Khadim Ndiaye, 33, sells sunglasses in Manhattan while facing the risk of deportation. His home is a crowded Bronx apartment with five roommates. On Canal Street, he offers Prada, Gucci, and Fendi-branded shades in a range of styles. Some shifts bring cash. Others leave him with nothing.
The trip from Dakar, Senegal, to New York was no easy feat. Ndiaye crossed the Atlantic, then took a risky land route through Latin America. His goal was simple. Find work, help his family, and build a decent life in America. He has also filed an asylum claim.
But getting work has been rough for many new arrivals. Young Senegalese men often end up selling coffee, bags, and other goods on sidewalks. A study by the Immigration Research Initiative found that Senegalese people made up 55% of the city's general goods vendors.
Street sales come with real risks. Police can take fake brand-name goods, leaving sellers with no stock. Federal immigration officers also detained at least five Senegalese sellers during a Canal Street operation. Under President Donald Trump's deportation push, fear has spread across the community.
To stay alert, sellers use WhatsApp chats to flag police activity and ICE patrols. It's a tense way to earn a living. Ndiaye has faced poor treatment, yet he still hopes America can offer a fair chance to people willing to work.
Jeanne Batalova, a Migration Policy Institute analyst, sees a clear problem. New migrants often get little help with settling in, even when they badly need jobs. Some also arrive with large debts to human smugglers, which adds pressure to earn cash fast.
Amadou Ly, who runs the Amadou Ly Foundation, wants city officials to put more effort into jobs and less into policing fake goods. His group aids migrants who may lack strong public support or a voice in local policy.
Over in Harlem, Ousmane Diop leads AFRIC'A.R.T., a group he set up to aid African newcomers. He estimates that roughly 10,000 Senegalese people entered via the southern border during a past surge. Housing, jobs, and fitting into city life all became urgent issues.
English lessons, shelter help, and asylum guidance are part of the group's work. Diop, who gained asylum in 2018, also sees migrants skipping court out of fear that immigration agents may arrest them there.
Abdoul Azez Kasse, 35, has a different headache. His work permit expired, and delays in renewal left him selling wallets. Almost 20 relatives back in Senegal rely on his income. His Baye Fall faith keeps him focused on earning, even from small sales.
That faith belongs to the Mouride Sufi tradition, where prayer and labor have deep ties. For members of the Baye Fall group, earning an honest living can be a form of devotion.
There's some friction within Harlem's Le Petit Sénégal community as well. Marie Ndiaye, 36, grew up in the United States and has helped new migrants through rights workshops and spare housing. Still, she finds some claims that older residents failed to help newcomers unfair.
At the same time, she credits the fresh arrivals with bringing more Senegalese culture to 116th Street after years of gentrification. Their clothes, speech, and daily customs have even helped her improve her Wolof.
Malamine Bamba, 33, has his own daily routine. He walks around Harlem with 10 liters of café touba, a Senegalese drink made with coffee and djar pepper. Sales can bring him $80 to $90 on a good shift.
That cash covers living costs, family support, and a $10,000 smuggling debt from his trip through South America. Roughly half has been repaid. Bamba treats sharing the spiced drink as a religious duty, and he keeps making fresh batches after each sellout.
For Bamba, hard work and faith remain reasons to stay hopeful. Even with debt and an uncertain future, he believes his efforts can lead to a better life.
The trip from Dakar, Senegal, to New York was no easy feat. Ndiaye crossed the Atlantic, then took a risky land route through Latin America. His goal was simple. Find work, help his family, and build a decent life in America. He has also filed an asylum claim.
But getting work has been rough for many new arrivals. Young Senegalese men often end up selling coffee, bags, and other goods on sidewalks. A study by the Immigration Research Initiative found that Senegalese people made up 55% of the city's general goods vendors.
Street sales come with real risks. Police can take fake brand-name goods, leaving sellers with no stock. Federal immigration officers also detained at least five Senegalese sellers during a Canal Street operation. Under President Donald Trump's deportation push, fear has spread across the community.
To stay alert, sellers use WhatsApp chats to flag police activity and ICE patrols. It's a tense way to earn a living. Ndiaye has faced poor treatment, yet he still hopes America can offer a fair chance to people willing to work.
Jeanne Batalova, a Migration Policy Institute analyst, sees a clear problem. New migrants often get little help with settling in, even when they badly need jobs. Some also arrive with large debts to human smugglers, which adds pressure to earn cash fast.
Amadou Ly, who runs the Amadou Ly Foundation, wants city officials to put more effort into jobs and less into policing fake goods. His group aids migrants who may lack strong public support or a voice in local policy.
Over in Harlem, Ousmane Diop leads AFRIC'A.R.T., a group he set up to aid African newcomers. He estimates that roughly 10,000 Senegalese people entered via the southern border during a past surge. Housing, jobs, and fitting into city life all became urgent issues.
English lessons, shelter help, and asylum guidance are part of the group's work. Diop, who gained asylum in 2018, also sees migrants skipping court out of fear that immigration agents may arrest them there.
Abdoul Azez Kasse, 35, has a different headache. His work permit expired, and delays in renewal left him selling wallets. Almost 20 relatives back in Senegal rely on his income. His Baye Fall faith keeps him focused on earning, even from small sales.
That faith belongs to the Mouride Sufi tradition, where prayer and labor have deep ties. For members of the Baye Fall group, earning an honest living can be a form of devotion.
There's some friction within Harlem's Le Petit Sénégal community as well. