Cheikh hoists his second wife Mareme onto his shoulder and carries her to their rose petal-covered bed, where he lays her down.
The frolicking couple embrace and….what happens next is left to the viewer’s imagination as the camera suddenly switches to a pair of white slippers, the bedroom door closes and the scene ends.
In soap operas in other parts of the world, such coy depictions of sex would be considered unremarkable, even dreary.
But in conservative Senegal, where even an on-screen kiss is rare, the self-described monitors of public morality are in uproar.
The show — “Maitresse d’un homme marie” (“Mistress of a married man”) — has also already been cautioned by the state’s media watchdog for being too racy.
But defenders say the soap takes a desperately-needed look at relationship issues such as male abuse, the pain experienced by abandoned spouses and a woman’s right to sexual pleasure.
“Maitresse d’un homme marie” follows five young women characters, all strong-minded, freewheeling city dwellers.
Some start affairs with married men and — as in the case of Mareme — end up marrying them.
‘Cast judgement’ –
In Dakar’s Sicap Liberte 3 district, the Sene family is glued to its TV for the twice-a-week show.
In between adverts blaring out the virtues of a brand of local rice, bubbly single mother Rose condemns the threat of censorship hanging over her favourite programme.
“Maitresse”, she says, holds up a mirror to hypocrisy and inequality in Senegal.
“Men who criticise the series are the same ones who have mistresses and what they do to them is far worse than what you see on the screen,” she said.
“They cast judgement on the women (in the show) because they are single, because they are in charge of their lives,” said Rose.
“In Senegal, if you are not married by the time you are 30, you are not a good woman. In this country, it doesn’t matter even if you’re a huge success, if you’re not a man, you’re nothing.”
Launched in January, the show goes out at prime time on the commercial channel 2STV and is also avidly followed on YouTube, where each episode is watched between one and two million times.
Devotion to the series is such that one actor was slapped by an elderly woman while exercising.
“She told him, ‘Stop drinking and look after your family’,” the show’s executive producer, Kalista Sy, recounted, with a giggle.
Senegal is predominantly Muslim — mostly following the Sufi strain — where public displays of affection or sex outside marriage are frowned upon.
Within weeks of the series’ launch, a powerful Muslim NGO, Jamra, asked the country’s audiovisual watchdog, the CNRA, to crack down.
After deliberation, the CNRA on March 29 allowed the series to continue provided there were “corrective measures” to the script. Without these changes, the show would have to be screened late at night, or face being banned altogether.
Everything seemed to be going fine until the 34th episode — the scene of Cheikh and Mareme canoodling on the marital bed.
“They crossed the red line. They offended a large proportion of Senegalese by broadcasting virtually pornographic content during the blessed month of Ramadan,” Jamra’s Mactar Gueye told reporters.
“It is unthinkable that this apology for fornication and adultery continues in this form,” he said, in an interview at his home where a giant TV screen was turned on to a telenovela channel showing soap operas.
Sexual emancipation –
The female characters on “Maitresse” often bear the brunt of the moral messages — on-screen marriage-breakers, for instance, are verbally lashed by friends and family for their behaviour.
But for Senegalese feminist activist Fatou Kine Diouf, this finger wagging has had less impact on viewers than the theme of sexual emancipation.
“The series shows women who are in charge of their sexuality. It will never get directly shown on screen but everyone is talking about it. In that respect, the series is really powerful.”
The soap opera’s set is a joyful buzz of actors, technicians and makeup artists, working up to 12 hours a day, six days a week.
In a tired voice, Sy, the executive producer, says that male hostility, religious objections and technical hitches are her daily challenges.
“But when young women watch the show and identify with characters that are like them, they are deeply touched,” she said.
“And nobody can take that away from us.”
Africa’s rare giraffes face ‘silent extinction’ threats
Giraffe numbers across the continent fell 40 per cent between 1985 and 2015, to just under 100,000 animals
For most of his life as a Samburu warrior, Lesaiton Lengoloni thought nothing of hunting giraffes, the graceful giants so common a feature of the Kenyan plains where he roamed.
