then i must turn back to the twenty-second week [or actually further back when i met him while he was teaching former junkies how to transform a calebas into a floor lamp] to tell some things about oussou. a technician, musician and craftsman. small man, thirty years old, but his bold face has at most twenty of them. the quarter's children call him `coro' oussou, `grand' oussou. when he's not in front of his court making amazingly sweet arab tea on a little wire coalstove, he's `making the tour' on his rasta coloured mountainbike. and i made the tour with him for a couple of days. visiting friends and parents [lots of parents] around the city. a vast network of the old musicians and artisans of ouaga and the young ones, their children. visiting courts that are mostly the ones that you will find in the villages [`when i build this house with my father, there was nothing but wilderness, later, as the others came and the city grew, we became part of it. but in this quarter nothing has changed really, the families live together on their court, there's no running water, no cars...the only thing is that the kids can't spot raptors like we did, or chase rabbits, because they have disappeared'], listening to endless stories about family, the arts, the first festivals and the strange bond with europe [`we need the europeans, they love our art, our own people don't appreciate it, they buy glossy prints and plastic statues from taiwan'] eating things that i couldn't have dreamt of. at home he's always teaching the children. either how to repair broken bicyclechains or to cut necklaces from wood. and they adore him, as he shares his food with them and talks to them in the same way he talks with dogs, in a kind way, smiling, with serious words that make sense. some days ago he told me about the wonderwoman that he's waiting for. a woman that likes working like he does, being happy with a meal and the goodness of GOD. the woman. his woman. he strongly believes that he'll find here as soon he can offer her that daily meal. he knows about the girls on the streets [many proposed the man with the alpino hat] and about their talks, that his `pile est mort', but he doesn't care, because his friends walk the streets with bent backs after too many busy nights in too many different beds, but not oussou, he feels good because he's sure that she will come, the woman that will give him [by the grace of GOD] his little photocopy oussou. telling about this with a lot of enthusiasm, he turned to me and said: `just imagine, when i will have that woman and she will have me, she will sit right here, under this canopy and she will make me tea [intense satisfied smile] and then when i'm angry one day, i'll sit here on this bench with an angry face and she will look at me and ask `what's wrong?' and i will say `i'm angry'.