The Kindness of Strangers in Foreign Lands - Mima in Mali
An ongoing collection of stories by Temidire Alesh, honoring the generosity and warmth of people she’s been lucky to encounter during her travels across the world.
Lagos, Nigeria | 2018
A lover introduced me to the music of Fatoumata Diawara.
I remember the moment I first heard her voice—singing in her native Bambara, pulsing over the strings of a kora and her electric guitar. The sounds felt ancestral—like a language I couldn’t speak but viscerally felt, as if some part of me were remembering it.
I wondered if maybe, just maybe, my ancestors had once been part of the Malian Empire and later migrated to what is now Nigeria, where my parents are from.
I instantly fell in love with Malian music. I began researching obsessively: griots who carry on music and oral history in Malian tradition, the kora and its beautiful, harp-like sound—how it’s traditionally passed down from father to son. In graduate school, as part of my African Studies focus, I even wrote a paper titled Gender Dynamics in Mali’s Griot Music Tradition.
I longed to visit. But the headlines were not encouraging. Every news story out of Mali seemed to involve insecurity or instability. It was hard to justify to loved ones why I’d go.
Until one Thursday night in Côte d’Ivoire.
Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire | 2023
I was out with friends in Abidjan when I struck up a conversation with one of their colleagues. We started trading travel stories.
“You’re clearly a nomad,” he said. “Digital nomading through Côte d’Ivoire, Kenya, Italy, Switzerland... Where else would you like to go?”
“Mali,” I said, without hesitation.
His eyes lit up. “I’m going there tomorrow, actually. For work. I grew up there. Come through.”
I blinked, on the edge of my seat. “Wait, is it safe?”
He nodded. “Parts of the north, maybe not so much. But Bamako? Bamako is absolutely fine,” he assured me. “I’ll give you all the security tips. You’ll be good.”
We looked up flights right then and there. Not too bad. I laughed and said, “Okay okay, let’s see how I feel about this tomorrow, when we’re not at a bar.”
By the next Wednesday, I was in Bamako—with a four-day trip planned.
Bamako, Mali | 2023
Bamako was everything I had hoped for—historic museums with earthy, sun-warmed architecture; busy yet slow, nostalgic streets that carried that unmistakable Francophone West African air, as if the streets themselves had wandered out of Amadou & Mariam’s “Dimanche à Bamako”; and vibrant markets where blacksmiths proudly described how they forged each piece by hand. I ate mafé—the legendary peanut sauce and rice—at resort restaurants along the Niger River, watching sunset cruisers drift by. I danced in night clubs where women wore both hijabs and mini skirts, and club goers popped bottles of non-alcoholic wine and energy drinks with equal flair—flirting along the edges of the dominant Islamic tradition. And let’s not forget the Radisson Blu Hotel, where I was staying—its rooftop pool offering sweeping views of the whole city.
It was all a glorious paradox - and I was having the time of my life.
And then—on my final evening in Bamako, like a final note in a perfect song—I made my way to Le Savana to see Baba Salah perform live.
Baba Salah—born in Gao, a northeastern Malian town—is one of Mali’s most celebrated musicians, renowned for his mastery of the guitar and soulful vocals. He once toured with the legendary Oumou Sangaré, and his music—steeped in the Takamba tradition of the Songhai people—blends northern Malian rhythms with blues, reggae, and rock. I could hardly believe I was about to see him live—the anticipation was brimming.
I arrived early and found a seat right up front. My Malian travel accomplice had another function that evening, and we were meeting up later to go dancing. So for now, it was just me, the music, and a front-row view—the kora player setting up directly in front of me.
As the room began to fill, I noticed a young woman to my right smiling at me. She sat with a group of other young women. I smiled back—amused, but grateful. It’s always a quiet relief when strangers greet you with tenderness and openness.
The music began.
As the instruments swelled and Baba Salah’s voice rippled through the air, I swayed gently in my seat, transported. I caught the young woman’s gaze again—she was moving her arms gracefully in the air, side to side, and gesturing for me to try. I mirrored her. The rhythm landed differently in my body now. It felt…like home. Soon, her whole table and I were swaying together, in sync with the music and each other.
A few songs later, she waved me over. I picked up my purse and joined them.
“My name is Mima,” she said, introducing her smiling group. “These are my sisters.”
I told them I was visiting from Abidjan, but originally from Lagos.
“Babi est doux, Lagos est doux,” she laughed—Abidjan is sweet, Lagos is sweet. (Doux, in this context: full of enjoyment, fun)
“Mais Bamako est doux aussi,” I replied, laughing even harder. And it truly was.
Not long after, one of her sisters urged us to get up and dance. A circle had formed—young people, older men and women, families dressed to the nines—all clapping and swaying.
One by one, brave dancers stepped into the center of the circle, met with joyful ripples of “eyyyyyy”s from the crowd.
We were laughing, dancing, sweating under the glorious Malian moon, lighting up our joy. I was completely present—in awe of this radiant, intergenerational African circle, carried by ancestral sounds and a deep sense of kinship.
I glanced at Mima, beaming. So grateful she had invited me into her circle.
Then I remembered my friend and our plans to meet. But I didn’t have WiFi.
Without hesitation, Mima offered me her hotspot. Seconds later, my phone rang—we coordinated the rendezvous.
As I gathered my things, Mima walked me outside. She negotiated with the taxi driver to make sure I got the local price. Then she hugged me goodbye and said,
“I’ll let you know if I’m ever in Lagos.”
“Please do,” I smiled. “You’d certainly have a friend there.”
Until next time,
Welcome Home 🤍
Love!
Love this!