The Baker of Thiès

Every morning at four, before the first call to prayer, Assane lit the oven. The town of Thiès was still folded inside its dreams. The neighborhood dogs were quiet. Only the birds in the mango tree behind the bakery noticed the small orange square of light appearing in the courtyard.

Assane's grandfather had built the oven himself, brick by brick, in the year of the great rain. He used to say that a good oven remembers every loaf it has ever baked. Assane was not sure he believed this, but he had learned to trust the old brick as if it were a member of the family. When it was cold, the dough refused to rise. When the wind came from the sea, the crust took a strange, softer colour.

Today the wind came from nowhere at all. The air simply sat, warm and honest, like a hand on his shoulder. Assane kneaded three long ropes of dough, folded them, kneaded again, and left them to rest under a clean cloth. Then he sat on the step and watched the dark begin to lift from the palm leaves.