In the Dakarois context of scarcity of opportunities and the emergence of emigrants as new models of success, many who remain find themselves under a personal or social expectation to emigrate without any realistic hope of meeting that expectation. This essay examines the unfolding of everyday life without migration. Through three portraits, I point to the coexistence in the capital city of changes and continuities in the moral economy, the scarcity of income-generating opportunities for men, and women's growing economic contribution. In today's mainstream moral economy, material wealth is paramount for status and a precondition for marriage. For those of an age to support their families, these transformations often mean living with contradictions. To overcome these tensions, inventive strategies of ‘demonstration’ and ‘concealment’ are deployed to fit in with the moral economy. Imagining building one's life in Dakar − that is, having reasons to stay – is, however, often easier when one adheres to an alternative moral economy where status is not defined primarily by (and marriage not conditional on) material wealth.
Over the last few decades, the Senegalese economy has been marked by significant shifts, in particular by drastic reforms of liberalization and privatization. World Bank and International Monetary Fund structural adjustment programmes from the mid-1980s onwards have involved the disengagement of the state from the groundnut economy, the liberalization of import trade, the privatization of state-owned industries and utility companies, as well as the devaluation of the CFA in 1994 (see, among many others, Mbodj Reference Mbodj and Diop1993: 103–16; Thioub et al. Reference Thioub, Diop and Boone1998: 71–3). Economic liberalization has simultaneously represented a continued dependency of the local economy on external interests (see Amin Reference Amin1973: 3–40; Cruise O'Brien Reference Cruise O'Brien and O'Brien1979; Gerry Reference Gerry and O'Brien1979; Boone Reference Boone1992).
One of the implications of these shifts for Dakarois has been a scarcity of income-generating opportunities. Indeed, with liberalization there has been a drastic shrinkage of sectors such as the state, industry and fisheries. This has meant a significant reduction of labour opportunities in the formal sector. For Dakarois men who have historically dominated the first economy (Diop Reference Diop1965), making a living in town has become possible almost only through ‘second economy’ activities, in particular selling. Also, in this context and due to the broader economic uncertainty brought about by liberalization, women have increasingly contributed to household expenses (see, for example, Adjamagbo et al. Reference Adjamagbo, Antoine, Dial and Diop2004) and have also stored wealth (for example, Buggenhagen Reference Buggenhagen2012).
Additionally, with neoliberal reforms and cultural globalization, emigrants have emerged as new models of success in Dakar. With the crisis and the weakening state, the fonksineer (civil servant) and ku jàng ekool (‘the one who has learnt at school’) have been challenged, while others have made an opportunity out of the crisis (Banégas and Warnier Reference Banégas and Warnier2001). Displaying a new ethos of practical knowledge and cunning, conveyed for instance in the bul faale (‘don't worry/go forward’) ideology of personal initiative and labour, they have challenged values such as ‘patience’ (muñ), respect for family, caste and religious heritages, and the link between a diploma, social relations and success (Havard Reference Havard2001). Traders, musicians, wrestlers and, importantly, emigrants have thus risen fast and visibly. To take the example of traders, due to the challenges associated with groundnut production,Footnote 1 many rural-dwellers came to town to work as street peddlers (banna-banna). Adopting a pragmatic lifestyle,Footnote 2 they became notable for starting with very little but ultimately acquiring their own stall at Dakar's central Sandaga market or becoming big businessmen registered at the Registre du Commerce (Ebin Reference Ebin1992; Ndiaye Reference Ndiaye1998; Sarr et al. Reference Sarr, Kane and Diop2004). Acting also in international commercial networks overseas, móodu móodu (migrant traders) have demonstrated as emigrants a ‘vernacular cosmopolitanism’ (Diouf Reference Diouf2000). Their success has been evidenced as much by their re-appropriation of trade in Senegal and their spatial occupation of Dakar − including through acquiring property (Ndiaye Reference Ndiaye1998; Sarr et al. Reference Sarr, Kane and Diop2004; Tall Reference Tall and Diop2008: 55–7) − as by their celebration in popular music. These new emblems of success and, more broadly, cultural globalization have also conveyed a ‘material culture of success' (Rowlands Reference Rowlands, Arnoldi, Geary and Hardin1996), giving consumption a new importance for both women and men. Finally, emigrants have also become new models of success. With the crisis in town, since the 1990s urban men, and increasingly women (see, for example, Evers Rosander Reference Evers Rosander2005), have taken the path of emigration. Emigrants' success has quickly been evidenced back in Dakar through their lavish spending, their construction of houses, and their acquisition of power within families, neighbourhoods and the political arena. In this context, a ‘culture of migration’ (Hahn and Klute Reference Hahn and Klute2007) has developed among those who have stayed behind. Indeed, besides economic factors, the imagery of migrants' success, and of migration more broadly (see, for example, Fouquet Reference Fouquet and Diop2008), has significantly fed into aspirations to leave. Previously one option among several, under these conditions emigration has become the main model of success in the town, despite the increasing reality and awareness of ‘unsuccessful’ migrations.Footnote 3
Lastly, concurrent with the dearth of job opportunities and the ascent of emigrants, leaving has become a growing challenge. Indeed, if the global neoliberal economy has favoured the circulation of goods, markets and ideas in and out of Senegal, people's mobility has also gradually been either eased or prevented in order to fit specific labour markets. Since the 2000s, the EU in particular has tightened its borders and externalized its control southwards to countries of origin such as Senegal.Footnote 4 Less favourable migration policies (along with economic and political conditions) in Europe have, since the 1990s, led Senegalese to diversify their destinations (Tall Reference Tall and Diop2008) from mainly France to include places such as Italy, Spain, the US, the Gulf, Asia, recently Turkey, and other European countries or even Latin America.Footnote 5 Over the last few years, the tightening of EU borders and externalization of migration control have also forced people to find new itineraries to reach Europe, involving more dangerous routes (such as crossing the desert or traversing the sea in wooden boats) or long periods stuck in ‘transit’ countries (Bredeloup and Pliez Reference Bredeloup and Pliez2005: 10).Footnote 6
In this context, for those of an age to support their families, making a living is often a struggle. Simultaneously, they are compared with those abroad while not being able to leave themselves. This paper focuses on the unfolding of everyday life for those who grew up in Dakar and live involuntarily or voluntarily without migration.Footnote 7 I explore this diverse reality through three stories: those of Bineta, Abdoulaye and Moussa. These cases were selected because they represent diametrically opposed realities of exclusive ‘choices' ‘for’ (Bineta) and ‘against’ (Abdoulaye and Moussa) migration.Footnote 8 Not every ‘non-migrant’ I met took such a radical position: migration is sometimes seen as something to aim for, an opportunity, or a more distant dream, but one that does not exclude imagining life locally as well. In fact, rather than being definite, these situations often represent people's imaginative and discursive efforts to position and present themselves within a range of both actual and hypothetical possibilities. Using cases at opposite ends of the spectrum, I attempt to illuminate both the contrasts between the desire to leave at all costs and the commitment to stay, and the key concepts required in order to understand intermediate positions. Following the three portraits, the paper closes with an analysis and theoretical discussion of life without migration.
