One of the most beautiful things about Senegal for me is tea, which here is called attaya. Chinese green tea boiled for a long time with little water, lots of sugar and sometimes mint, which in wolof is called nanà.
I especially like it because I don’t have to make it, it’s a men thing (one of the very few, in this country where everything is done by women). Making attaya is time consuming, it is mostly done on a camping gas or a charcoal oven so that the men in charge can be comfortably seated, chatting with one another.
It takes a long time because you make it a first time, then another time and then a third and final time (they are called “courses”, like at the restaurant). You drink it with only two glasses that are passed along from one person to the other (consider yourself lucky if the glass is quickly rinsed before getting to you). Covid made people more aware and use plastic cups but it was short-lived.
Attaya isn’t properly a ceremony, it doesn’t require much of an apparatus, you don’t have to wear anything special and it’s not limited to a special occasion. It’s pretty casual (even if the steps of the preparation are rigorous) and you can make it at any point of the day (the more often the merrier, I would say).
Making attaya is the preferred activity of folks with boring outdoor jobs, like guards. It keeps you busy without distracting you, the equipment is basic and cheap, you can make it while chatting (men making attaya is the equivalent of sports bar in a country that has no sports bar).
The first “course” is called léwal and it is strong and almost earthy-tasting, the second course doesn’t have a wolof name, has more tea but also more sugar so it is mild while the third service is extra sweet because you only add extra water, tons of sugar and mint. It is said that the first course is as bitter as death, the second one is as mild as life and the third one is as sweet as love.
After a family meal, making attaya is the chore of the male teenagers or young men, who learn that this is the one and only thing loosely related to cooking that they will ever asked to do (that is unless they venture out of Senegal at some point and meet a progressive 21st century).
Attaya is also sold by street vendors, but it is more of a fallback when you can’t find a “sports bar”, knowing all too well that any attaya maker will always be happy to share their sweet nectar with you. My husband always asks for a cup of attaya to whoever is making it, while walking on the street. I feel horribly ashamed but then I see the happiness on the face of the person and I am reminded that we live in the country of teranga.