Bobo-Dialasso Burkina Faso

The sorghum stands in the fields, ready for harvest. Three metre tall clumps of grass, swaying and rustling in the wind, with heads of ripe grain. After the women have cut the long stems, they break up the heads to extract the seeds. The seeds are tossed from plastic bowls into the air, and the chaff leaves a silver trail downwind. Nature seems to provide what’s needed. The stems are tied in bundles and used as brooms to sweep up the waste.

Now the serious art of beer making starts. Malting the grains. The seeds are soaked in water and left in the sun to sprout. This produces the malt, the sugar that will be used in the fermentation. After the malting, the sprouted grain is laid out on plastic sheets in the street to dry, concentrating the sugars.

Every house, every compound, has three giant clay pots, partially buried in the ground, with a fire pit between them. The grain is poured into these, and topped up with water. For three days the fires are tended, for three days the pots boil, as the malt and the sugar and the flavour are extracted and concentrated. The sweet tangy smell of concentrated malt fills the air and mingles with the woodsmoke.

After three days of reducing it is sieved into a new pot, and the lees, the yeasty waste from the last batch are added to start the fermentation. After another three days, the master brewer, the most senior woman of the household, tastes it and declares it ready for drinking.

————————-

The sorghum beer is called dolo by the locals, and the informal bars that serve it are known as cabaret. But there are no stage shows here, no can-can dancers. The only performers are the regulars and staff. They may be onstage at eight in the morning, the moment the curtain rises, or arrive on cue when someone buys a round. Most will still be there when the last act closes and they are driven out into the street at closing time.

We join the performance in the mid afternoon. The sun outside beats down with a fierce brightness. The heat radiates from the dirt road outside and the dust lingers in the still, hot air. Inside the cabaret it is relatively cool and dark. But the dust is still present, hanging in the shafts of sunlight that pierce the tin roof.

Madame, the proprietress, a handsome, rounded woman sits on a stool by the entrance. Rasta, a young man with short spiky dreads rummages in his pocket. This is a rare occasion. He is actually going to pay for his own drink, as no one else is buying. He hands a coin to Girl, the pretty, slim serving girl, with long beaded weaves. She doesn’t make eye contact, and ignores the stream of advice and criticism from Madame. She dutifully measures out the beer in a coca cola bottle and serves it. Then she returns to the back room and by the light of her phone studies her school books. She dreams of going far away. The only other customer is the Fool. He has been here all day. Drinking since eight in the morning, he has for a while now been fast asleep. Miraculously still perched on his stool, his head is slumped open mouthed on one shoulder, and he snores gently and harmoniously.

The cabaret is the stage. A small room with a dirt floor, walls and roof of corrugated metal and with plain wooden benches around the outer walls and a few stools. There are no tables and the beer is served in half calabash, from the bottle gourd tree. They are placed on the floor on a ring of plastic pipe to keep them stable and covered with a scrap of plywood to keep the flies out. A doorway leads through to a dark storeroom where old oil barrels filled with beer are kept.

The final occupant is the Hooker, propped in the far corner. She is not a local. No one quite knows where she came from, but she has been here ever since she was a pretty young thing. She helps with the cooking and cleaning and the rest of the day sits in the bar, following Rasta’s lead of waiting for free drinks. She is not so young now and has grown somewhat plump. And she has the dead eyes of working girls everywhere, but if you buy her a drink she comes alive. She laughs warmly, and chatters like a girl. Her playful smile and cheeky wit explain why she is still popular, and how she pays the rent on the small room at the back.

The Wizard enters full of excitement. He manages to rush through the greetings to the ensemble. “Good day. How are You? How was your morning? And the family? Are they well?” It all pours out in one stream. All eyes are on him but no one speaks. Even Girl briefly leaves her studying and pokes her head round the doorway. He obviously has some news to tell.

“I told you yesterday that I had divined the numbers for the lottery. I told you to buy a ticket for my numbers. But do you listen? You think I am a fool. But not I. He is the Fool.” He kicks the Fool´’s stool, startling him almost into conscientiousness. He raises his head, licks his dry lips as though about to speak, then slumps back into oblivion.

“He is the Fool, he drinks and sleeps all day, while I am a winner,” the Wizard continues. He brandishes a fistful of banknotes. “Girl! Fetch two litres of dolo. Everyone must drink.”

The Wizard was once a well respected feticheur. However, it is well known that the spirit left him, and left him powerless. It is well known, but impolite to mention. He likes to maintain the pretence. What else can he do? If he is not a magician, he is nothing.

Madame is not the director of this farce, but believes she is. “Girl, bring beer for everyone,” she commands, while Girl is already measuring out a large cola bottle from the barrel. Madame isn’t quite in charge, but her darting eyes monitor everything. Every coin that changes hands is followed and counted, every transgression of her unspecified rules receives a viscous reprimand. If that doesn’t suffice, she leaps to her feet and issues a sound thrashing with a broom until the offender begs for forgiveness or leaves.

