STF NA MÍDIA

from Constitutional changes
that would almost ensure his
third term in office.
At the forefront have been
rappers like Fou Malade (real
name: Malal Talla) and Thiat
(Cheikh Oumar Cyrille Touré).
They have been firing up
the crowds of young men
who have surged through the
city’s streets, leading the
demonstrators and — picked
on by Mr. Wade’s police
officers — serving as martyrs
for the antigovernment cause.
In July, dozens of fans waited
for Thiat outside the main
prison in Dakar while the
police asked him whether he
had publicly disrespected Mr.
Wade at a rally.
“An old man of 90 who lies
has no role in the country,”
Thiat was accused of saying,
and he did not deny it. (Mr.
Wade is believed to be in his
mid-80s, though there are
conflicting accounts.) Amid
an outcry in the news media
and on the streets, Thiat was
let go.
It is not that Senegal lacks
established politicians, political
parties or even newspapers
opposing Mr. Wade,
often with torrents of incendiary
if wide-of-the-mark
verbiage, a Senegalese tradition.
The rappers, however,
have struck a nerve because
they cut to the chase. Their
language is direct, sometimes
crude and quite unambiguous.
“In politics, nothin’ but hypocrites,
robbers of cash.
Government, why do you
always lie, always?” rap Fou
Malade and his
“Bat’Haillons Blin-D” (“Fou
Malade and the Armored
Battalion,” with a play on the
word for “rags,” haillon) in
French, in the song “We’re
Going to Tell Everything.”
In Wolof, Senegal’s dominant
language, they continue,
comparing the state to a
small, traditional fishing boat:
“The pirogue is sinking,
and whoever dares say it
spends the night at the
D.I.C.,” referring to the Criminal
Investigations Division.
As for Mr. Wade, Fou Malade
sings, his “speeches get on
our nerves.”
The rappers have not had
lucrative turns in power
themselves, as many in the
political opposition have.
And as young men in ragged
T-shirts and rough wool caps
— carrying the look and style
of the thousands of youthful
dispossessed who eke
out marginal existences here,
selling phone-recharge cards
on the streets, for instance —
they are easily identified and
easily contrasted with the
aging president.
So it was natural that the
rappers would help found a
new political movement here,
Y’En A Marre (“Fed Up”),
that has become a potent
force at the heart of resistance
to Mr. Wade’s efforts to
stay in office despite his previous
promises and Constitutional
provisions to the
contrary.
Though the group is based
here in the capital, Dakar,
where opposition parties and
politicians have the most
support, Y’En A Marre remains
officially unaligned.
Ever since the group was
formed in January, its leaders
have vowed that they will not
be co-opted by establishment
politicians from richer neighborhoods,
instead sticking
to their roots in the rough,
working-class district of Parcelles
Assainies — the name
translates as “cleaned-up
lots.”
In Parcelles Assainies, the
treeless streets are sandy,
goats share the living space
and a “Treatment Center for
Witchcraft and Evil Eye”
adjoins a horse-drawn-cart
delivery depot for bottled
gas.
True to form, Fou Malade, a
k a Mr. Talla, does not stand
on ceremony in delivering
the group’s message. He s-
prawled on an old sofa, spread
out the newspaper and
yawned during a recent interview
at the group’s headquarters.
An imam called the
faithful to prayer from a
small mosque across the street,
and goats bleated next
door.
“We are equidistant from all
parties,” said Mr. Talla, 37.
“We are a watchdog movement.
We have no ties to the
parties,” he added, between
glances at the paper.
Thiat did not show up as expected:
it was well after midday,
but a telephone call revealed
that Y’En A Marre’s
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