Driving through the narrow, dusty, dimly lit streets of Dakar felt almost surreal after being used to the wide, well-lit boulevards of Paris, and Brigid wondered, if she pinched herself, would she find she was dreaming? She was sweltering in her heavy habit, and envied Goretti her lightweight white dress and short veil. After many twists and turns through the dark, potholed streets, Goretti said, ‘This is Yeumbeul, and about a mile ahead is the ocean. We,’ she smiled, ‘are just down this street on the left-hand side.’ Jakab swung around a corner and drove a third of the way down a street lined with ramshackle cement buildings, before turning into a large compound, surrounded by high, whitewashed walls. The gravel drive led to a complex of one-storey buildings, one of which Brigid thought was a school, judging by children’s paintings decorating some of the windows. To her left was a large whitewashed, two-storey, colonial-style building with blue shuttered windows and edged with long verandas, illuminated by lamplight from the rooms inside. It looked so comfortable and welcoming that Brigid yawned and realized how tired she was and how much she looked forward to getting into bed. That building had to be the convent, she guessed. The car drew to a halt beside some steps leading to a low porch on which a sleek black and white cat stretched languorously. Two large terracotta pots of orange and pink flowers were a splash of colour against the white.

Brigid could see mosquito nets draped from the ceiling and big fans whirring slowly. And then the big blue wooden front door opened and a group of nuns in white robes and short white veils like Goretti’s came out onto the veranda. A portly, smiling nun extended her hand and said, ‘Bienvenue, ma fille, I am Mère Margaret Mary Alacoque, and we are delighted you have come to join us.’

*

Brigid unfurled the white mosquito netting from the top of the hut to enclose the mat on the floor where she would be sleeping. She was tired. It had been a long but satisfying day. She, Goretti and Khady, a young Serer nun, had left the small house they lived in, close to the banks of the Senegal River, some two hundred and fifty kilometres northeast of Dakar, to hold clinics in the small villages of the Peuple Sérère, the Serer people, indigenous to the area along the river. She’d been up since five a.m.

Tonight they were staying in one of the larger villages, and the villagers had held a party for them. They had feasted on sombi, a sweet milk-rice soup which Brigid, having a sweet tooth, loved, and thiéboudienne, a boldly flavoured combination of fish, rice, and vegetables simmered in tomato sauce. It had been cooked in one large pot, eaten outside, and Brigid had thoroughly enjoyed it.