On Wednesday, May 28, 2008, a woman from Kankan, Guinea came to the University of Kankan to tell administrators about a dream she had. According to the dream, misfortune would befall the university the next day if a sacrifice were not made. Early the next morning, Thursday, administrators had two cattle sacrificed. A prayer service involving both the Bible and the Qur’an would follow.

At one o’clock that afternoon, a torrential rain began and continued to fall for hours, an auspicious sign that the sacrifice had been accepted according to University Rector Dr. Moriah Conté.

Several cattle hitched to trees at the University of Kankan, on the eve of Tabaski.

The sacrifice occurred before I arrived on campus, so I missed it. But I had been present for the feast of Tabaski in December—the Muslim feast that commemorates Abraham’s near sacrifice of his son, Ishmael. The university had purchased several herd of cattle for the occasion, slaughtered them on campus, and distributed the meat among faculty and staff, sparking at least one debate over who might have taken too much. Administrators took the largest portions, and professors and teaching assistants the rest. I received a share, too.

Guinea’s population is roughly 85% Muslim, but Guinea is a secular republic. So I was amazed to watch a state institution transform itself into—or reveal itself as—a ritual site, just as it did that Thursday, May 29, in a sacrifice that came not a moment too soon.

Carving Tabaski meat on campus

What began as a good day for the university started as a tense one for me. Two young men walked in front of me on the road while I was riding my bicycle to campus. I veered to avoid them but grazed one of their hands without drawing blood. They accused me of trying to run them over, then “forgave” me for my supposed carelessness. I bicycled on, confused, but on time for my 9:00 seminar. By 9:30, only one of my students had arrived. Another came by 9:45. Two of the others, I learned later, had been kept in an office by their chair to calculate end-of-term grades for their department.

That day’s class was an important one for me. I was going to give students feedback on their research proposals. After forty-five minutes, I stopped waiting. I went to find the missing students.

While walking through a crowd at the center of campus, I saw a young man approaching on a moped. He beeped his horn. The crowd had hemmed him in, but I was distracted and continued walking, like everyone else. As I passed him, I heard him mutter, Ah, le blanc!, “Oh, the white guy!”

I turned on my heels. I was already in a mood.

I walked up beside him—since the crowd wasn’t letting him move—and asked him why I alone needed to make room.

“You didn’t hear me beep?” he asked.

“I did, but does driving a moped mean you own the walkway?” NEXT PAGE