The siren call of the Solani

We don’t get a lot of cold things here. Which goes to say, we also don’t get a lot of ice cream. (Unless you happen to be on medical leave in Cotonou and are well enough to leave the office). It is these circumstances that led me to wander around my village for 20 minutes following the phantom honk of a horn.

There is a company here, Fan Milk, that sells its pseudo-ice cream (it’s really flavored frozen milk) from white carts pushed by men wearing blue vests who have a horn that they honk as they walk down the street. It’s our version of the ice cream truck. Now, Fan Milk will do just fine, unless it’s Solani season. 

No one is really sure where it comes from. I’m told the Fulani people have something to do with it, but it only appears during the hot season and only when you least expect it. Solani uses the same marketing technique as Fan Milk, the incessant honk that is convenient when you want some, but obnoxious when you’re trying to teach class. Instead of logo-d white carts and uniforms, it is a man in street clothes holding a nondescript brown cooler. 

If you want Solani, you cannot want Solani. If you desire it, it will not appear. Instead, you must seize the opportunity while you have the chance.

So, when I was doing laundry in the back of my house at 11 this morning and I heard the telltale honk of the Solani horn from somewhere in my village, I threw the shirt I was holding back into the water, grabbed 100 CFA and headed out the door. I had already missed my chance at Solani yesterday when it took me too long to put on culturally-appropriate pants.

I saw a man holding what appeared to be a cooler turn around a side street as I made it to the main road. He was about 300 feet away from me, but what are dreams if you don’t have to work for them a little.

I quickened my pace and tried to follow the sound of the horn. As soon as I turned down the street, though, it seemed as though the honk was coming from all directions. I picked one way, followed it until I lost the sound and then changed directions. Then chose another and another, until I had retraced my steps so many times my neighbors started asking me what I was doing.

I headed back home Solani-less and broken hearted. I heard the honk several times later today, but just didn’t have the heart to try  and fail again. As I sit here typing, my ears still strain to hear the honk somewhere in the night.