LIVING INVOLUNTARILY WITHOUT MIGRATION
In Dakar, emigration was the aspiration of the town – an impossible dream or the only way in which the future could be envisaged. Some maintained a dispassionate attitude but were actively searching for a way out. These young men without a formal job were trying to generate an income from ‘small business' (petit business), selling a pair of trainers or jeans from Morocco, or undertaking other fend-for-yourself activities (débrouille). But, in their neighbourhoods, few of them shared the perpetual movement of the young street peddlers from the countryside who made their way through the capital city's jammed roads carrying T-shirts, water, groundnuts, or plastic toys made in China. Many agreed that performing ‘little’ activities was shameful or degrading when one had grown up in Dakar. Street-selling, in particular, was avoided by many or kept discreet from other families, and especially from girlfriends who were thought not to want to date street peddlers.Footnote 9 However, rappers such as Daara-J had started to exhort youths to undertake activities of débrouille in order to survive, telling them that this was a positive thing to do, and some youths began to portray it more positively. Still, exactly how many families survived in town was often unknown in their neighbourhoods. Beyond the activity performed, there were feelings of shame in having to ask for help from parents, since support should have gone the other way. At the same time, there was resentment at parents' comments that their children did nothing and lacked ambition, and denunciation of parents' ‘envy’ (ñee) and the pressure they placed on their children to go overseas. There were also bitter complaints against women's recent disregard for those without money. Thus, many young men felt that they had lost status in their community and were trying to leave by any means. But there were others, too, for whom emigration was the only way to foresee the future. Bineta was one of those.
Bineta
In the morning, Bineta's street in the Grand Dakar neighbourhood would quickly wake from deep sleep into a burst of activity. Some women were cleaning in front of their house with a straw broom, others squeezed past with buckets of water from the local tap, a young man with his trolley was serving strong Café Touba with one hand and collecting his change with the other, a mature woman was selling sandwiches, a young street peddler carrying teeth-cleaning twigs on his shoulder threaded his way past, greetings were exchanged across the street and sheep also seemed to find it the best time to occupy the road. It was at this moment, 7.30 a.m., that Bineta left for work, walking energetically in the middle of the street and greeting people with good humour. Bineta would reappear only much later, when children were playing across the street, while some girls were having their hair plaited by their griotes on house porches, and young women and men were gathering in front of houses to chat and observe passers-by. Early in the evening, Bineta would come down after her day of work with a nonchalant but calculated step. Her skin brightened by xeesal Footnote 10 and her smile revealing black-tattooed gums and contrastingly white teeth, she wore tight jeans and a mobile phone's earpiece was often hanging from her ear, highlighting the fancy gadget she owned. Bineta would cheerfully greet people in front of their houses, stopping off for conversation. With those she knew best, she would launch into long discussions and tease them pleasantly, often ending up with her walking away as she was still speaking.
Bineta was a ‘child’ of Grand Dakar; she was a Wolof who had grown up there like generations of her family before her. Some people in Grand Dakar knew of Bineta's exact genealogy: Bineta, when little, had been ‘given’ to an aunt who had never had children or married;Footnote 11 her natural mother lived some streets away – she was the one who roasted groundnuts on sand (këntu) in front of her house until late at night. Bineta had been to primary and secondary school in the neighbourhood. Just before reaching twenty, she had married a tailor from the region of Louga who had come to Dakar for work. The two had met in a fabric market where he worked in a large workshop. Bineta, who had been brought up in the Tijane tradition, had converted when she married to Muridism, her husband's brotherhood.Footnote 12 After marriage, however, Bineta had not moved to her husband's village and family, but had stayed in Grand Dakar, where she and her husband rented a room in a large building. Over these last few years, Bineta had been working in a restaurant in a nearby neighbourhood, which was why she left Grand Dakar at 7.30 a.m. Now in her thirties, Bineta had two children attending (state) school in the neighbourhood, exactly like she had.
