Brother Muhammad returned from America with a new batch of Muslim kids from the New York City area. There were two little boys (ages 5 and 7) from New Jersey, but everyone else was from NYC.

I don’t want to backbite anyone, so I have to be very careful how I describe some of the events. In most cases, I’ll only use their initials.

Anyway, one of the new attendees at the program was someone I’ll call Big Y. Big Y was from Harlem and was 17 years old. He was a fitness freak, had studied martial arts for many years, and was perhaps one of the biggest contradictions of Islam I’ve ever met.

Big Y had memorized several juz of Quran at a hafiz program in NYC as a child. He had a very popular father (who was also very strict). Yet Big Y was the exact opposite of what you’d want your Muslim child to be.

Big Y had charisma. And he could fight (very important for any black male from NYC). And he knew a lot about Islam.

But he was corrupt. I hope Allah has changed him since then. But when I knew him, he was not what I’d call a good Muslim. You’ll see what I mean, Inshallah.

There was another young man who was amongst the first group of American Muslims with me and Yusuf. He was named Zaid and was about 21 years old. Zaid had been in Senegal for about 5 months before I arrived with Brother Muhammad. Zaid’s father was a very influential American Muslim (I’m not gonna give his name).

Zaid grew up in Newark, NJ (one of the few places on earth that might be worse than NYC) with his mother who was not Muslim. So when Zaid came to Senegal, he had lived most of his life as a nominal Muslim with little knowledge of Islam.

There are some people who have such a personality, that everyone else around them instantly respects them. There are some people who have a quick mouth yet the muscle to back it up. There are some people who seem to make themselves the center of attraction (not attention) without even trying.

Zaid was one of them. While Brother Muhammad was gone, 21 year old Zaid kept us from going wild. He was not fazed in the least by our NYC bravado, and could probably kick all of our butts. He had spent most of his life as a non-Muslim so he had…shall I say…experiences….that most of us had not had yet.

Yet, in the year or so that he had come to Islam, he had devoted himself intently to studying Islam and was coming along quite well.

But nothing could take that Newark ghetto out of him. Beneath the Islamic learning, and the fast talk, and the dashikis (he was very afrocentric as a youth), and the dhikr beads, and the extra prayers, was pure roughneck.

You can guess that there was friction between Big Y and Zaid when they met. Two Alpha dogs in one compound, but going in opposite directions.

Big Y was born and raised Muslim, knew a lot about Islam, yet had a corruption that was akin to sickness.

Zaid, was not raised Muslim and was only just beginning to learn. Yet, despite his many faults (and he had many) he was trying to be a good Muslim.

For better of for worse, these two Alpha dogs never got closer to a real fight than just words. One day, soon after the new group of kids had arrived, an argument broke out between the two. They circled and mouthed, but never came to blows.

A week or so later, Zaid returned to America. But before he did, he told me that people who sleep so heavily should be careful who they mess with. He told me he had stood over Big Y for several minutes while he was sleeping. Zaid told me how he could have easily smashed Big Y’s head with a rock if he wanted to.

Big Y always had a hard time getting up for Fajr (the dawn prayer). He usually slept straight through it and wouldn’t pray until the sun was fully up. (First sign of corruption).

Anyway, Zaid returned to America and Brother Muhammad was back for a while. We also got a new Quran teacher. Serigne Lo was gone and we got Serigne Fall (pronounced Fahl).

To this day, Serigne Fall is the most learned and devout Muslim I’ve ever met. I kick myself today for not taking advantage of this great opportunity to learn more from this man. Yet, most of the Islam I know today I learned from him.

Allow me to elaborate his knowledge. Most Senegalese boys become Hafiz (memorized the entire Quran). It’s practically a tradition. And many girls do also. So Serigne Fall, Serigne Boge, Serigne Lo were all Hafiz of Quran.

Serigne Fall, was also a graduate of Al Azhar University in Cairo.

And the Islamic university in Medina.

He knew Arabic better than most Arabs. He could take a word in Arabic, and break it down to its bare roots. He actually taught Quran and Arabic in Saudi Arabia.