“There was no particular pride in killing a giraffe, not like a lion… (But) a single giraffe could feed the village for more than a week,” the community elder told reporters, leaning on a walking stick and gazing out to the broad plateau of Laikipia.
But fewer amble across his path these days: in Kenya, as across Africa, populations of the world’s tallest mammals are quietly, yet sharply, in decline.
Giraffe numbers across the continent fell 40 per cent between 1985 and 2015, to just under 100,000 animals, according to the best figures available to the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN).
But unlike the clarion calls sounded over the catastrophic collapse of elephant, lion and rhino populations, less attention was paid to the giraffe’s private crisis.
“The giraffe is a big animal, and you can see it pretty easily in parks and reserves. This may have created a false impression that the species was doing well,” said Julian Fennessy, co-chair of the IUCN’s specialist group for giraffes and okapis.
The rate of decline is much higher in central and eastern regions, with poaching, habitat destruction and conflict the main drivers blamed for thinning herds of these gentle creatures.
In Kenya, Somalia and Ethiopia, reticulated giraffe numbers fell 60 per cent in the roughly three decades to 2018, the IUCN says.
The Nubian giraffe meanwhile has suffered a tragic decline of 97 per cent, pushing this rarer variety toward total extinction.
Further afield in Central Africa, the Kordofan giraffe, another of the multitude subspecies, has witnessed an 85 per cent decrease.
In 2010, giraffes were a species of “least concern” on the IUCN red list. But six years later, they leapt to “vulnerable”, one step down from critical, catching many by surprise.
“This is why, for the giraffe, we speak of the threat of a silent extinction,” said Jenna Stacy-Dawes, research coordinator at the San Diego Zoo Institute for Conservation Research.
Mysterious giants –
Despite this, an international effort underway to put giraffes squarely on the global conservation agenda has divided professional opinion.
Six African nations are pushing to regulate the international trade in giraffes under the UN Convention on Trade in Endangered Species (CITES), which meets from August 17 to 28 in Geneva.
Those advocating for the change, including Kenya, want the giraffe classified as “a species that, although not necessarily currently threatened with extinction, could become so if trade in their specimens were not closely controlled”.
Critics, however, say there is little evidence the international wildlife trade is responsible for dwindling giraffe numbers. A lack of reliable data has long hindered efforts to protect them.
“Compared to other charismatic species like elephants, lions and rhinos, we know very little about giraffes,” said Symon Masiaine, a coordinator in the Twiga Walinzi giraffe study and protection program, which began in Kenya in 2016.
“Nowadays, we are still far behind, but we are making progress.”
Almost nothing is reliably known about giraffe populations in Somalia, South Sudan and eastern parts of Democratic Republic of Congo, where collecting such information is perilously difficult.
But even research outside conflict zones has been patchy.
Arthur Muneza, from the Giraffe Preservation Foundation, said the first long-term study of giraffes was not carried out until 2004. Data on giraffes is often gathered as an afterthought by researchers focussing on other wildlife, he added.
“Without reliable data, it is more difficult to take appropriate conservation measures,” Muneza said.
It was not until 2018 that the IUCN had enough statistics to be able to differentiate the threat levels facing many giraffe subspecies.
The reticulated and Masai giraffes, for examples, were classified as “endangered” while the Nubian and Kordofan were “critically endangered”.
Trophy hunting –
Under the proposal before CITES, the legal trade in giraffe parts, including those obtained by trophy hunters on Africa’s legal game reserves, would be globally regulated.
Member countries would be required to record the export of giraffe parts or artefacts, something only the United States currently does, and permits would be required for their trade.
But observers say the limited information available suggests most of this trade originates from places where giraffe numbers are actually rebounding, like South Africa and Namibia, where game hunting is legal.
Muneza says there isn’t a clear enough picture that the legal trade is linked to declining giraffe numbers.
“The first step should be to conduct a study to find out the extent of international trade and its influence on giraffe populations,” he said.
Those supporting the proposal before Geneva talk of a “precautionary principle” — doing something now before it is too late.