For Bineta, to ‘exist’ in Dakar was, to some extent, to ‘have’. Thus, displaying wealth and consuming were key. At weekends, Bineta often attended ceremonies. On her way there, in shiny embroidered and often new boubou and elaborate make-up, she made a little tour of or a detour via her neighbourhood. Later, she would come back to Grand Dakar with a professional photograph of herself all dressed up. When home, she would stick the picture up on the wall of her room, next to portraits of her taken at baptisms and weddings, and magazine fashion pictures. At ceremonies, Bineta freely gave money to griots. She approached them herself and joked with them before slipping a CFA 1,000 note in their hands.Footnote 13 Many women in Bineta's surroundings avoided the expenses involved in ceremonies and contact with griots. Bineta, however, was proud to be able to do this. In addition to attending ceremonies, Bineta made sure that her and her daughters' clothing and hairstyles were in line with the current fashion. In some cases, she also kept an eye on the ‘look’ of those who could be associated with her. If Bineta and I had decided to visit someone she knew, she would ensure that my outfit was appropriate and optimal. Only then was she able to introduce me proudly as ‘[her] European’ (sama tubaab). Bineta's ability to ‘stay in the race’ extended beyond the realms of clothing and ceremonies. For instance, if people were to have lunch at her home, she could spend up to CFA 5,000 at the market to have all the ingredients for a perfect rice and fish dish. Furthermore, Bineta often gave presents and was especially concerned with regularly taking something to her (adoptive) mother who had no income.
Some probably saw Bineta's ostentation and largesse with griots as irrational and would have almost certainly linked it to her ethnicity and/or her husband's caste origin, because Bineta was a Wolof and had married a casté (ñeeño).Footnote 14 Bineta's husband came originally from a family of blacksmiths (tëgg) and, although he did not work in the profession himself, their union had caused much controversy in Bineta's family, the members of which all saw themselves as being of ‘noble’ (géér) origin. However, others in the neighbourhood appreciated Bineta's behaviour, thinking that she acknowledged the traditional importance of griots in society, unlike those who now ignored them.
Bineta had also embraced consumerism, which she saw as an integral part of modernity. Consumerism was typically represented by the goods offered in the Chinese markets in Dakar. Bineta would often go there and come back with a few plastic dishes and gadgets; these goods were cheap, looked attractive and distinctive, and were easily replaceable if they broke. Bineta did not agree with those who despised these new products;Footnote 15 for her, the Chinese had brought affordable goods to Senegal. However, deep down, Bineta dreamed of a life where she would ‘have’ and would ‘be’ far beyond the Chinese market, but at the moment this was out of her reach.
Bineta, however, did not ‘exist’ effortlessly, nor outside relations of subordination. As a married (Muslim) woman, Bineta was officially supported by her husband. In practice, Bineta's husband was a tailor in someone else's workshop and the family lived in a single rented room in a three-bedroom flat shared with two (unrelated) families. The room was just large enough to contain a double bed, a small TV, a mechanical sewing machine, a chair and a mirror, and Bineta had to pay someone to bring up daily buckets of water from the local tap for cooking and baths. Money was a subject of regular arguments for the couple. Bineta, a head taller than her husband, would tell him off bitterly and at length. Bineta considered that her husband was unable to support her (and possibly also their family) and he did not appear to defend himself against this idea. Bineta's husband had once confirmed rumours that he was planning to take a second wife, but he confided that when he remarried he was going to leave his second wife with his parents back in his village, because having a wife in Dakar ‘created problems and was expensive’. As far as men's contribution was concerned, the women's point of view among Bineta's peers was that ‘one cannot trust men anymore’; many women put money aside and bought gold jewellery, arguing that ‘we never know’.
Bineta worked in a restaurant kitchen. For this Monday-to-Saturday job, she earned a monthly salary of a little more than CFA 30,000,Footnote 16 from which she kept CFA 5,000 for her rotating credit association. After work, in the evenings and at weekends, when she was not visible in the neighbourhood, Bineta was busy buying things at the market or from individuals who offered special deals. She would then re-sell them in her network of contacts. In her (adoptive) mother's bedroom or at her workplace, Bineta often had a nice new object to show. She would then retrieve a pack from somewhere; on one day it was oranges and mandarins, on another embroidered Senegalese dresses, and the next Chinese nightdresses.
Bineta also occasionally sold more expensive pieces of high-quality batik and indigo-dyed damask fabric (cuub). This was not for her own benefit but for her aunt's, a wealthy professional woman who had bought impressive quantities of fabric in Mali. Bineta was often busy performing all sorts of jobs for her aunt, who had accommodated her in her house during her childhood (with her adoptive mother) and until her marriage, and to whom she also owed her job in the restaurant. Unlike her aunt, who was in a position to make large profits while moving very little,Footnote 17 Bineta was forced to be always on the move in order to generate some income.
Bineta was not satisfied with her life and saw her future somewhere other than Grand Dakar. She had decided to emigrate to Europe and, a few months before I met her, had started confidentially to undertake the necessary steps to obtain a visa.Footnote 18 Bineta had two cousins her age with whom she had been brought up and to whom she inevitably compared herself (her peers, nawle). They had emigrated to Europe a few years previously. One of them had recently returned and seemed to have done very well, and Bineta felt that she too could succeed in the same way. Bineta also frequently mentioned her desire to do something for her (adoptive) mother; this was not unrelated to an idea I had heard that ‘parents have more respect for women who emigrate than for those who stay in Senegal’. Bineta encountered problems in finding someone who was ready to accommodate her in Spain or France – her cousin in France did not answer her phone calls – and getting a certificate of her salary without losing her job was tricky. But Bineta was confident. She was convinced that she could adapt to any situation and perform any job. She had ‘nearly all the papers' required for a visa, and was now in touch with a man in the visa business who could potentially sort everything out. One day, Bineta came back to me with a visa form for Poland, where she had no contacts; she did not mind the inconvenience if it meant being able to emigrate to Europe. Nothing was going to hold her back from success.
LIVING VOLUNTARILY WITHOUT MIGRATION
Among those I met in Dakar, decisions to build one's future at home − as opposed to emigrating − were not common, particularly if one was young, male and without a good job. It was also acknowledged that convincing those with whom one lived of the ‘wisdom’ of such a choice was difficult. Abdoulaye and Moussa were among the few who would say that they had decided to stay.
