It is the middle of the night. Silence. When the sheep bellows, it surely is heard for kilometers around. Still dark, the first call to pray sings out over the city, echoed infinite times in every direction. Then, with the first crack of dawn song birds begin their morning ritual. Àt first just a few voices, rising gradually to a sustained cacophony. Finaly, the mourning doves join the choir, and we know it is time to rise.
On the way to the centre, calls of "Sonia" distract me, slowing my progress to my destination. The words "madame", accompanied by the outstretched hand of a shoeless, filthy, tiny waif remind me why I am here, and after a pause to touch his hand and meet his eyes, I hasten my step.
As I walk up the alley toward the Centre, the bustling sounds of the street recede and laughter and childish voices reach my ears, growing louder as I approach the gate. Out in the city talibés are rarely heard laughing, they have work to do, collecting money for their marabouts, or to feed themselves. It is not a happy chore. But here, at Maison de la Gare, laughter feels more natural, children can be children. If only for a brief respite.
During karate class laughter is not the dominant sound. Instead, Japanese instructions are called and answered. A different kind of work, but this time it is a labour of love. A gift to themselves. Yoi. Ich. Ni. Sun.
At midday, the call to prayer rings out across the city again. The voices of the imams in each mosque separate, but linked, calling out to the faithful. As the call is answered, the bustle of the city diminishes perceptibly, one by one and in small groups, some slip into mosques, others roll out mats if they have them, and yet others kneel down in a quiet corner or on the sidewalk, more or less out of the way of those who do not pause to pray.
As the afternoon advances, a soccer game breaks out at MDG. The laughter is now accompanied by happy shouts, calls for the ball, and triumphant declarations. As the winners are announced, screams of joy, singing, chants of the name of the talibé who scored the winning point. The celebretory noises take a very long time to die down. Such joy only occurs here, at moments such as this. Why not draw it out. These sounds will ring in their hearts for hours to come. Until the versement must be delivered and all joy dies.
As the teachers arrive at the Centre, sounds of play are replaced by classroom words of learning. Scratches of chalk on chalkboards and tablets. Scraping of bench legs on floors. Quiet shuffling as a child shifts over to make room for a latecomer. All are welcome to join at any time. Each new entry is never a disruption. It is a triumph.
Another call to prayer. Another reminder, along with the hopeful faces of the children in class, that God is here.
Maison de la Gare's gate clangs shut for the night. The sound is more quiet, somehow sadder, as feet are walking away, back toward the road and a very different reality.
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