{"id":955,"date":"2016-07-22T20:08:25","date_gmt":"2016-07-22T20:08:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/staging\/?p=955"},"modified":"2026-05-28T23:00:05","modified_gmt":"2026-05-28T23:00:05","slug":"bakar-mansaray","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/bakar-mansaray\/","title":{"rendered":"Bakar Mansaray"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Wrestler<\/strong><\/h3>\n

Nerves are taut and muscles stand out on their bodies. Loincloths and talismans are their only attire. Each one of the two wrestling men tries to throw the other with a combination of hand and knee leverage onto the sandy ground. In the broiling hotness of the day Malik Ngom and Sheik Dioum shine with sweat. They had circled each other warily before this fearsome bear hug,  reminiscent of that of two great world heavyweights at a standstill. In their mid-twenties, both wrestlers are jet-black in complexion; they stand 1.83 metres tall and weigh no less than 100 kilograms each. These two amateurs engage in a physically gruelling bare-fisted fight within the national stadium of roaring and clapping spectators – 30,000 or more people. But this is just a preliminary match. Ours, the professionals’, is scheduled for the dusk when I\u2019ll lock horns with the indomitable Y\u00e9kini.<\/p>\n

Malik Ngom and Sheik Dioum are now still in each other\u2019s grip. Their muscles stand out and tremble. Seconds become minutes as muscles crave for release. Then suddenly the men let go and start throwing punches at each other. Punches that seem to dance to the beat of the drums. Three men beat the seven frenzied drums of different sizes. They beat the Laamb<\/em> samba \u2013 fast, light and jolly. I can\u2019t resist moving my feet to the beat. The air shudders as the intoxicating rhythm fills me with fire. Like myself, these two wrestlers go at it to prove their manliness, and bring honour to themselves and their sponsors.<\/p>\n

Now, the umpire blows his whistle. Its sound seems to stop the two wrestlers from throwing punches. For a few minutes, the two men gape and circle each other dispassionately, waving their arms. There he goes, Sheik Dioum; he has a grip of steel on Malik Ngom\u2019s loincloth. His wide-opened, stiff, straight legs seem to be in his favour. But Malik Ngom takes this opening as a disadvantage. In goes his right leg in an attempt to throw Sheik Dioum to the ground.  He fails and loses his grip. He staggers like a drunken giant that is about to fall. But Malik Ngom is quick to recover his stance. He pulls back a step, spitting onto the sandy ground. Then, he stretches out both arms towards Sheik Dioum who rushes to seize them. Malik Ngom withdraws his arms, and for a moment, Sheik Dioum loses his balance. But as he regains his steps, he lungs at Malik Ngom\u2019s waist. This is him at his most impressive: his grip seems to scare Malik Ngom who must be wondering about his opponent\u2019s next move. Then, Malik Ngom goes for Sheik Dioum\u2019s waist too. Nerves and muscles continue to stand out on their bodies.<\/p>\n

The drummers maintain a steady rhythm. The heads of the two wrestlers push against each other left to left, right to right. Their massive bodies are almost immovable. Then, all of a sudden, as if anticipating his move, Malik Ngom grabs Sheik Dioum\u2019s body from the waist and stood him up. Frantically, Sheik Dioum throws a worthless punch into the air. Both men wrestle for control. Malik Ngom sees the dangling right leg of his opponent and takes advantage of it. In a flash, Sheik Dioum lies spread out on his back. I spring to my feet in jubilation. The spectators’ voices boom into a deafening roar as the drummers go wild. With the crowd still praising his name, Malik Ngom proudly bounces out of the ring.<\/p>\n

The drummers, whose bodies shine with sweat, stop for a while before our match; my match. As they wipe their bodies with snow-white absorbent towels, they drink water and orange juice to bring down their body temperatures. I look around, perhaps for the very first time, and see those who stand or sit next to me. Bamba Ndiaye, a close fan of mine, approaches me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you think of Malik Ngom?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMalik Ngom is like a younger brother to me because we\u2019re from the same residential area. At times, he prepares for his fights in my house. He hangs out with my younger brothers and those of Cheikh Mbaba, the former Minister of Culture. I keep telling Malik Ngom not to allow neither the death of his mother nor that of his to dampen his spirits.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI say to him, \u2018such unfortunate events shouldn\u2019t be harbingers of darkness in your life.\u2019 Malik Ngom is a very good guy, very polite and religious.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that right? But there are rumours that he is a womanizer,\u201d says Bamba Ndiaye.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I always ask him to do self-evaluation and compare himself to champions. I advise him not to allow women and money to divide him and his friends.\u201d<\/p>\n

Our conversation is interrupted by a slim coquettish lady who greets me amicably, and says: \u201cToday is your day, and remember me when you win.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll do so,\u201d I say to her, smiling knowingly and nodding my head.<\/p>\n