Abdoulaye
When I first met Abdoulaye, the young man in his late twenties worked as a trainee in an office. Those who only knew Abdoulaye by sight, who saw him on his way to work in the Ouakam neighbourhood where he lived, would probably have guessed that Abdoulaye worked in an office. Early in the morning, the cheerful and imposing young man could be seen walking in the middle of the street with a confident step, carrying a black dossier and dressed in a Western shirt and pleated trousers. Fridays, of course, were exceptions and, on these days, he wore a large light-blue damask boubou and yellow slippers. Those who knew Abdoulaye personally would have described him as a very popular man. Abdoulaye was both humorous and serious, and made ‘good use’ of his strong sense of communal solidarity. Abdoulaye also did not mind being teased; for example, as the then presidential colours of his Friday attire had not escaped the notice of those around him, he was happy to be called, light-heartedly, ‘Mr President’.
Abdoulaye's roots could be traced back to a village in the north of the country. From a Pël family, he had been born and raised there with seven younger siblings. Abdoulaye's education had occupied a central place in his life, especially his university education. Abdoulaye had studied the humanities and had obtained undergraduate and postgraduate diplomas. He had also led an intensive political life at university. However, when searching later for a job, he had ceased his political activities. Abdoulaye's university experience had left him with many memories, and funny anecdotes about this period of his life remained a favourite subject of conversation. Abdoulaye had also kept his lively interest in political matters, discussing these enthusiastically with those around him. Although no longer belonging to any political party, he recognized that he related most to the one then in power. Abdoulaye had started a traineeship in an office on Dakar's Plateau a few months before I met him, and was simultaneously completing another postgraduate diploma. He enjoyed his work because it required him to liaise with a wide range of people, for which he felt he had a particular aptitude. Towards the end of his traineeship Abdoulaye was promoted. Although not given a proper salary or position, his post was stabilized and, from then on, he received more substantial allowances that just covered his rent, transport and meals. Many students, in contrast, went from one traineeship to the next, despairing of ever finding a remunerated job. Abdoulaye felt confident about his future. He believed that he could succeed in Senegal, and he did not intend to emigrate.Footnote 19 His ambition was to become an ‘executive’ (un cadre); whether this was for a public or a private body was a secondary concern. Abdoulaye also planned a political career at the local level, and getting there, he once said, was merely a matter of ‘well thought-through steps'.Footnote 20 Besides his plans for his career, Abdoulaye wanted to support his parents with his siblings' education, and he felt a duty to do that soon. Abdoulaye also aspired to more ostentatious pleasures, and he would remark on the number of imposing 4×4s on Dakar's concrete roads, noting that many wealthy businessmen and politicians owned one and that this was something he longed for too.
In the Ouakam neighbourhood, Abdoulaye appeared as someone who might be successful. Because of his outlook and daily schedule, Abdoulaye was even called a ‘boss'. Abdoulaye once explained to me that his neighbours knew he ‘work[ed] in an office, and that there [was] a computer on [his] desk’. Sometimes, he continued, when shaking his hand they told him he had ‘woman's hands' because they were very ‘soft’. Abdoulaye certainly did not mind being called a ‘boss', and such remarks acknowledged his status as someone not doing manual work. However, he knew very well that these were also cunning ways to suggest that he had a good job and therefore was in a position to help others. Indeed, Abdoulaye was often welcomed back from work in the neighbourhood with words such as ‘Where is my gift?’ (Ana sama charité?) or ‘Are you getting by?’ (Yengi góor-góorlu?). He would just reply: ‘I do my best’ (Mangi góor-góorlu rek). However, this image in the neighbourhood could not be sustained in front of everyone. To his friends who asked him for money, Abdoulaye would say ‘I am not working, I am learning/studying,’Footnote 21 and he would be careful not to have too much credit on his mobile phone as people tended to borrow it. To his family back home, which he was not yet supporting, Abdoulaye had explained that he did not have a proper job and was only ‘learning’. Admitting he was paid would have meant – as he put it – ‘I became, so I am, so I have to [support my family].’Footnote 22 Abdoulaye's material reality ultimately came back to his (small) living allowance. Every morning, he left for work on a shaking car rapide. Every night, he came back to the basic room – at CFA 30,000 a month – he shared with a friend in a large building accommodating several families. For their evening meals, Abdoulaye and his friend paid a woman in the same building who cooked food. For his lunches Abdoulaye bought filling food for CFA 500, while many of his colleagues spent CFA 1,000 to 2,500 on their own meals. Occasionally, Abdoulaye had discreetly complemented his small income, as did many full-time office workers who, more or less overtly, performed additional income-generating activities or ‘petty services' in their workplace for wealthier colleagues.Footnote 23
As for his position on the matrimonial market, Abdoulaye had a long-term girlfriend and they had already talked about marriage. Nonetheless, he felt that it was too early to commit. Abdoulaye reckoned that nowadays a man had to show that he could provide and meet the new standards of the Dakarois lifestyle. Once, talking about his marriage prospects, he summarized social expectations: ‘Now, in town, you need to live, you need a house, you need, you need, you need, you need … to go to the supermarket!’Footnote 24 However, unlike many young men, Abdoulaye was not bitter about the fact that marriage now resonated more with money than love.Footnote 25 For him, women were just being realistic, and he aimed to meet these new standards, arguing that ‘one has to keep in step’.Footnote 26 Abdoulaye remained optimistic about marriage. If women's mothers now judged a boyfriend by his ability to provide, they also asked where he worked; what counted was not just the money the young man made, but also the ‘kind of work’ he performed, which − he underlined − was a matter of ‘prestige’.
Around Abdoulaye, among both female and male students and graduates, migration was very much an aspiration: university subjects had often been chosen for their potential use in EuropeFootnote 27 and applications were made to European universities and for visas. Abdoulaye, however, was neither planning on leaving nor envious of those who had left and had visibly succeeded. There was the fact that he had not grown up with the idea of emigrating; where he came from, next to the Senegal River, was a place where, until recently, people were more likely to immigrate to, to work as navetaan in agriculture.Footnote 28 Also, some of his friends (students in France) complained about their situation and regularly asked him about opportunities in Senegal, which for him indicated that they wanted to return.