Yes, a black African taught Arabs in the country where Islam began, their own language. That’s like teaching classical English literature in Cambridge. Even more so since Arabic is hundreds of years older than English.

In short, the man knew his stuff. And he not only talked the talk, but he walked the walk.

I never saw Serigne Fall lose his temper. I never saw him commit a sin. And I never saw him wasting time.

Re-read that last sentence. I never saw him waste time.

He did not watch TV. He did not listen to music. He did listen to the news, but only on radio. When he wasn’t teaching, he was reading some book on Islam. That’s all I ever saw him do.

And he challenged us. Under Serigne Fall we memorized Quran much faster than before. And we left the Warsh script and only studied Hafs script (that’s the more popular way of reading and reciting the Quran). He taught us Tajweed (proper recitation of the Quran), Arabic, and Hadith.

I’m not a hafiz of the Quran, unfortunately. But I have memorized a good deal (all praises to Allah). I can’t say how much I learned with Serigne Fall without showing off or sounding like I’m proud. But, mashallah, it was a lot more than I would have ever learned in the Brooklyn ghettos.

I also had an awakening during this period. I realized that the majority of the people in Senegal practiced a very…different…form of Islam.

Let me give you the history behind the mythology.

I mentioned Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba in some of the earlier posts. I’m not going to go over his entire life because you can get it from Wikipedia.

He died in 1927, but he is still very much revered in Senegal. He was the founder of the holy city of Touba in Senegal, and his family has a status in Senegal similar to the Kennedy’s in America or the Ghandi’s in India.

Touba actually has a Caliphate. It is semi-autonomous from the Senegalese government and pork, alcohol, and cigarettes are forbidden in the city. Touba is governed by Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba’s family, whose family name is Mbacke. The Mbacke name is very powerful in Senegal.

The Shaikh Mourtada Mbacke, who sponsored the program for us Americans, was Bamba’s youngest son. Mourtada’s older brother, Salliou, was the Caliph of Touba at that time. (Both of these men were very old back then, and have since returned to Allah).

That’s the history. Now for the mythology.

I was never one to get into the whole Salafi vs Sufi thing (I didn’t even know what a Salafi was back then). And I refuse to do so now. But some things are just wrong. I knew they were wrong then, with my limited knowledge of Islam, and I know they are wrong now.

Back in the day, Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba was a very religious scholar. He also resisted the French colonial rule (not militarily; just vocally and spiritually). The French exiled him, and there are many stories surrounding Bamba’s ordeal and suffering in exile. Allah knows best if they are true.

Okay, now stay with me. Ahmadou Bamba had a good friend (some say servant) named Ibrahim Fall (no relation to my teacher Serigne Fall). According to the story, Ibrahim Fall worked so tirelessly in serving Bamba, that he was excused (by Allah, by the Shaikh, who knows?) from praying and fasting.

For my part, I prefer to believe some of the other stories about Ibrahim Fall. I’ve also heard that he just didn’t like for others to see him pray. Allah alone knows the truth.

But it gets even more interesting. From these two men sprang two Sufi/mystic tracts that are interrelated. One is the Mourids (from muridullah which means “one who wants Allah”). The Mourids are those that follow Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba, revere his family, chant his hasayats (poetry) and believe that Touba is a holy city.

And then there’s the Baye Fall (which means “Father of Fall” after Ibrahim Fall). The Baye Fall, are to serve the Mbacke family, especially the Caliph and Ahmadou Bamba’s direct descendants.

And like Ibrahim Fall, the Baye Fall also don’t believe they have to pray or fast. Instead, they “dhikr.”

The Mourids pray and fast. The Baye Fall don’t.

The Baye Fall chant “La illaha Illa Llah Fall” (there is no god except Allah Fall; I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean), wear patched clothes, let their hair grow in dreadlocks, and show their devotion by pounding their backs with huge clubs. Here’s a video of them doing the clubbing thing.

I once questioned the son of the Caliph of Touba about this strange practice (he was about 18 and loved Phil Collins). The Caliph’s son asked me if I knew what “alif lam meem” meant.

