In Deukou Wolof, a model town of education, brotherhood, and proper conduct, peace and respect prevail.
Salif, a young man from the Diamegueune neighborhood, hardworking and constantly active, has just returned from his daily tasks, greeting everyone he meets.
“Good morning,” Salif says. “Peace be upon you all.”
“Good morning to you too,” the others reply.
“And how was your day?” asks Abdoulaye, Salif’s father.
“Good, thank God,” Salif answers.
“Come back quickly for lunch,” says Absatou, his mother. “We’re waiting for you.”
In the afternoon, Salif returns to his activities, leaving his parents and his sisters, Nogaye and Nabou, at home.
With livestock farming and the sale of vegetables and fruits, his small business is thriving. In the evening, Salif tends to his poultry yard, checking on the health of the hens and chicks.
Night is a time of reunion. Salif and his friends—Modou, Ibra, and Thiam—take their time talking together before eventually heading home.
Not far from Deukou Wolof lies a village called Watch Dal, inhabited by delinquents, criminals of all kinds, and others with no real occupation, whose only merit is living as a community.
To trace the origins of this troubled society, we must go back sixty years, to a time when a fashion style known as “Elephant Flare” was at its peak. Trousers were extremely wide at the bottom, paired with loose shirts—sometimes open at the ends. The more stylish men added suits and sunglasses, their frames sometimes round, sometimes rectangular. Others, focused only on their work, simply tucked their oversized shirts into their vast trousers. One might have thought no one took proper measurements, or that their tailors were perpetually angry with them. The shirts were so large that no matter how much fabric overflowed, it always found space within the outfit. After fastening their belts, some men of that era looked as though they had just visited an air compressor.
Most women wore large flowing boubous with scarves wrapped around their heads, though some embraced the Western fashion of the time. And ah, that young rising singer who shook the scene with his song titled “Dem-Dem.” Those were the early days of the legendary orchestra that impressed everyone. The prodigy was extraordinarily talented.
Among the people of that time lived a man named Ibrahima, later known as Dof Dal. He grew up among decent people, but he had a tendency to associate with the wrong crowd—ill-mannered individuals who spoke in vulgar language. And as the proverb says: Tell me who you spend time with, and I will tell you who you are. Ibrahima eventually drifted to the wrong side.
One day, at the end of the month, a man leaving the bank caught their attention. Ibrahima and his friends guessed he was a salaried worker. They followed him to an isolated place. Mor, the toughest among them, struck first with a club. The man fell to the ground after receiving a blow to the head, continuing to endure strikes that weakened him further.
Ibrahima, overcome with shame, ordered everyone to stop.
But the wounded man looked at him strangely and said:
“Ibrahima… oh my God, what has happened to you? It’s me—your uncle Moussa.”
Without hesitation, Ibrahima finished him off, under the horrified eyes of a witness who screamed at that very moment.
Without returning home, Ibrahima and his group fled to rejoin their friends. Two of them were chatting under a tree, while two others were teasing girls. Gor and Thioutch, standing in the public square, immediately sensed something was wrong. Mor and Badou, however, still joking with girls, did not yet realize the gravity of the situation. But Ibrahima, visibly shaken, made it clear that it was time to leave.
Day after day, they wandered aimlessly, and their crimes grew more frequent. Eventually, they adopted pseudonyms:
Ibrahima became Dof Dal.
Badou became Bandi Dal.
Masse became Ma Dal.
Cheikh became Kheuch Dal.
Demba became Dembis Dal.
Papis became Papis Dal (he had never been serious in his life).
Gor became Gor Dal.
Thioutch became Mbeur Dal.
Mor became Neub Dal, and his companion Moussa became Mous Dal.
Together, they were known simply as the Dal.
They eventually settled in a remote place where they established their stronghold, naming it Watch Dal. Little by little, others joined them, and Watch Dal grew into a true village.
Unfortunately, many of them did not live long enough to witness its growth. An armed robbery cost several of them their lives. It was a devastating blow to the Dal clan: among the dead were Ma Dal, Dembis Dal, Papis Dal, Gor Dal, and Thioutch Dal.