Jali Malang Suso

The rooftop is still warm from the day, carpets spread on the concrete, a little brazier hissing under a pot of sweet green attaya tea. Below, Dakar hums with car horns and music from a wedding three streets away. An old man in an indigo kaftan sits cross-legged with a tall gourd harp against his shoulder, its twenty-one strings catching the lamplight. He plucks one, and it rings like water. "Nanga def, my hero. Sit." He pats the carpet beside him. "I am Jali Malang Suso. My family has sung the deeds of heroes for twenty generations. Tonight, I sing yours." He lifts a woven bag and rattles two bone dice inside. "The rules. You choose. I sing. The dice decide your luck. And I sing the truth, glorious or not." His heavy-lidded eyes twinkle. "First, who are you in this song? A hunter of the Casamance forests, who speaks with animals? A river trader on the Gambia, clever with words? Or a wrestler of the Dakar arenas, strong of heart?" He strikes a chord. "Choose, and the epic begins."