For those of you that are not Muslim, there are several chapters in the Quran that begin with individual letters like “alif, lam, meem” and “alif lam ra” and “Ta ha”. No one knows what they really mean, though several scholars have postulated different theories. But in reality, there’s no hadith or verse in the Quran to explain them.

When I replied that I did not know, he told me that Allah had told Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba what those words meant. Since Ahmadou Bamba knew the meaning of these letters, and I did not, who was I to question these practices.

This was not a regular Joe. This was the Caliph’s son, and a direct descendant of Shaikh Ahmadou Bamba. This goes to show how ingrained these beliefs were in the society.

There is also a famous and very beautiful mosque in Touba. It was originally started by Ahmadou Bamba and contained the holy fountain called Aynul Rahmat (fountain of mercy).

According to legend, Ahmadou Bamba was in Touba (before it became a major city), and stuck his hands in the sand. From there sprung fresh water, and that’s where Aynul Rahmat comes from. Allah knows best if any of this is true.

Also, in that mosque is where Shaikh Bamba is buried. And every day, hundreds of people visit his tomb and pray. I wish I could say they didn’t pray to him. At the very least, they do pray through him.

I’ve also heard many people use Ahmadou Bamba’s name when swearing. Ahmadou Bamba’s nickname was Serigne Touba (like Sir Touba). If someone wanted to emphasize that they were speaking the truth, they would say: “I swear by Serigne Touba.”

Often, before people ate, I’d hear them say: “Bismillah (in the name of Allah) and by Serigne Touba.”

In addition to this, the picture of Shaikh Bamba is also considered holy. I’ve witnessed on several occasions, Senegalese putting their hands to his picture and touching their heads or heart.

This was Mouridism.

Alhamdulillah, we had Serigne Fall who taught us true Islam. We would constantly question him about the things we saw in Senegal, and he would always verify that these things were haraam (forbidden) in Islam, and sometimes even amounted to Shirk (associating partners with Allah; the absolute worst sin in Islam).

With me realizing that much of what I saw in Senegal was wrong, and learning more about Islam from Serigne Fall and Serigne Boge, I guess this would be the time I actually came to love Islam, and love learning about Islam.

The arrival of the new kids also made us a little more homesick. We would sit for hours just talking about TV and video games and American food. Oh God, how we missed American food.

Pizza, hamburgers, pancakes, hotdogs, macaroni and cheese, candy, popcorn, potato chips. We reminisced and missed it all.

We would talk about how we missed cartoons and the music and the ease of American life. We missed microwaves, washing machines, air conditioners, irons, hot water, and toilet seats.

We just missed home so much.

Someone sent a bunch of books to Senegal that Brother Muhammad kept in his library. I read through all of the books that pertained to America. I learned more about American history and society in Senegal than I did in the U.S. (I’m not kidding.)

I read a book by some guy who was walking across America. I read Lerone Bennett’s Before the Mayflower. I read Assatta Shakur’s autobiography. I ready W.E.B. DuBois’ Black Folks. I read Booker T. Washington’s autobiography Up From Slavery. I read Billie Holiday’s autobiography. I read much more that I can’t even remember.

It is amazing, that without TV and video games and girls, I actually gave myself a pretty good self-taught education. All this reading kept my language skills sharp and of course I became very knowledgeable of American and African-American history.

I guess you probably want to hear some drama now and I guess it’s my duty to give it to you.

Remember Big Y? There’s a reason I believed him to be corrupt. This next part is going to be a little difficult to write. I think I’ll hold off until the next post.

No I won’t. I’ll talk about it now.

One night, I was sitting in the mosque (there was a small mosque on our compound) going over some Quran with Serigne Fall (I was going on a little religion binge at this time).

A young man from Virginia named Russell (he wasn’t Muslim but his uncle was) was visiting. Russell and Big Y hit it off immediately. Russell was probably a typical American teenager. But with Big Y, these two were a dangerous combination.

They came into the mosque with another American Muslim kid who was about a year older than me, whom I’ll call T (I was about 15 at the time, so T was about 16), and they were all just joking and laughing. I listened to them talk about their recent exploits in one of the seedier areas of town.

