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You cannot be long in Senegal without noticing the talibé. Shoeless and dwarfed by outsize, ragged football shirts, they weave between the taxis and the stately women in vibrant boubou; crawl between the wheels of stationary carts like cats seeking shade; trot in the wake of well-fed tourists with their trademark cry, “donne moi cent francs” (the equivalent of 10p). If, new to the country and the concept of these skinny, wide-eyed boys, you take pity and dig in your purse, you are suddenly pressed to the wall by talibé tugging at every available shred of clothing, shrieking and shouting, “donne moi cent francs! Donne moi cent francs!”
To understand the talibé, whose youths pass in thirteen hour days begging on the streets and in nights bent over a copy of the Koran, you must discover the cramped Daaras where they live and then the elusive, sometimes almost mythical figures of the marabous, who act as masters, teachers, punishers and a loveless version of parents to the boys. A boy’s life as a talibé begins from the age of five upwards, when his parents, usually impoverished labourers from remote rural villages or sometimes Mali and Mauritania, give him up to the marabout in return for ready cash and the vague promise of a religious education and a better life in the city for their son. Sometimes the parents, who have barely been beyond the confines of the village and are themselves poorly educated, believe the grand stories the marabouts tell; sometimes they simply, conveniently allow themselves to be deceived by the tantalizing sums they’re offered.
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