A restless scorching night full of dusty moonlight kept me awake until the break of sweaty morning. I rolled out of bed with sand stuck to my body and headed for the boutique to buy my breakfast baguette. By 10AM the sun was almost directly overhead and my shirt was spotted with moisture by the time I made it to the center of my little village. My old neighbor greeted me with a friendly "Good Morning and where is some money for me Mansour?"-- the common refrain I've come to expect. I told her I would got to bank tomorrow. Then I said a quick hello to the Gaye family women as they did laundry. Ndeye Kharit, their daughter said to come in and talk, "Come on waxtan!" We talked about America and she asked me what my house looks like there. A difficult mix of embarrassment and frustration dotted my already sweaty forehead as I said it was big and full of TVs. How can I possibly convince these poor people to stay in Senegal and develop their lives here when going to America means more money in months than is possible here over the course of many years? Ndeye's mom intimated that I marry her daughter so that America and its riches could become a part of her life. I told her to not let her little baby suck on the D battery in its mouth and excused myself between comments about the spiritual and communal deficits America suffers from despite its riches. On to the boutique. I buy my baguette and am asked for 500cfa from the lady I buy beignets and fataya from in the afternoon. I asked her was it to have or to borrow and she says she will pay me back later, "Inshallah- God willing." I hand it over knowing I'll never see it again.