Here’s how the conversation went:

Big Y: “Man, T it musta been a long time!”

Russ: “That nigga musta had three years of tension built up man.”

T: “Damn, man you don’t know. It’s been so long.”

Big Y (laughing): “That sh** musta been good though.”

T: “Hell yeah nigga. After all these years in f****** Senegal you think I’m gonna complain?”

(All three laugh)

Russ: “You musta tore that bi*** up man.”

T (laughing): “I don’t know man, but that sh** was just what I needed.”

I did embellish a little, but not much. This is almost the exact conversation that night, by two Muslims and a non-Muslim inside a Mosque in Senegal.

Big Y’s corruption did not end there (may Allah forgive me if I’m backbiting; but only about 20 people in the entire world will even know who Big Y is if they read this).

One day, one of the American kids in Senegal accused a Senegalese boy named Ablay (short for Abdullah) of stealing his slippers. These were regular flip flops that could have been purchased anywhere.

Big Y found out about it and brought together some of the other American boys, including T.

Big Y started preaching how, if this country (Senegal) was under shariah, Ablay would have his hand chopped off for stealing (Ablay denied ever stealing the slippers; Allah knows best). Big Y encouraged the other boys, about 4 including T, that they had to teach Ablay a lesson.

I don’t know if any of you have ever seen a real “beat down.” I’ve seen them many times in NYC.

And I saw it once in Senegal.

It brings tears to my eyes thinking about it now. But these boys lured Ablay out into the field where we usually played baseball. They acted as if they just wanted to hear his side of the story. While Ablay was jabbering away, Big Y and the others were plotting in English (of course Ablay didn’t speak English).

T sucker punched Ablay while he was talking. Then Big Y and the others started pounding away at this kid (who was only about 14-15). Ablay fell to the ground and they continued to kick him while he was on the ground. Ablay’s mother came running out shouting and screaming. When they saw her coming they laid off and started to walk away.

But not Big Y. He jumped up and landed with his feet in Ablay’s face.

I don’t know what hurts more. What I saw happen to Ablay, or the fact that I didn’t jump in to help him. To this day, I still hate myself for not jumping in and helping Ablay. All I did was try to talk them out of it. But I did not get physically involved.

And that was the weakest moment of my life. I pray that Allah protects me from ever being that weak again.

Big Y was not just a bad Muslim. He prayed the 5 prayers. He fasted during Ramadan. He knew much more Quran than I did. But he was one of the most corrupt individuals I’ve ever met. Muslim or otherwise.

One more story about Big Y.

There was another Muslim living with us who was from the African nation of Gabon. Let’s call him A.S. A.S. was a very good Muslim by all accounts and was busy learning Islam like the rest of us in Senegal. He was trying to get to Saudi Arabia to study, but was waiting for his student visa to get approved.

Big Y and Russ said they saw A.S. fondling one of the younger boys. But of course, Big Y and Russ had horrible reputations. Brother Muhammad couldn’t stand either one of them. I already knew enough about them not to trust anything they said.

And A.S. was such a wonderful Muslim. Always studying Quran. Very soft spoken. Very polite.

Big Y and Russ made a big spectacle about what they saw and wanted to fight A.S. Brother Muhammad would have none of it. He knew A.S. very well and respected this young man who had traveled so far to study Islam.

Everyone ignored Big Y and Russ and said they were just spreading more fitnah (mischief).

A few months later, Big Y came down with yellow fever and almost died. He had to leave Senegal and return to America for treatment. He never came back.

A year or so later, while I was in Dakar (Senegal’s capital) another American boy confided in me, that one night, while he was in bed, A.S. lay down next to him and began feeling in his pants. By the time I found this out, Brother Muhammad had returned to America, and A.S.’ visa for Saudi Arabia had finally been approved.

By the way, the video at the top is by Youssou N’Dour. It was very popular during this time. Every time I hear it, I remember seeing Big Y bobbing his head to it while a Senegalese girl danced nearby.

Moral of the story: Corruption comes in many forms.

My final year in Senegal up next…