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Yaya's Story: The Quest for Well-Being in the World
Yaya's Story: The Quest for Well-Being in the World
Yaya's Story: The Quest for Well-Being in the World
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Yaya's Story: The Quest for Well-Being in the World

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Yaya’s Story is a book about Yaya Harouna, a Songhay trader originally from Niger who found a path to America. It is also a book about Paul Stoller—its author—an American anthropologist who found his own path to Africa. Separated by ethnicity, language, profession, and culture, these two men’s lives couldn’t be more different. But when they were both threatened by a grave illness—cancer—those differences evaporated, and the two were brought to profound existential convergence, a deep camaraderie in the face of the most harrowing of circumstances. Yaya’s Story is that story.
           
Harouna and Stoller would meet in Harlem, at a bustling African market where Harouna built a life as an African art trader and Stoller was conducting research. Moving from Belayara in Niger to Silver Spring, Maryland, and from the Peace Corps to fieldwork to New York, Stoller recounts their separate lives and how the threat posed by cancer brought them a new, profound, and shared sense of meaning. Combining memoir, ethnography, and philosophy through a series of interconnected narratives, he tells a story of remarkable friendship and the quest for well-being. It’s a story of difference and unity, of illness and health, a lyrical reflection on human resiliency and the shoulders we lean on.    
LanguageEnglish
Release dateOct 8, 2014
ISBN9780226178967
Yaya's Story: The Quest for Well-Being in the World

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    Yaya's Story - Paul Stoller

    life.

    PROLOGUE

    THE STORY OF Yaya’s Story

    We are all restless at various points in our lives. Feelings of restlessness often develop from an existential itch that changing life circumstances provoke. Who among us has not had the urge to do something different, to follow a new path, or to feel the life-altering spark of something new?

    During my time in the Republic of Niger, my teacher of things Songhay, the late Adamu Jenitongo, liked to tell me that the most elusive element of human being is the capacity to be, as he put it, comfortable in your skin. Such comfort is usually fleeting. It is an unstable state that shifts with moments in time and ever-changing social and cultural contexts. In large measure the elusiveness of this comfort also defines the quest for well-being in the world. It is perhaps the desire for well-being that makes us restless.

    Yaya’s Story is about a life of restlessness, of trying something new, of taking risks. His story is about the quest to be comfortable in his skin. The tale of his quest presents lessons for us all. What meaning can we derive from our ever-shifting attempt to experience the comfort of well-being in the world?

    The life stories in this work evoke other life stories—those of Yaya’s anthropologist as well as those of anyone who happens to read this book. Stories can sometimes connect writers to readers in profound ways, reminding us of the times when we have been in lonely places—everywhere and nowhere places—where the story provides us a measure of genuinely appreciated and deeply treasured comfort.

    .   .   .

    I first met Yaya Harouna in February 1998. Like many of the art traders I encountered during my years of ethnographic fieldwork in New York City, Yaya had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, an accomplishment that earned him the prestigious title El Hajj—a denotation of the economic success, physical strength, and spiritual devotion of those who make the arduous journey to the Kaaba, Islam’s most sacred site.

    We met on a cold winter afternoon at the Warehouse, a six-story storage facility situated near the Hudson River in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood. On that day the Warehouse stood tall and imposing amid a gritty New York City urbanscape: dingy delicatessens in front of which loitered homeless men wrapped in winter rags and drinking coffee; dim dry cleaning shops overstuffed with bundles of dirty clothes piled like heaps of garbage on the counter; downscale Indian restaurants, smelling of curry, the grime of which filmed their front windows. One block from the Warehouse there is a large garage where mechanics repair Yellow cabs, as well as a scrap metal yard strewn with the twisted and rusty remains of a thousand vehicles.

    The Warehouse, which is also known as Chelsea Mini Storage, is on Twenty-Seventh Street between Eleventh and Twelfth Avenues. It is a massive building that consumes one Manhattan block. On the day I first met Yaya, small trucks and Econoline vans were backed up to the docking bays that lined the south side of the Warehouse. Men in heavy coats and ski caps loaded and unloaded cargo—African masks and statues, bolts of printed cloth, and large sacks filled with grain. Clusters of other men, Africans all, swaddled for protection from the winter wind, huddled just inside the glass door entrance to the Warehouse.

    On that February day, I opened the door and greeted the men in French.

    Welcome, they chanted as they extended their hands.

    You’re El Hajj Abdou’s friend, no? I had met El Hajj Abdou Harouna, who was Yaya’s older brother, a year earlier. He immediately took me to the Warehouse.

    FIGURE 1. The Warehouse in New York City. Photo by the author.

    I am, I said. I’m here to visit El Hajj Abdou.

    This is good, a thick man with a square face stated. Abdou will be pleased.

    One step into the Warehouse marked a distinct existential transformation. Moments before I had taken in some of Manhattan’s grittiest streets—the real urban deal. Now I walked into a dim, dank space with a corridor populated by African art traders and stuffed with their goods—wooden statues and masks that smelled of smoke. They, too, greeted El Hajj’s friend. After a short walk through the corridor, I entered a square open space filled with shabby garage sale sofas and tables and bordered by market stalls that displayed African art. Some traders specialized in beaded Cameroonian pieces; others featured the lifelike masks that the Guro people of Côte d’Ivoire carved. Abdou’s stall was at the west end of this square room, the back of the space, where another corridor led to the bathroom. He sold masks and statuary from coastal West Africa, but he also displayed the art of the Tuareg, the nomads of the Sahara—red and black leather camel saddles with the tall pummels shaped like the Southern Cross; daggers and swords sheathed in red and black leather cases; and long leather pillows, some red, some yellow, that had been trimmed at each end with red leather tassels.

    Abdou Harouna, a tall lean man then perhaps in his late sixties, sat in one of four chairs that had been positioned opposite his stall. He wore a dull gray shirt over dark gray trousers. The dome of his shaved head gleamed in the dull light. The tight stretch of black skin over his high cheekbones gave him a rather severe expression that was balanced by an ever-present playful twinkle in his

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