They called her “Bouctou” — the one with the big belly-button.
When they migrated north in September, the Arab caravans would leave their baggage in her care.
On their way back, they would tell friends of their destination: “We are going to Tin-bouctou,” they would say, the well of Bouctou.
When I was a kid, I hitch-hiked to Timbuktu. Back home, I had I worked in a fast-food restaurant to get the travel money. I had always wanted to go to Africa, and I was captured as a child by that old rhyme: