Michael Jackson!

At a  naming ceremony, an eight- or nine- year-old girl sits down next to me and in English asks me to dance. 

Girl: Dance.

Me: I will not dance. 

Girl: Dance. 

Me: But you don't see? Only the children are dancing. 

Girl: Yes. 

Pause. 

Girl: Dance. 

Me: Will you dance?

Girl: No. 

Me: If you will dance, I will dance.
Girl: Do you know Michael Jackson?

Me: No, I have never met him. Have you?

Girl: Yes. He can sing. I have a cassette. You know Michael Jackson?

Me: I know who he is, but I have never met him. I think his brother came to Gambia?

Girl: Do you know Michael Jackson?

Me: No. 

Girl: My father is in Angola. 

Me: Is my father in Angola? No, he is in America. 

Girl: My father is in Angola. 

Me: Who is in Angola? 

A pause, in which I realize she is referring to her own father.

Girl: He is a toubab, like you. 

Me: Has he been there a long time?

Girl: Yes.

Me: Is he working in Angola?

Girl: Yes. My mother is dead.

Me: Who are you living with?

Girl: My sister. Fanta. 

The girl looks around, trying to spot Fanta.

Girl: I want you to meet; you will be like this [she holds her two index fingers side by side]

At this point in our conversation, Fatou Bobo is summoning me away to a different corner of the party, so I conclude:

Me: What is your name?

Girl: Haja. 

Me: Haja?

Girl: Haja Jallow. I think you are also Jallow?

Me: Yes, Binta Jallow. Okay, I am going now.