For Masiaine, the Kenyan giraffe researcher, any publicity is good publicity for these poorly-understood long-necked herbivores.
“It means that people are talking about the giraffe,” he said. “And the species really needs that.”
Practitioners worry as Nigeria’s tradition of facial marking declines
Traditional practitioners, known locally as “oloola” are worried about the decline of facial scarification, but critics remain opposed to it
When six-year-old Naziru Abdulwahab was abducted from northern Nigeria, his kidnapper transported him across the country and tried to sell him — but the potential buyer backed out.
What saved the boy from the child-smuggling rings, police said, was the traditional facial scarrings on his cheeks that he had been marked with at birth.
Fearing they would make him too recognisable, the would-be purchaser refused to buy him.
After suspicions were then raised by local residents, the trafficker was arrested and the child rescued.
The incident in June shone a spotlight on the practice of tribal markings that has been fading since the 1980s in the fast-changing country of nearly 200 million people.
Traditional practitioners, known locally as “oloola”, said it showed the benefits of the practice that critics have long argued is unsafe and child abuse.
“Our taste for foreign things has robbed us of our customs,” Mashopa Adekunle, an oloola in the southwestern city of Ibadan, told reporters.
“Nobody wants to put tribal marks on his child anymore. People see the practice as archaic, fetish and unhygienic.”
On the battlefield –
The incisions have traditionally been performed in an array of styles by different ethnic groups in Nigeria.
The scarring is done — both to boys and girls — by burning or cutting of the skin during childhood.
From the Yoruba in the south-west to Igbo in the south-east and Hausa in the north, the marks serve different purposes: identification, healing, spiritual protection, beautification.
Prominent figures, including ex-president Olusegun Obasanjo, have tribal marks on their cheeks.
“In the days of inter-communal wars, tribal marks helped to identify fighters. You would know who were your friends and enemies in the battlefield,” said Adekunle.
He agreed that the traditional practitioners needed to move with the times if they wanted to remain relevant — pointing to the growing numbers of Nigerian youths embracing western-style tattoos.
“The oloola have to do more to convince their critics that their tools are safe for use,” he said.
‘Facial mutilation’ –
Opponents have pushed for a country-wide ban on facial markings.
In 2017, the Nigerian Senate debated a bill for the “prohibition of facial mutilation” that would have introduced punishments for those who perform it and protection for those at risk.
Proponents of the move argued that the “barbaric” practice left people disfigured for life and put them at risk of contracting HIV.
The proposed legislation is currently bogged down in parliamentary procedure.
The practice of facial markings has been waning for around 40 years, said the Oloola Descendant Association in Ibadan, whose members barely carry out one case a month now, compared to about 10 in the 1980s.
Sefiu Yusuf, the association’s head, insisted that there was still a role for traditional methods, as he showed reporters his metal instruments wrapped in white handkerchiefs at his dark clinic.
He inherited his position from his father and said his family had long been known for performing circumcisions.
“Only yesterday, a boy was brought here because our patrons believe in our ability,” Yusuf told reporters, at his dilapidated home in the centre of the city.
“Even doctors and nurses seek our help when they have complicated cases.”
He dismissed criticism that his practices were unsafe.
“It’s a smear campaign by NGOs and people in government to… put us out of business,” he said.
For another Ibadan-based oloola, Babatunde Hamzat, the decline of the tradition has had serious consequences for the Nigerian society.
He said its loss had contributed to the high levels of crime in the country.
“In the time of our fathers, a child with tribal marks would not want to commit any crime for fear of being identified,” he said.
“But nowadays, people commit crimes with levity since there is nothing to identify them with.”
‘Preserve family identity’ –
Trader Dauda Lawal, 60, proudly sports the facial marks his parents gave him as a child and says he was happy to do the same to his offspring.
“Being the first son, my parents gave me tribal marks. Though the practice is dying, I still made sure my first son got it to preserve the family identity,” he said.
Lawal claimed his wife married him because of the facial marks he bears.
