In October of 2018, I had the opportunity to attend one of Senegal’s biggest events, the Magal Touba. During the time I had spent in Senegal, I had often heard of this gathering - surrounded by a mysterious air - as a great party, where households butchered heads of cattle to provide for visitors to the event.
Several weeks prior to the occasion, a friend invited me to accompany him to the Magal. Never one to pass an opportunity for an adventure, I accepted the invitation. I informed my hosts, we made plans, and off we went. The 14 hour bus ride was terrible. With 70 people and luggage crammed into a space meant for 40, there was no extra space. The square back of a makeshift metal chair dug into my shoulder blade for hours. The seat in front of me, haphazardly inserted into the aisle rode against my shins, lifting my kneecaps with every bump.
We would be staying at a friend of a friend’s house, a young man named Modu who had family in the town of Mbacke, a township bordering the city of Touba. We dismounted from the bus and took a taxi to Modu’s house, where we were given food, water and a place to sleep under mosquito nets.
The next day we took a foray into the Holy City of Touba. We Walked along the main road from Mbacke, a 4 lane Highway divided by a central median. A parade of Vehicles, each loaded with so many people they resembled a mass of sprouted limbs, slowly progressed along the congested route. We ended up climbing on the tops of one of these vehicles and inched our way down the route under the hot sun. We pass vendors of fruit and bonbons on the side of the road, the colorful clothing of the locals shouting playfully at me.
Eventually we made it to the mosque, in time for the afternoon prayer. We removed our shoes before entering the gates to the Mosque. The floor an intricate mosaic of multi-colored granite was as hot as it was beautiful. I shifted weight from foot to foot, allowing the pads of my feet to cool for a second before shifting to the other.
Prayer is called. The tidy rows of thousands of people double over in unison. We prostrate ourselves, touching the forehead to the floor. I participate respectfully, and observe.
I entered the shrine with throngs of others, and passed by the tomb, marveling at the veneration these people had for him. After that, my pilgrimage to Touba was complete, and I had to find a way to get to Dakar. Next stop, Casamance.