Finally, there were his diplomas. As he once exclaimed, he was meant to succeed in Senegal ‘after twenty-five years of [his] life at school!’Footnote 29 He would say about the youths ready to risk their lives to emigrate that ‘they know they have no chance’, adding that ‘only those who have a certain level of education can afford to stay’ and that ‘[w]hen you are very educated, you have hope’.Footnote 30 At other times, however, Abdoulaye would acknowledge that ‘[t]he fact you have a bac+5 does not mean you will succeed’,Footnote 31 or he would refer to the social pressure to emigrate. One day, Abdoulaye analysed his situation:
In the region where I come from, we gave a lot of importance to diplomas. This was the reference: one says that someone has x number of diplomas. We valued these things a lot. But then you see that elsewhere [i.e. in Dakar] this is not the reference. Elsewhere, it is that someone is a migrant; this is the reference.Footnote 32
Still, Abdoulaye would usually convince himself of the intrinsic value of diplomas − or maybe he was just making a virtue out of necessity, given the distance separating him from informal networks. He once explained:
What we say is ‘Diplôme bi yàqu’, the diploma does not go rotten, does not go bad … It is better to have diplomas and be unemployed than to have no diploma and be unemployed. ... If you do not have someone to help you enter the informal networks, that's bad.Footnote 33
Thus, Abdoulaye seemed caught in the old model of success based on performance at school, but simultaneously his belief in this model boosted his rise in Senegal and comforted him with the idea that he could succeed without migrating.
Moussa
Moussa was a Qur'anic teacher in his thirties, divorced and a father of three. He lived and worked in suburban Pikine, in a lively and crowded but also deprived area, where the lack of drains caused houses to subside and the sandy streets to be covered with large puddles of green stagnant water until the dry season. Moussa could often be seen there walking lightly and discreetly, dressed in simple and inexpensive materials. With an easy smile and calm temperament, he would greet people with a wave of the hand and would speak in a low voice if he stopped. Moussa lived with his parents and some of his siblings in the family home, a simple and traditionally built house with three or four separate rooms and a sandy courtyard in the middle. Their house had no upper level and the floor was untiled, but it stood firm and had not sunk into the wet ground, unlike many in the neighbourhood. Moussa's room was by far the most amply furnished. It was also testimony to the married life he had led until recently: a newlywed's ideal bedroom, it was filled with new-looking carved wooden furniture and contained a television, a stereo, an electric fan, a portable gas burner to prepare tea, a cool box for ice and a suitcase. Whenever I would pop by, Moussa's room invariably looked organized and tidy, from his suit wrapped in a plastic bag and hanging on the wall to the decorative tissue-paper flowers sitting on the cupboard next to a framed sepia photograph of his father.
Moussa defined himself as a Pël and Wolof Tijane Muslim, and located his origins in the north-west of the country. Moussa was born after three sisters, and before three other siblings. When Moussa was a child, his father held a stable and good job in a large company; however, Moussa had been given by his parents to a Tijane marabout to be educated. Thus, Moussa had been a child disciple (taalibe), which, besides religious teaching, had involved living in basic conditions and begging for food. Later, Moussa pursued extensive religious studies in Arabic and French, and occasionally travelled within West Africa. Reaching adulthood, Moussa had become a Qur'anic teacher and involved himself in many local development initiatives. When I met him, he was directing and teaching in an ‘alternative school’ and was active in several initiatives for widening access to education.Footnote 34 At home, Moussa supported his parents – covering the daily household spending and the cost of electricity, water and his parents' clothing. Moussa made a living partly from school fees, but this income was unreliable as parents were not always able or willing to pay, and sometimes they themselves asked for financial help. His income was complemented by gifts received for his religious role in the neighbourhood, transport fees paid to him to attend meetings (he would walk instead), and occasional remittances from his younger sister and friends in Europe.
Moussa presented his work as a Qur'anic teacher and his commitment to children's broader education as a religious vocation. It was, he would state, his ‘destiny’ to educate children and develop the local area, and this had been his conviction since childhood. In his opinion, children should have been going to school instead of being on the streets. Where he lived, there was only one French school and few parents could afford it, hence for him the importance of alternative schools like his – which did not teach just religion but also French and mathematics. Moussa was proud of his work and would regularly show me that success rates in local alternative schools like his were higher than in the French school. Moussa was well known for his involvement in the community. However, he thought many parents did not consider the Qur'anic school favourably or appreciate his work, which was demonstrated by them not dressing their children as well for the Qur'anic school as they did for the French school.
Moussa's decision to devote himself fully to his community's development had led him to decide to build his life in Senegal, rather than to emigrate. Moussa's formula was that ‘wherever you are, God is with you’, meaning that what could be achieved in one place could be achieved in another if one had ‘faith’ and ‘courage’. He would say that some had become (CFA) billionaires in Senegal without emigrating, adding, however, that all he wanted was to support himself. Moussa was at odds with many new values in Dakar and would regularly denounce materialism, ostentation in hardship, emigrants' lack of time to educate their children, failing migrants, and the sometimes multiple relationships of the wives of migrants. Years before, Moussa had been given the opportunity by his uncle in Italy to emigrate. However, convinced of his decision to stay, he had declined and his younger sister had left instead. Others – including people engaged in associations developing the country and teachers he knew – also said that they had decided to remain, but often they had ultimately emigrated when given the chance.
