Amadou Ndiaye sat next to a roundtable outside of the Shrine. He had just finished a performance and was dripping with sweat. He took out the white towel on his shoulders to mop his face. He beckoned to a bartender to give him a matchstick to light a cigarette he had taken off the back of his left ear. One attempt and he lighted it.
He was joined by a female companion who had a vodka in a glass. She asked for a matchstick and lit her cigarette. She took a sip of vodka in a glass. Another person joined their table. Amadou lit another cigarette he had pulled from a pocket inside his jeans jacket. They laughed to something one of them shad said.
The Shrine was a place I spent most of my Friday nights. The ambience reminded me of the Republic Bar and Grill, Osu, a good place for drinks and street gossip. The Shrine therefore was a perfect fit for me. An art and performance place in Harlem, the Shrine, is located at Adam Clayton Powell Jnr Boulevard. I also took friends who visited from Ghana to the place. I loved it there.
As a result of my regular visits, I became friends with a good number of African immigrants, especially from French speaking West Africa and the Horn of Africa regions. Most of these friends were musicians, arts collectors, dancers, curators of other arts forms. One of those friends was N’Diaye.
Originally from Senegal, he came to the United States in the early 2000s. A university graduate from Chiekh Anta Diop University in Dakar, N’diaye, who stood about six inches, dark in complexion, and a teller of hilarious jokes, was brilliant guitarist, singer writer and singer. Prior to coming to the United States at the invitation of an elder brother, he worked in finance, as well as played in a local band in Dakar.
He arrived in New York via Paris, where he transited. It was the winter season and despite hearing so much about it, to experience it was a different thing. He struggled to cope. He told his brother he wanted to return home. It was one of the stories he told me when we became friends.
His first job was at the clothing shop of his brother, where he kept the books. He would go to the Shrine in the night to hang out with his compatriots. It was during one of those visits that he got to play with a band whose lead guitarist fell ill and had to be taken off. After that night he became in demand and bands started requesting for his services.
The first time I saw him sing at the Shrine, he was performing Baba Maal’s Television. After the performance I walked up to him to tell him it was one of my favourites. We spoke for about five minutes. Anytime I went to the Shrine, and he was there, he would ask me to come and sit at his table. We would talk about music, African arts and life in general. With time our friendship grew, and he became like an elder brother to me. Then in his late 40s, he added me to a group of African artists who were regular at the Shrine.
The group would invite me for meetings, discussions and even cookout. His girlfriend, an Ethiopian American chef, was kind enough to bring food to the meeting. N’diaye loved his cigarettes and dark coffee without milk. It was the adrenaline that kept him going, he would say, when I first did an audio report about a band he was playing with at Central Park.
Our relationship grew and he looked after me. He and his girlfriend would invite me over for dinner at their flat. He became an elder brother and looked after me. He genuinely wanted me to do well. When I told him about my plans to return to Ghana, which lasted until recently, he prayed with me.
He told me: “The universe knows your heart and things will turn out fine,” He would play Baba Maal’s Television that night. Humming the song from a distance, tears streaming down from her cheeks, the girlfriend held my hand for minutes. I ended up with tears in my eyes. We kept in touch and when I met my wife and told him about it, he was very excited and encouraged me to do whatever it will take to “make it happen.” We kept in touch.
The last time I saw him was in 2017. I had arrived in New York from Oregon via Seattle. It was lunchtime and he was with some friends, doing sound check for an event at Union Square.
Like children seeing each other for the first time, he would give me a big hug and handshakes. We sat down to talk. Our meeting lasted ten minutes.
The smoke from a cigarette stashed between his fingers kept emitting ashes. He had lost weight but was in good spirit. I was worried and before I could say anything, he told me nothing to worry. It was just stress and being on the road for months without rest. We said our goodbyes and promised to stay in touch, which we did until recently.
About two weeks ago, I was going through my files and came across a bracelet he gave me. I sent a screenshot of it and dropped it in his WhatsApp chat. It ticked once. Three days passed and he had not checked his phone. I was sure he was busy touring and would get back to me at the appropriate time. After two weeks without a response, I called the line on WhatsApp. It ranged but no answer. I waited and called again. This time the phone was answered.
His girlfriend was on the other phone, sobbing. I was confused so I asked if everything was fine.
She took a deep breath. What followed hit me like a brick to the chest.
“N’diaye had gone to be with the ancestors,” she said.
I felt cold and sad.
N’diaye had fallen ill during one of performances and was rushed to the hospital. He was released and went home after a week at the hospital. He was doing very well and was confident of getting back to doing music.
But his condition became critical one morning and before they could call an ambulance, he had given up the ghost.
N’diaye had gone to join his ancestors with his voice and gifts.