The Wizard is still overflowing with his good fortune. But a small win on the lottery isn’t the real reason for his excellent spirits. It is the implication that he still has the power.

All the calabash are filled. Even the Fool is given a splash extra, even though he hasn’t drunk a drop for a while.

Rasta is looking unusually cheerful as he listens intently to the Wizard explaining for the third time how he divined the winning numbers. His usual gloomy demeanour and existential dread, probably a result of all the cola nut he chews, is lifted by animated conversation and free beer. The Hooker has her calabash in both hands and drains half in one go. When she lowers it, her face has been transformed. A radiant smile spreads from her mouth, until her eyes sparkle. Its going to be a busy evening she divines, without any magic, but years of experience.

In a small town news spreads fast. The Wizard had a win. He thinks the spirit has returned to him. He’s buying dolo for everyone. Predictably, the first arrival is the pompous Mayor. He stands in the doorway and launches into a soliloquy. “God be praised. We are the most lucky of people to be present at this time. Our good friend the Wizard has been blessed by the spirits of good fortune. Never again can we look upon our lives with disappointment. Never again complain life is not fair.” Without breaking stride he slaps the Rasta across the shoulder just as he takes a drink, splashing beer over his face and up his nose. Rasta snorts and coughs as the Mayor ploughs on. “What joy can exceed this? To be with friends, enjoy good fortune and share a drink. Even our brother Rasta looks happy for a change. Wake up the Fool. Make him drink. Where’s my beer. Girl, what are you doing just standing there? Bring me a drink. Then come and sit on my lap and make your uncle a happy old man.”

Girl, immune to the lewd comments, brings a calabash to the Mayor. She feels perfectly safe. Most people here are family of some sort. She has seen the same scene play out many a time. She is the only one who doesn’t drink. It is going to be a busy evening. The Wizard orders more beer. Girl is back and forth filling the calabash. Madame is draining hers as quick as it is filled. The thing she loves more than anything in the world is customers with money, buying her beer, that she then drinks. Every cup she drains makes her richer and drunker. She is bellowing out instructions and insults to Girl, who studiously ignores her, but carries on her work with unhurried efficiency. The Hooker is now sitting close beside the Wizard on the bench. As he expounds grandly about his rediscovered magic and how rosy his future will be, she turns her smile on him and asks if he wants to try out his reinvigorated powers on her.

Mayor is still berating his sleeping friend the Fool. “Wake up you Fool. Why didn’t you go home to sleep like I told you. We were drinking all morning and I went home. Look, I am back now, refreshed and ready to drink some more, while you are still fast asleep.”

The next arrival is the Musician and his dim witted brother. They have a six string Kamele n’goni and a small drum. They squeeze onto the bench beside the mayor and the Musician politely greets everyone in turn. If there is a crowd and beer, musicians soon appear. The brother doesn’t speak except through the tapping of complex rhythms on his drum. It is the only language he knows and everyone understands it. The drum leads and your body must follow. It starts with tapping a foot, or nodding your head. The Musician starts to pick a popular melody, that rattles like a stream over stones. Madame is the first on her feet. Swaying, she leans on the Mayor at first but as her ample bottom starts bouncing to the beat she stabilises. The Wizard and the Hooker are next up, but only briefly. The Hooker expertly shimmies against the Wizards rounded belly, then leads him entranced through to the back.

The Rasta, eyes glazed and serene from the mixture of cola nut and beer, dances with the minimalist movements that only a rastaman can master. A movement only barely perceptible, but at the same time incredibly groovy. The evening is picking up pace. The song finishes, Madame loses her finely balanced equilibrium and bumps the Mayor. He drunkenly accuse her of being drunk. She responds that he is not really a mayor, just the chief of a small village that doesn’t even have a school. The discussion declines in quality from there and increases in volume. They pour out a torrent of minor grievances like good friends do when drunk. The musician hurriedly gulps down beer before launching into another lively tune. The drummer never stops.

The Hooker returns and pushes the Musician aside to sit next to the Mayor. The Wizard shortly follows adjusting his clothes. He takes his seat and calls for more beer. Girl moves through the drunken group without seeming to be in the same space. Oblivious to the shouted argument, she casually fills their calabash. The Rasta trips on the Wizards foot and falls into Girls path just as she stops and bends down to fill Wizards drink. He stumbles past her, crashing against the tin wall and slumps onto the bench. Girl picks up his calabash, fills it and places it on the floor beside him. The Wizard has refreshed himself with beer, some in his mouth and some down his shirt. Its time to dance. He pulls Madame away from her argument, which she immediately forgets. The Hooker seizes the Mayors attention with her winning smile and ample bosom.