But he is not sure if his son will follow suit.
“I will be happy if he does a similar thing to his own son because it’s part of our culture that should not be allowed to die,” he said.
That positive view of facial marking is not shared by everyone.
“I can never allow tribal marks on my child’s face because the practice is old-fashioned and unhealthy,” said Lagos beautician Damilola Ajayi.
She said that she was firmly opposed on both health and aesthetic grounds.
“In these days of HIV/AIDS and other communicable diseases, it’s risky to use unsterilised instruments such as the ones used by the oloola on a child’s body,” she said.
“I also cannot date, not to talk of marrying, a man with tribal marks. It’s disgusting.”
Religious festival boosts interfaith unity in Senegal
It’s not only the Christians that partake in Muslim festivals. “When a Christian dies, all the neighbours go to the church for the funeral”
When Senegal’s Muslim families gather for the biggest Islamic religious feast of the year, they often encourage the Christian minority to join them in a tradition of tolerance.
Many Roman Catholics in Dakar were invited Monday to join Muslim friends for Tabaski, the local name for the Eid al-Adha or the Festival of the Sacrifice, which commemorates Ibrahim’s willingness to slaughter his own son if God commanded it.
For Senegalese student Grasse Diop, his preparations to welcome Christian friends were placidly watched by Dembel, a family sheep destined for imminent slaughter like the ram God told Ibrahim to sacrifice as reward for obedience.
“They come every year for the Tabaski and I go to the Christmas mass. We spend all our religious feast days together,” said Grasse, whose name is derived from Grace, a Christian one.
The family courtyard in Dakar’s Ouakam district was turned into both abattoir and kitchen. Women sang as they cut up the freshly killed meat while children played by bowls containing discarded entrails.
“Jacques, Marie, Joseph… All my Christian friends are wishing me a good Tabaski,” Grasse said amid a flurry of calls on her mobile phone. “When I visit them, I feel at home. There’s no difference.”
“When a Christian dies, all the neighbours go to the church for the funeral,” added her brother Pape Doudou Diop. Though a Muslim like more than 90 per cent of the population, he said he regularly goes to church for communion.
Once their guests settled around a huge platter of barbecued food, Christians could not be told apart from the Muslims, though Yves-Martin Kemden wore a special long robe to honour his hosts during his tenth Tabaski.
“It’s a custom,” the young dog breeder said. “Here, you’re always invited by a neighbour even if you don’t share the same religion.”
Hardline Islamist militants have made their mark in other parts of West Africa, trying to impose their more intolerant and often violent vision of Islam on communities in countries like Nigeria and Mali.
For those ultra-conservatives, other religions and even other branches of Islam are often seen as apostates.
Sociologist, Fatou Sow Sarr believes Senegal’s religious harmony dates back to the preachings of leaders of the widespread Mouride brotherhood, who taught tolerance towards Christians from the 19th century on.
“You find Christians and Muslims in the same family and they intermarry. Religion comes second to blood ties, so the communities have never been antagonists,” she said.
“Today, there’s more risk of dissent among Muslims because of conflict between the Mouridic communities and Wahabi influence than between Muslims and Christians,” Sow Sarr said, distinguishing between Senegal’s predominant Sufi order and a more conservative Islamic branch.
In their courtyard sheltered by palm trees, the Ndoye family was packing boxes with mutton to take to Christian friends no longer able to get around.
“Our cousins invite us at Easter, making sure not to cook pork,” smiled Karim Ndoye, a house painter in his 50s who added that one of his grandmothers was Catholic. “It’s family, we’re indivisible.”
At the clergy house of Dakar Cathedral, shaded by a riot of bougainvillaea flowers, octogenarian, Father Jacques Seck made ready to join Muslim friends for the Tabaski.
A self-styled “Muslim Christian”, the elderly priest is known for sprinkling his sermons with verses from the Koran and urging dialogue among religious communities.
“This religious tolerance is at the root of Senegalese society,” he said. “The good fortune of this country is that it’s rare for a family not to have members from both communities. The diversity built the nation.”
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