A bleak day of March in Gwanyebugu, the Bambara village that is my residence in Mali. Harmattan, the dusty wind from the desert, is haunting us in the whitening light. I lean my back towards the mud wall of my house, as I sit on the ground. The wind has effaced the laterite paths leading to the village, the paths winding between the mighty Baobab trees, each one of them with its aged biography. The ill-mannered wind tears the thatched roofs of the granaries, dashes between the ochreous houses, tormenting men and animals. I wrap my Tuareg turban closer around my nose and mouth. The movement is noticed by my hostess Ɲakɔrɔ Soko: “The white wind is hitting us”, she says.

The big he-goat, who is the residence of the jinn, the genius of the village, stands still near the huge Kapok tree, with his head against the wind. Bambara villages that are not Islamized usually house such a he-goat. Ɲakɔrɔ follows the direction of my gaze:

“There is the jinn”, she states laconically. Nothing particular about it.

“Yes, there he is”, I answer. The people in the village do not know the proper name of this jinn. But many know that he is male, that his feet are atrophied, and for this reason has to transport himself with the he-goat as his riding animal. A ka so don, “It is his horse”, some villagers say.