Moussa's resolution to stay and his local involvement were not understood by all, and nor were they without consequences for his position in the community. First, Moussa's choice had had fatal consequences for his conjugal life. His wife thought that he did not earn enough. This led her one day to ask him to emigrate, causing tension in the relationship. Moussa later admitted that, on that particular day, he had regretted not having gone to Europe, but he had then told himself: ‘No, this is my destiny. I will continue to stay here.’ Another time, his wife had suggested he become a taxi driver, which was more profitable than education. Eventually, she had asked for a divorce. Moussa thought his wife would have preferred to marry an emigrant, and that her parents had played a role in her leaving the household. He suspected that his wife's mother wanted to remarry her to someone in Europe. Since the divorce, although Moussa had been pressed by his own family to remarry and had been introduced to several women, he had declined all proposals, telling his father that he would take his time and even marry a ‘shaven-headed Christian woman’ if he loved her,Footnote 35 thus showing that only his feelings would matter. Moussa knew only too well that, given the difference between the dowries offered by an emigrant and a man living in Dakar, it was not going to be easy for him to find a new wife. For women to give their hand to someone like him was, he said, ‘like [putting their hand into] fire’. He explained further: ‘A guy like me, next to [an emigrant], he can't make ends meet, he has nothing, then … you are not going to put your hand there! It is a bit risky to give your hand to someone who is here, who works here.’Footnote 36
Moussa's parents understood his choice and did not press him to leave. However, in the neighbourhood, Moussa's decision was widely known and provoked mixed feelings. Some would say to him: ‘Really, your choice … it is very difficult, but really you have to stick at it. Do not change your mind. We need people like you to rebuild our society.’Footnote 37 His younger brothers understood him but would tell him kindly: ‘Man, you are crazy. Us, we want something. You, you do not want anything, but us, we want something.’Footnote 38 Others would confront Moussa more seriously: ‘What about you? Don't you want to emigrate? Stay here with all the problems and one day, you will know.’Footnote 39 Moussa knew that some of his detractors said that ‘he does not want anything’, ‘he does not want to succeed’ or ‘this man thinks that he is smarter than us' (the last comment was because some thought he had made money when his school had once been helped by a small European charity).Footnote 40 Moussa also said, in relation to a man who wanted to leave: ‘He considers me a fool, but I also consider him a fool.’Footnote 41 Moussa knew another man who, like himself, had decided to stay. He was the first of seven brothers, all of whom were in Europe. According to Moussa, this man was spoken to by his own mother in these terms: ‘You, you do not want anything in life, you are a fool, that's the way you are.’Footnote 42 Moussa was quite sure of his decision, but he recalled that he once felt challenged. A woman told him: ‘You do many things, you help people too much. You like to help but you have nothing. Can't you go to Europe to work?’ Moussa then felt the need to ‘have something’, and wondered whether perhaps this woman was right; as when his wife left, he momentarily regretted his choice, but he quickly swept this idea away and said to himself: ‘No, she is not right!’
Moussa felt most challenged in his choice on occasions when money had to be spent. Typically, when someone at home had to be rushed to hospital, he could not afford it so an emigrant in the family would step in, giving CFA 50,000 or 100,000. Someone would then often make a comment in front of him, such as ‘That is the result of going to Europe! This is the result of the emigrants! This one is a good child!’,Footnote 43 and such comments would upset him.
Therefore, Moussa – in addition to being seen as ‘having nothing’ – was considered by some as irrational, lacking ambition (to help his family), inactive and destitute; in short, rather than helping the community, he was instead seen by some as failing to help others. Still, despite his social status being somewhat undermined by these comments in the neighbourhood, Moussa remained relatively confident in his choice. He saw his future in his locality, pursuing his religious and educational mission. For him, it was poverty that had led to people's changed priorities, and this was exactly what he was working against.
CHANGING MORAL ECONOMIES
These three portraits show that life without migration is often an ambivalent experience. I argue that this can be better understood in the light of today's local moral economy and its contradictions. Living without migration involves overcoming these tensions, including through multiple strategies in order to fit in with today's mainstream moral economy, or to demonstrate an alternative morality.
In today's Dakar, social status is increasingly defined primarily by material and visible wealth. In the decades following independence, material wealth was already an indicator of success (see, for example, Diop Reference Diop1965; Le Cour Grandmaison Reference Le Cour Grandmaison1972) and a criterion in marriage decisions (Thoré Reference Thoré1964; Diop Reference Diop1985: 79). However, social status (and marriage – see Le Cour Grandmaison Reference Le Cour Grandmaison1971: 212) was mainly established through the ideal of the civil servant, together with criteria such as rank, birth and religion, ethics and ‘community spirit’. Material wealth was important, for instance to meet needs, buy clothes, give to others and acquire dependants, save and invest, as well as to acquire consumer goods. Still, despite the increasing quest for enrichment, the way in which economic resources were acquired was important, and being a civil servant was valued above all other activities. Today, however, material wealth is paramount in the definition of success. Material achievement has become more important than criteria such as moral qualities (like Moussa's) or the type of income-generating activity performed (typically employment based on diplomas, like Abdoulaye's). Men's income even represents the primary criterion in marriage (and divorce) decisions. Economic resources now dominate to the extent that, without a stable income from the man, marriage is nearly impossible. In this way, the ideal of the civil servant and of diplomas – which, until recently, largely oriented alliances – is being challenged.
Material wealth is central to the definition of status and marriage for my research informants because it allows for the acquisition of prestige and is part of economic strategies as well as being a medium for crafting social relations. To start with, wealth is increasingly considered an end in itself. Ostentatious consumption, including the display of purchase power (taking a taxi instead of the car rapide, for example), enhances individual reputation or prestige. It demonstrates global connections and advances in fashion when it involves imported goods such as electronics, clothing and cosmetics (as in Bineta's story). Similarly, shopping at the costly (French) supermarket in Dakar (see Abdoulaye) is emblematic of an opulent and westernized lifestyle. Ostentatious consumption is considered to be a source of prestige by young women and men in particular.