She smiles back at me and dreamily blinks her large sparkling eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou look confident and at ease with yourself,\u201d she says, walking away from me, hips rolling.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I reply, knowing fully well that my carefully-chiseled facial features and dark complexion make me supple and gracefully handsome at age thirty.<\/p>\n

Today, we\u2019re going at this fight for two things. One is to win a cash prize of one million FCFA. The other is for the winner to start courtship with Ndiapaly Seck, the country\u2019s beauty queen. Like the Greek goddess, Aphrodite, Ndiapaly Seck is a gorgeous, perfect, eternally young lady. At age twenty-one, her seductive hips and curves gives her a magical sway, giving her a sexual attraction so potent that she compels love from men. Ndiapaly Seck, I keep calling her name, you\u2019re going to be mine; I will have a greater claim on your heart than any man on earth.<\/p>\n

Today\u2019s fight is not a training session when my muscles are so sore that they seem to belong to another body. These are not the hours of getting up at 5 a.m. and running dozens of kilometres along the beach. Those were the days when my parents will give me a grilling for doing push-ups and hoisting weights above my head; those moments when I felt my courage waning like a departing moon. They never gave me their approval to practise such a sport.<\/p>\n

\u201cBarbaric. It\u2019s meant for thugs,\u201d my father used to say.<\/p>\n

But at this very moment, I know that they will be glued to their television set waiting to see my performance. Since I have little formal education, wrestling, to me, is an outlet to shine and excel. It is now my reality and no longer a fleeting shadow on a cloudy day.
\n<\/p>\n

The drummers start to beat the rub-a-dub version of the Laamb<\/em> samba \u2013 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.<\/p>\n

It is dusk, and it is that time to grapple with Y\u00e9kini, 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: \u201cNow is the time for you to get the biggest deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

\u201cShoot for the stars!\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

\u201cBalla Gaye 2!\u201d My fans roar, drowning the sound of the drums.<\/p>\n

I pause briefly in a frenzy of anxiety, point my single index finger toward the sky and wail: \u201cAmadou Bamba!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBalla Gaye 2!\u201d The congregated thousands roared again in unison. The drummers hold them in place.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m 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\u2019t 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\u2019m confident that I\u2019ve patience, endurance, and the robust muscles to protect myself from the punches of Y\u00e9kini. As ready as I\u2019ll ever be, I yell out to Pascal:<\/p>\n

\u201cGive them to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

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.<\/p>\n

I could see the surprise in the eyes of my opponent.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are the others?\u201d He asks, looking directly into my wide-set eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cNone of your business, Y\u00e9kini,\u201d I reply, eyeing his muscular chest, adorned with talismans.<\/p>\n

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\u2019m forbidden to wear them with the talismans prepared for me by  Marabout Jawara.<\/p>\n

The drums continue to beat. The shrill sound of the umpire\u2019s whistle sends a torrent of adrenaline through my body. Here he comes. Y\u00e9kini 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\u2019s grip, the muscles on our arms, thighs, and backs stand out and yank. I could smell his body odour.<\/p>\n

\u201cDirty pig.\u201d I lash at him. He gets angry and sneers at me. His breathing becomes heavier and faster – just where I want him. We\u2019ve 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\u2019t describe. And Y\u00e9kini 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.<\/p>\n

\u201cDirty pig,\u201d 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.<\/p>\n

I hold out my right hand. He grabs it, and we close in fiercely. Still in each other\u2019s 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\u2019m here, with you<\/em>. The crowd goes mad, jeering loudly. Then, within seconds, the lights come back on. Y\u00e9kini goes down on one knee in an effort to toss me backwards over his head. I hear a particular beat from the drums \u2013 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: \u201cWho is our groom?<\/p>\n

“Balla Gaye 2!”<\/p>\n

“And who is the loser?”<\/p>\n

“Y\u00e9kini!”<\/p>\n

“Who is our groom?”<\/p>\n

“Balla Gaye 2!”<\/p>\n

“And who is the loser?”<\/p>\n

“Y\u00e9kini!\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Wrestler<\/strong>
\nNerves are taut and muscles stand out on their bodies. Loincloths and talismans are their only attires. Each one of the two wrestling men struggles to throw the other on hands and knees onto the sandy ground. In the broiling hotness of the day Malik Ngom and Sheik Dioum shine with sweat. They had circled each other warily before this fearsome bear hug, reminiscent of two great world heavyweight at a standstill. In their mid-twenties, both wrestlers, jet-black in complexion, stand 1.83 metres tall and weigh no less than 100 kilograms. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1808,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-955","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/955","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=955"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/955\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2114,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/955\/revisions\/2114"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/1808"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=955"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=955"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue21\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=955"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}