mancala

The two women are stooped over the ground on their small, hand-crafted stools. The lines of age have been etched into their faces by decades of back breaking work and the harsh rays of the ever present sun. Their bodies are swathed in seemingly endless roles of bright, exuberant fabrics. The tops of their heads are adorned in creations so elaborate, jutting out at every imaginable angle, they could be modern art, yet these practiced hands throw them together with incredible ease. These two village mothers are perched under the shade of a bold and imposing baobab tree, one of the few beings in the village that has endured the harsh conditions of the savannah longer than them. Their hands are moving swiftly over the surface of sand, deftly carving concave depressions into the earth. One pulls out a swatch of cloth from the depths of the fabric billowing around her, and emerges with a cache of smooth, rounded stones, which have been carefully sought out and saved. As the circles have been impressed into the ground, and the stones carefully parceled out, the game is about to begin. Interested family members have begun to gather, and anticipation is growing. The first woman whispers “inchallah” under her breath, and in a flash of movement, her hand has scooped the first handful of stones, and she drops them one by one into a succession of divots in the sand. The game has suddenly broke into a flurry of motion with hands roaming to and fro, sweeping stones across the ground, reshaping the cups of sand that hold them. There is an air of tense excitement permeating through the small gathering – where will the next move be? Suddenly, a hand rests abruptly over a pile – she is thinking, tentatively weighing out her options. The game is nearing its close, as mini mountains of the smooth, rounded stones lay at either end of the board. The time for strategic play has arrived. A hushed whisper ripples through the crowd. With a precise movement, her hand traverses the playing field, reaching for the adjacent cache of stones, and the game resumes its flurried pace. A clear leader begins to emerge, and within moments the last stone has been placed, and the victor rocks back on her stool, throwing her head back with a smile radiating off of her face, and with a resounding clap she exclaims “Alhamdulillah!” The less fortunate one shakes her head back and forth in her hands, indecipherable utterances spilling from her lips. And with that, the curious few who assembled for the match slowly recede back into their daily chores. The first women sweeps up the stones and pockets them, as the second returns the sands to their original state, and with that, the two women rouse themselves up, their statures still strong and proud despite their age. As they stroll towards the compounds entrance, they swoop down, each reaching for a benwar, which they place with agility on the tops of their heads. With the sun slowly sinking in the sky, they head in the direction of the well, their brightly colored silhouettes cutting a sharp contrast with the gentle tones of pink and yellow stretching across the sky. They chatter animatedly about the game, as they head down the lush, green bush bath, resuming their roles as women of Senegal.