Mame Tine: A Brief Profile

Mame Tine is one of the more dynamic (and memorable) characters around Keur Ndoye (the Ndoye household). She's an elderly woman; the dark skin of her face seems stretched over her cheek bones and her forehead, which seems to go on forever, probably because her headscarf is always slipping back and her hairline is so receded (likely the result of years of tight braids). She drops by usually in time for a meal, but never eats much, particularly not lettuce. Instead she tells long, engaging stories in Wolof in her gravelly, creaky, voice; always speaking fast and when she isn't lying down, gesturing wildly with her hands, sometimes even getting up to imitate people in her stories.
Of course most of the time she is reclining, anywhere, a couch, a mattress on the floor, the floor, her thin arms and legs sticking out of her large colorful boubous at strange angles, giving her the appearance of a funny squashed insect.
Sometimes I'll come home to find her telling fortunes with her handful of cowries (plus a CFA coin and a few other trinkets) to someone in the family. Lightly running her hand past the mix of shells and oddments over and over, speaking quickly in low, quiet Wolof (these are the only times she keeps her voice down, I've noticed, and it lends a gravity to her words) as she reads the positions of the shells in relation to one another.
Once she read my fortune as everyone in the near vicinity attempted to translate for me (Mame Tine speaks no French). According to my fortune, someday soon I'll have a well-paying job. The first dollar I make from said job I am to throw into the ocean (lucky I live near the water in the States too) and directly call my host mom. The only other tidbit I remember from that afternoon counsel was her order that I give milk or sugar to a talibe (beggar children who are students in Koranic schools in the city) and all would become clear. Of course I did as I was told (I am nothing if not an obedient toubab). Two days later I bestowed a small bottle of milk upon a lucky young talibe, and I'm still waiting for my universal clarity (this was about two months ago now. Despite the failure of this first counsel, I can't wait to throw a dollar in the ocean and call Mama Mbengue from the States.
And I'm just fine without my clarity; I like life a little fuzzy.