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In 2008, an epidemic of penis theft-related paranoia took West and Central Africa by storm, leading throngs of angry people to attack foreigners and random people suspected of stealing your penis by shaking your hand.

This is what happened to one of those witch doctors, in a neighborhood along the coasts of Dakar…


What am I to do with all these penises?

My house is built on a solid foundation of hairy testicles with a strong shaft. Divided against itself it can’t get up, and occasionally it scratches, to which little birds respond by pecking it up and down and flying away before they get trapped in the pubes of the lawn.

My freezer is an open invitation to self-pleasuring with popsicle cocks. My basement is a bowling alley; guess what the bowls and pins are. I buried hundreds in my lawn, which grew coconut trees and an infestation of Indian Ocean coconut crabs, which is fitting. Occasionally their giant pincers snatch a bird out to do my house a favor, and for an instant my property is filled with the dying chirps of scratchy relief.

My house is full of penises. The mob is at my door. What am I to do with all these dicks?


I just slipped on a dick and nearly cracked my first and second vertebrae.

I’m not gay in case you’re wondering. What I am is a failed witch doctor, or an incredibly successful one, but it comes at a cost which cums at a cost. All over my house. Anyway.

“So? You wanna be Yoda huh?” My uncle had asked during the initiation ritual, his face painted white and red, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, the palm of his right hand lingering over an open flame unburned and his left throwing the kori in the sand ahead of him.

I did, but how had he known? I come from a long line of witch doctors and was expected to become one myself, but which 6’7 teenager wants to be called a witch? Not me. I wanted to be a Jedi or a Sith. Either way, my family was ecstatic when I caved in and began my misguided steps on what I believed to be my own journey towards yodahood.

I should have known something was up when my uncle held my hands, and when they began to glow winked at me and said:

“In your hands, hold the power, you will.”

I did, and then I moved to Senegal, opened up a Dibi Hausa to make ends meet, met a lot of friendly people, and every morning woke up to a phallic infestation inside my living room.


What am I gonna do? They’re at the door. There’s hundreds of them. I don’t even know where all their penises are anymore, or what belongs to whom… What am I gonna do, they’re all around the hou… 

Wait a minute…those aren’t men’s voices…


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Women…now I wasn’t expecting that.

Those hands of mine, they can do wonders. They will warm your breasts just as easily as steal your dick, but I never had more than a couple of local housewives a day requesting “cooking lessons”.

No one told me about this. This definitely never happened to Luke or Han.

And they’re knocking at the windows now, only another minute until the first stone flies and I’m…oh shit…there it goes…Perhaps if I run for it and throw some dicks at them…


“The women have drawn first blood.

Tired of waiting in the sweltering heat, a leading group of local women have taken it into their hands to get their satisfaction.

As you can see behind me, several of them are singing while others are throwing stones at our thief’s windows.

It won’t be long before the mystery of the disappearing penises comes to an end in Dakar.

Fatoumata Kouyaté, live from Yoff.” 


The window smashed in, and that’s when things became interesting. While several of the women propelled themselves into the living room, stumbling over their husbands would-be johnsons, checking them, smelling them and tossing them away before looking for more; others launched themselves at me, and covered me in sweaty hugs, knocking me back into an avalanche-prone mound of wieners.

“Toi là petit sai-sai deh! You know, my husband, he sulked a little in the beginning, but hey! He gets so much more done now. But me, you know, I need a little scratching every now and then…”

I wasn’t in the mood for scratching anything, I had a random penis fucking my ear.

Behind her, one of the scavengers was weighing two different organs, looked decidedly at one, grinned and tossed the other over her shoulder. Where the hell did she think she was?

“Hey! You can’t do that!” I yelled at her.

She parked her fists on her rotund waist, shlong firmly in her right hand, and looked at me in the falsely offended, ready-to-scrap look of most Senegalese women passed the age of the four and said:

“But I like it deh!”

“It doesn’t matter! You can’t just pick and chose the size and shape you like! This is not a dick stor…”

Hold on. Now that’s an idea…


Need I say more?

Well, I run a sex shop catering exclusively to Muslim women now. One of those high-end stores, lots of privacy. Sex toys, not the actual dicks. It’s not always easy with the Layene and Murid brotherhoods, but you can’t keep four wives happy all the time, and hey, you want a happy wife or you’ll have happy neighbors.

After the women had sorted themselves out, they had left me with only the smaller and misshapen boners, so I knew what they didn’t like, and there was my business model cut out for me.

We hauled all the leftover willies and buried them in a ditch. I’ve never been back to check on what grows there now, but your guess is as good as mine. Somewhere in Dakar, there is a ditch, and inside that ditch…

As for my hands I keep my gloves on at all times when I’m in public. That kind of power is not to be trifled with. I’ll never handle a light saber, but I’ve grown out of it, and honestly the blue and red dildos are long enough for a good fight anyway.

My uncle had laughed, or so I’m told, the profits keep him happy at any rate.

I gotta go now, one of my regular customers is back. Stop by the store if you’re in Yoff, we’re by the gas station across from the pizzeria.


“WaSalam Aleikum Fanta! I got a special discount for you, this one vibrates, AND, calls for prayer…”




Post image by Dalila Dalléas Bouzar via Manufactoriel

About the Author:

Portrait-MameMame Bougouma LP Diene is a French-Senegalese American development worker based in Paris, with a fondness for progressive metal, tattoos and policy analysis. He was previously published in Omenana, and will feature in Afro SF V2 later in 2015.

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I'm finishing up a phd at Duke University where I study African novels, which I believe are some of the loveliest things ever written. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

4 Responses to “Dude, Where’s My Dick? | By Mame Bougouma Diene | An African Story” Subscribe

  1. Hannah 2015/11/09 at 2:17 pm #

    I started reading this, thinking, “Oh no, he didn’t go there”, to laughing like I was being paid for it. This was hilarious! Certainly original.

    I’m Nigerian and I had no idea the ‘penis-snatching’ thing was even a thing outside our country. I actually heard of a supposedly genuine ‘theft’ some months ago. So I guess it’s still on…Men, watch out! 😀

  2. Mame Bougouma Diene 2015/11/09 at 8:17 pm #

    Thanks Hannah! Glad you liked it. It happened again two weeks ago, a guinean got beat up an thrown in jail, they let him go after the guy found his dick. I mean at this point it’s become a cheap excuse to beat up foreigners.

  3. Hannah 2015/11/10 at 6:11 pm #

    Ha! Over here, foreigners have little or nothing to do with it. When I heard of this incident of a few months ago, I was involved in an argument about it being an actual, physical theft. I assumed it was physical, like that portion of the groin becomes as smooth as a doll’s, lol? But apparently that one was more a…potency theft, I guess. The guy in question told the guy who told us the story that no, his penis was still there, but it felt like it wasn’t. I wonder. Like in your story, though, I always thought the thing just up and disappeared.

  4. Tori 2015/11/11 at 2:49 pm #

    Interesting read.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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