Besides its relevance for prestige, material acquisition forms part of economic strategies. Indeed, it is essential to be able to – or to allow kin to – sustain and financially help parents, wives, parents-in-law (for men) and other kin with cash or goods in kind; answer requests for money; and accommodate and sustain dependants in one's house. In the past, material wealth, including money, was already important to satisfy needs (such as food) and pay taxes. However, many in Dakar agree that, with economic uncertainty, parents and even parents-in-law count more on adult children for meeting their livelihood needs than before. For many, economic resources are therefore still for sharing and redistributing, rather than for individual accumulation. Yet, in practice, wealth is stored in case of future need, for example through the acquisition and exchange of material goods and money. Gold jewellery was purchased by Bineta's peers, and cloth and money exchanged (as gifts) within women's networks (including at family ceremonies).Footnote 44 Such practices typically allow for saving and isolate wealth from consumption and requests for money (Mustafa Reference Mustafa1998).Footnote 45 Recently, exchange practices of goods and money have intensified, particularly within women's networks (Buggenhagen Reference Buggenhagen2012). Converting money into forms of wealth that hold value rather than circulating cash (Guyer Reference Guyer and Guyer1995) – that is, transforming liquidity into ‘illiquidity’ (Shipton Reference Shipton and Guyer1995) – remains crucial for storing wealth, as it was in the past. And in this context, cloth, gold and imported goods are still forms of wealth that hold value. But nowadays there are moral masculine discourses on the legitimacy of this use of material wealth, which is thought to go against community redistribution.Footnote 46
Additionally, material wealth is considered, to borrow from Guyer (Reference Guyer2004: 70), a ‘medium for a relational life’; that is, ‘wealth in things' (including money) is still very much used to acquire dependants and thus status. Indeed, material wealth is essential to be able to – or to allow others to – sustain kin; answer requests for money; accommodate and sustain dependants in one's house (as mentioned earlier); ostentatiously display expensive goods and clothing (sañse); and make gifts to others at family ceremonies, among other things. These practices show prosperity, generosity and ‘wealth in people’ (Guyer Reference Guyer1993), including the strength of one's networks (Heath Reference Heath1992; Buggenhagen Reference Buggenhagen2012). These qualities in turn testify to adult children's success and their mothers' ‘good work’ (liggeyu ndey) in their household (Dial Reference Dial2008: 44–54, 80–2), they honour parents (because adult children ‘give back’ to them), and they show that husbands provide for their wives (Heath Reference Heath1992). Demonstrations of prosperity and generosity also have the practical effect of attracting new dependants (such as Abdoulaye's neighbours). Importantly, the display of these two defining features of the ‘noble’ caste (re)affirms caste inequalities (Irvine Reference Irvine1974; Buggenhagen Reference Buggenhagen2012). Finally, qualities such as generosity and dressing well increase religious merit.
How should material wealth be acquired? Ideally through migration, but leaving is challenging. Wealth is also associated with marriage to a migrant. Indeed, marriage itself has become part of economic strategies, as have intimate relations (Nyamnjoh Reference Nyamnjoh2005), with practices such as mbaraan becoming more common than before.Footnote 47 Both the dowry and the remittances that come with marriage to a migrant have become increasingly necessary to meet social obligations and daily needs in Senegalese households (Buggenhagen Reference Buggenhagen2001; Reference Buggenhagen2012: 126). Under these circumstances, parents recently appear to have gained a new importance in marriage decisions (as in the departure of Moussa's wife).Footnote 48 Tall and Tandian (Reference Tall and Tandian2010: 5) argue that today more attention is given to migrants' financial means than to their social origins, suggesting that even caste endogamy – which remained strong over time – can be challenged. Both women and men also invest in social relations other than marriage in order to acquire wealth, and convert such relations into financial networks (Mustafa Reference Mustafa1998: 75–127).Footnote 49 Social relations are still crucial in accessing productive resources (see Berry Reference Berry1989; Reference Berry1993: 169–80), including goods for second-economy activities (MacGaffey Reference MacGaffey1991: 30–4), although there is now masculine criticism of women's use of social relations.Footnote 50
How can an income be generated legitimately without migration or marriage to a migrant? Despite economic success being increasingly crucial for my informants, they still refer to non-economic criteria. Although the reality of practices differs, wealth is thought to be acquired through specific income-generating activities rather than through just any means available. Typically, despite no longer being the main indicator of status, formal employment (understood as stable and well paid) for men continues to be favoured over the accumulation of multiple ‘fend-for-yourself’ activities. For instance, overt involvement in petty trading and manual activities (such as cleaning) in Dakar is considered ‘dishonouring’ by some (see the text before Bineta's story). Selling is also belittled as being the realm of foreigners, women and rural-dwellers. These perceptions are not completely separable from caste hierarchy: manual (often physical) work and petty trade (involving haggling and movement) potentially challenge géér ‘honour’.Footnote 51 In addition, Dakarois men face the ‘trader's dilemma’ between accumulating and sharing (see Evers Reference Evers, Evers and Schrader1994 on South-East Asia).Footnote 52 Finally, the status of petty trade has been low during much of the twentieth century (Amin Reference Amin1969: 26), and urban Dakarois men have identified with French education and formal employment.Footnote 53 Only in the last decades have many traded again and sometimes become successful. With the ascent of traders and the encouragement of rappers in their role as educators (Niang Reference Niang, Nilan and Feixa2006; Moulard-Kouka Reference Moulard-Kouka2008: 342–5), prejudice against selling has diminished. Still, for Dakarois men, petty trading too visibly perhaps means acknowledging new hierarchies, while discourses on ‘honour’ and the denigration of manual activities and petty trade may allow for the maintenance of old hierarchies (in particular based on caste, rural versus urban origin, and ethnicity).
