Bakar Mansaray

The drummers start to beat the rub-a-dub version of the Laamb samba – faster, lighter yet gay. As they change the rhythm once in a while, the sound now becomes part of the living stadium. It is like the beat of its heart. It pulsates in the air, in the sunlight, in the shrubs. The drumming captivates the stadium and pumps it with enthusiasm. From here businesses advertise their wares on huge billboards, which are further beamed on television screens to the entire country.

It is dusk, and it is that time to grapple with Yékini, my opponent; to show my strength, skill and style. I raise my 130 kilogram body weight, and 1.83 metres height from a wooden bench. I give the bench a kick; it goes flying into the air. As my feet dance into the sandy ring, my sponsor, Pascal Sarr, whispers to me: “Now is the time for you to get the biggest deal.”

His words send chills of excitement racing down my spine. Words that bore right into and through me. I imagine myself living in a luxurious mansion and my face on billboards. I want to live the lifestyles of the rich and famous. I dream of Ndiapaly Seck sitting close to me, watching something on a flat screen TV in a gleaming black Cadillac Escalade as we cruise leisurely around town. I wake up from my reverie and take a sweeping look across the spectators.

“Shoot for the stars!” Pascal Sarr shouts and pours ritual water over my head from the magic bottle from the Marabout, Jawara.  I shake my head with sinewy intensity.

“Balla Gaye 2!” My fans roar, drowning the sound of the drums.

I pause briefly in a frenzy of anxiety, point my single index finger toward the sky and wail: “Amadou Bamba!”

“Balla Gaye 2!” The congregated thousands roared again in unison. The drummers hold them in place.

I’m a champion. For me, physical exercises are not all. I prepare myself mentally before a fight by being positive and enthusiastic. I fight with intelligence and precision. I don’t rush at my opponent. Today, my aim is not only to be defensive but to use lightning speed for a quick victory. This is one of my proven secret techniques. I’m confident that I’ve patience, endurance, and the robust muscles to protect myself from the punches of Yékini. As ready as I’ll ever be, I yell out to Pascal:

“Give them to me.”

He throws Dankay, Faye, and Juldeh to me. All three of them, my new talismans. I catch them one at a time. It would have meant bad luck if they had fallen to the ground. While I tie Dankay on my left bicep, Faye goes to my right bicep. And Juldeh, the powerhouse, finds its home on my chest. I need to prove their power and that of their creator, Marabout Jawara. To the best of my knowledge, Jawara is not an ordinary mystic man of God. He is as good a man as gold.

I could see the surprise in the eyes of my opponent.

“Where are the others?” He asks, looking directly into my wide-set eyes.

“None of your business, Yékini,” I reply, eyeing his muscular chest, adorned with talismans.

He knows of two other talismans that I usually wear but not their names. I kept that a secret. Jakai and Fatou were once my favourites. But today, I’m forbidden to wear them with the talismans prepared for me by  Marabout Jawara.

The drums continue to beat. The shrill sound of the umpire’s whistle sends a torrent of adrenaline through my body. Here he comes. Yékini gives me a friendly nod. I hold out my left hand. He quickly grabs it as we close in. He struggles to dig in his left heel behind me in a quest to tilt me backwards. No way. Too old a trick to try on a cunning wrestler. Still in each other’s grip, the muscles on our arms, thighs, and backs stand out and yank. I could smell his body odour.

“Dirty pig.” I lash at him. He gets angry and sneers at me. His breathing becomes heavier and faster – just where I want him. We’ve fought twice before this match. He won the last one while I disgraced him in the other. My win was considered dramatic even among the retired wrestlers. As soon as we closed in, I had made a flashy move that even I couldn’t describe. And Yékini was flat on his back. It was said that the jubilation from the spectators, and the drumming was heard many miles away. Remembering his mournful expression that day makes me nod back at him now.

“Dirty pig,” I repeat. To my surprise, he releases his grip and instead throws frantic punches at me with his hands. I dodge his right hand punch, then his left hand one. And then another fast left hand punch that lands on my right temple. I blink a watery eye in pain yet spring gracefully on my toes like Mike Tyson, the renowned boxer.

I hold out my right hand. He grabs it, and we close in fiercely. Still in each other’s grips, we gasp for breath. Again, he releases his grip on me. Suddenly, the electric lights went out in the stadium. Oh no! Ndiapaly Seck, my dream, where are you? A voice inside my head says, I’m here, with you. The crowd goes mad, jeering loudly. Then, within seconds, the lights come back on. Yékini goes down on one knee in an effort to toss me backwards over his head. I hear a particular beat from the drums – it possesses me – the spirit of the drums. Too late for him. It is now or never. I raise my right leg and swings it over his head. Before he figures out my position, I throw a powerful punch to his neck. In no second, he is flat on his face. The spectators spurt into a booming uproar as if competing to drown the sound of the drums. Pascal Sarr and my fans sweep me off my feet, carrying me high on their collective shoulder like a king. They sing my praise: “Who is our groom?

“Balla Gaye 2!”

“And who is the loser?”

“Yékini!”

“Who is our groom?”

“Balla Gaye 2!”

“And who is the loser?”

“Yékini!”

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