The Scent Society

“If you burn this in your house, your husband will never leave you!” she insisted, thrusting a pungent decorated glass jar in my face.

Sokhna Anta Diop, the grand dame of incense was seated opposite me on an oversized day bed. I had spent an afternoon sitting with at her fragrance shrine; one of Goree’s Island’s best kept secrets.

For those in the know, Sokhna Anta as she was affectionately called held the keys to undisputed marital bliss and female power. Well heeled high society Dakar women regularly took the ferry ride to Sokhna Anta’s shrine. The well marketed designer fragrances kept in city boutiques had nothing on what they would find in the warm, embryonic den.

Here, she kept a glorious variety of wood shavings, seedlings and resins neatly lined up in carved wooden boxes. Above the boxes, rows of glass bottles, filled with aromatic oils, (some from as far as the Middle East, she boasted), were the tools of her trade. Sokhna Anta took great pride and joy in creating incense that once experienced, became highly sought after.

Sokhna Anta’s prowess in blending perfume essence to enhance a woman’s natural scent was legendary. Hers was an intuitive gift balanced by an expert sense of smell which she had inherited from her grandmother. I watched customers come and go. Time was a pre-requisite. This process, an intertwining of scent, soul and spirit could not be rushed. Expertly mixing oils and wood , she told stories in a languid pose.

No matter which day you sat with Sokhna Anta, and no matter which story you heard, her mission was clear. Her quest was to create incense which punctuates each day with an unforgettable fragrance memory spelling your name - a priceless gift of self to the world.

Before I left the shrine that day Monday, she invited me, winking lasciviously, to join her a few days later at the tour. They told me it was a women’s only gathering. The only man permitted was the DJ who was discreetly (but respectfully) positioned on the verandah outside the room where 25 women had gathered for their monthly tour.
In the community centre perched on top of the hill, women gathered in celebration of self. It was their time. A special time together, when music, dancing, lace underskirts, edible delicacies and raucous laughter was the order of the night.
I was there by special invitation; Sokhna Anta’s guest, unwittingly lured into a secret society that would change my life forever.

Women, dressed to the nines, coiffed with high gloss and heady scents streamed into the room. A spirit of lascivious freedom to be was palpable.
The DJ was warming up. His laidback selections, melodious love songs eased us into what was to become a hi-octane evening of festivity.

Incense, smoking on coals in a huge open-mouthed clay pot hidden in the corner of the room thickened the air. In the cavernous room, nestling high on the hill, hidden from the ferry-loads of Goree tourists, the tour took place religiously every first Thursday of each month.

Women of Goree, the tiny island, two miles across the waters from Senegal’s bustling capital, Dakar proudly held the first Thursday sacrosanct. My presence was honorary. Not to be taken for granted, participation was obligatory. No bashful onlookers allowed. The tour was a space for unbridled self-expression and spirit affirmation.
No men, no children, and no girls under 18 were allowed to come close to the hilltop – it was an unwritten culturally-coded understanding amongst the close-knit community.

Those who were barred never questioned why. Prepubescent girl-children gazed in awe as their mothers dressed in ceremonial preparation for the tour. Teenagers, almost 18 spoke in hushed tones about what they imagined the women would do at the tour. Their turn would soon come but until then, they were content with being hand-maidens in the time-honoured preparation that came days, even months before the tour itself.
The aroma from the incense grew more intense as the smoke thickened. Almost breathless, I drew deep breaths searching for O₂. The temperature was rising the atmosphere was incredibly close.

Suddenly, a svelte, long limbed woman arresting in her gilt edged silky boubou, jumped in front of me. Jolting me out of my smoky reverie, she lifted the layers of gold shimmer and flashed her crochet lace petit pagne as a symbolic invitation to dance. The DJ, invisible but locked into the triumphant vibe had moved from easy to intense mbalax rhythms.

Deeply rooted in traditional drum patterns with pop overtones, the mbalax music reverberated around the walls and through the glassless window frames. Things got heated. Legs and arms flew high into the air, as skirts, ornate head wraps and veils spun like flamboyantly dressed spinning tops. Other women clapped each other into the centre of the ring to in a competitive display of dance, theatre and posturing.
As each woman showcased her style of unique beauty, personality and charm through her dancing circle, it was clear that this was no lightweight party fun. The tour was a ritual which called on each woman to, through time-honoured practices ranging from incense making to stringing waist beads, reveal their singular, unmistakable identity stamp.

The celebration was a masked ball where in exuberant mood; each came to honour the individual. There in the corner, between the heaving bodies, I spied Sokhna Anta Diop, regal as ever, as she stoked the incense urn. Dripping with shiny beads topped with a taffeta twirled head dress, she was as deep and mysterious as the fragrant smoke itself. Though we spoke different languages, no translation was necessary. I had been here before.