Besides the ideal of formal and stable employment for men, discourses on respectable ways of acquiring wealth include references to married women's ‘work’. Despite the reality of practices (that is, women's contribution to household expenses), for many the financial support of wives by husbands and women's independent budgets (which mean they can use their income for their own undertakings, rather than for household expenses) remain important. Also, women's status is still very much defined by their behaviour in the household, rather than by their economic work. This includes showing abnegation and submission within the household. Thus, for married women such as Bineta, undertaking many income-generating activities too visibly potentially challenges their husbands' ability to provide and thus their authority. As Adjamagbo et al. (Reference Adjamagbo, Antoine, Dial and Diop2004) put it, for women, being publicly seen as earning to support the household means ‘working’ rather than ‘working well’ (i.e. within the household). These discourses on the role of married women can similarly be seen as ways of maintaining old gender hierarchies.
In summary, with economic uncertainty, migration and cultural globalization, there have been both transformations and continuities in the local moral economy. For many of an age to support their families, the combination of the above features of the moral economy, the scarcity of income-generating opportunities for men, and women's growing economic contribution involve living with contradictions. Such tensions are illustrated in, for example: many youths' repugnance to sell but their material necessity to do so; women's financial contribution to the household, but their frequent lack of public recognition; aspirations to acquire and display wealth but simultaneous livelihood hardship; the will to succeed through education and a prestigious job together with the awareness that one's salary has become the primary indicator of success; and educational and religious involvement for the community, but lack of recognition for this form of non-monetary contribution.
Individually, these contradictions can be resolved to some extent through the deployment of multiple and subtle practical and discursive strategies. Such strategies include the ‘demonstration’ that one fits within the moral economy, or within an alternative morality, and the ‘concealment’ of that which is at odds with the moral economy. These practices take the shape of, for instance: discreetly undertaking multiple minor ‘fend-for-yourself’ and selling activities; demonstrating wealth through clothing and disguising livelihood hardships (as practised by Bineta); demonstrating one's retention of a prestigious job and potential wealth (Abdoulaye); reasserting one's moral and religious integrity (Moussa), and so on. Camouflage also includes the discreet combination and diversification of activities in both the first and second economies, and strategies to save money without appearing selfish. The latter implies, for example, avoiding the ‘liquidity’ of unnecessary credit on a mobile phone, or using verbal strategies to avoid demands for money.
To some extent these strategies allow tensions to be overcome, but there is often the realization that the small profits obtained are not worth the efforts deployed. Keeping status in the family and in the neighbourhood often remains a challenge. So is accessing (and sometimes staying in) marriage, which is still crucial for men and women to enter adulthood (Le Cour Grandmaison Reference Le Cour Grandmaison1971; Dial Reference Dial2008: 42–4). Migration is thus strongly aspired to, sometimes at a risk to one's life. In fact, imagining building one's life in Dakar, having reasons to stay, seems easier when an alternative moral economy is adhered to; that is, a moral economy where success is not equated with material wealth and marriage is not conditional on the latter. Moussa, whose outlook is in some ways close to that of the older moral economy, occupies a position locally that is somewhat on the fringe. His and Abdoulaye's convictions that it is possible to succeed at home appear to be supported by their embedding in larger communities (in Senegalese and West African religious and charitable networks, and in a village in the north of the country, respectively), where success is defined primarily by neither migration nor economic success, unlike in their Dakarois settings. Still, as I suggest in the conclusion, the notion of alternative moral economies can also be associated with new religious ideals in Dakar, ideals that break with those of both past and present. These ideals are also supported from the outside and, at the same time, are not completely marginal in the city.
CONCLUSION
Many in Dakar have come to favour economic success over non-economic achievement, notably in the context of the free-market economy and cultural globalization. Nowadays, material wealth is so important in the definition of success that it even informs marriage decisions. However, some features of the older moral economy continue to be relevant. Material wealth matters for social status (rather than for economic accumulation only) and is still supposed to benefit kin (rather than the individual). Also, some of the older morality of income generation still counts. In this context, criteria such as ‘wealth in people’ and caste remain key. So, the increased value ascribed to economic achievement has not meant the complete adoption of the commodity economy (see Bloch and Parry Reference Bloch, Parry, Parry and Bloch1989). This, together with the dearth of income-generating opportunities for men and women's growing economic contribution, leads to contradictions. To surmount these tensions, people deploy skilful practices of display and concealment. To a certain degree, these allow them to live in a way that is simultaneously coherent with earlier categories of thought, new values and material reality.
But imagining building one's life in Dakar often seems easier when an alternative moral economy is adhered to. In other societies that have suddenly been integrated or further integrated into the market economy, religion and other forms of thought have played an agentive role. This was demonstrated by Jehovah's Witnesses' ethics in Zambia (Long Reference Long1968), Zionist Christian cults in South Africa (Comaroff Reference Comaroff1985), superstitions such as the ‘devil contracts' and ‘baptism of the bill’ in Colombia (Taussig Reference Taussig1980), and the Kenyan Luo ‘bitter money’ concept (Shipton Reference Shipton1989). Such popular responses might be associated with the growing success of reformist Islamic movements in Senegal in the past fifteen years.Footnote 54 Focused on urban youth, these religious movements with their moralization of urban life, promotion of wealth management such as dowry reduction, and individualist ethics (see, for example, Augis Reference Augis, Diouf and Leichtman2009; Samson Reference Samson, Diouf and Leichtman2009) similarly appear to re-establish coherence in people's lives and allow them to overcome the recent transformations in Dakarois society.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank those I have met in Dakar for their generosity in sharing their stories with me. To protect their privacy, all names have been changed. I would also like to thank Johan Pottier and Parvathi Raman at SOAS for their insightful comments on earlier versions of this article. I am also grateful for feedback received at the SOAS Anthropology Post-fieldwork Seminar, as well as the helpful comments of the anonymous reviewers and editor. Any errors of fact or interpretation are my own.