Madame and the Wizard are surprisingly graceful as they bounce and twist around each other. The Musician discovers his fingers have become clumsy, and unadvisedly decides to sing. He starts well, a beautiful song about his mother, but soon looses the words and starts to mumble. The chorus saves him. No one cares, they all join in. So he repeats the chorus a few times.

The Mayor and the Hooker have disappeared, and the reanimated Rasta rejoins the dance, perhaps prematurely. By some miracle, against all odds, the Fool is still fast asleep on his stool. But not for long. Rasta is still unstable from his previous fall. Madame briefly loses control of her bottom. Bum to bum with Rasta, he is pitched forwards. His foot goes into the Mayors abandoned calabash, but it is not enough to save him. Hanging on to the only thing available, he crashes to the floor with the Fool beneath him.

The Fool has woken up. He doesn’t know where he is, or why he feels angry. Fighting to untangle himself from Rasta, he only knows one thing for sure. He really needs a drink. Rasta, feeling briefly embarrassed puts his hand in his pocket for the second time today. He gives a coin to Girl to bring dolo for the Fool. Rasta and Fool are soon deep in conversation about a brilliant, money making idea they have just had. Tomorrow they will remember the brilliant idea, but none of the detail. It was something to do with solar panels and pizza.

The Mayor returns, chest puffed out with pride at his performance. He starts a monologue on how eating raw peppers is good for the blood, and gives a man strength. He stops abruptly and demands to know who spilt his drink, that is now a muddy puddle on the floor. Everyone turns to look at him, shrugs and go back to whatever they were doing. Girl brings a fresh one and he sits opposite the Musicians brother and continues to tell him about the power of peppers. The Musicians brother gives no sign he is listening, just carries on drumming.

Madame can’t stop dancing. She has given up the pretence of controlling her body. Her body is now controlling her. The Hooker has rejoined, in a change of clothes, and dances seductively in front of Rasta. The Mayor is haranguing the fool for sleeping all afternoon on a stool rather than going home to rest. But he’s very pleased his drinking buddy has woken and they can get seriously drunk. “Girl, more dolo here”, he yells into the din, knowing their calabash will be miraculously filled and they will wake in the morning with empty pockets.

Madame’s body finally releases her. She collapses onto her usual stool by the door. She also shouts at Girl to bring her beer, but Girl ignores her, knowing she will be fast asleep before it arrives.

The Musician has all but given up, he plucks a few notes, but then goes back to his beer. The drum continues. The Hooker is working hard on the Rasta. She knows he doesn’t like to part with his money, but he is kind of cute when he’s drunk. The Wizard has started scratching the divination of the sand, in the wet patch of dirt left by the Mayors spilt beer. He explains loudly to no one in particular how the winning lottery numbers were revealed to him, but seems unsure of the exact ritual. He rubs it out and starts again. The Musician watches with interest. It’s not that difficult, he thinks. I’m going to do it tomorrow. And when I win I’m going to buy all my friends a drink.

The Mayor and the Fool have achieved there goal. If only all life was that simple. They are seriously drunk. They reach the consensus that they should go home to sleep. Standing, they stagger, bump into each other, then hang on for balance. “Good night.” “Good Night.” “Safe Journey.” “Sleep Well.” “See you tomorrow.” “Don’t finish all the beer, we’ll need some in the morning,” they cast salutations randomly round the room, then inch there way out into the darkness and the chirping crickets. Still holding each other for support they reach the Fools bicycle. Leaning on its stand since he arrived in the morning, the Fools bicycle is emblazoned with the name Stealth.

“It’s a stealth bicycle see,” he drunkenly explains to his friend. “You can, you can, how you say, approach your enemies, without being seen, see”.

He climbs onto the worn plastic saddle, with the Mayor supporting him and tries to kick the stand back. He loses a flip flop. With the help of his friend he gets it back on again and retracts the stand on the second attempt. He puts an old fashioned torch in his mouth that emits a feeble yellow glow, and wobbles off into the darkness. He is perfectly placed to sneak up on some unwary victim, if it wasn’t for the loud squeak with every rotation of the wheel. The Mayor heads off in the other direction, still shouting out words of advice to the drunken Fool.

In the cabaret the night is drawing to a close. Madame is sleeping like a sentry by the door. The Hooker is sitting on the bench, back against the wall, looking tired and Rasta is sleeping peacefully with his head on her breasts, dreaming he is in heaven. The Wizard is still scrabbling around in the dirt. He is starting to panic. If he can’t remember the incantation properly he won’t be able to divine the lottery numbers. And the empty darkness of being a magician with no magic starts to fill his heart again. The Musician is the only one still drinking. Whilst his brother gently taps a simple rhythm, he one by one finished all the abandoned drinks. Girl is still there. Quiet and efficient. She follows the musician round and collects the empties.

Somewhere on the street a generator coughs its last gasp. All the lights dim, and the curtain of darkness closes on the final act. The actors need to rest, to be prepared for tomorrows performance.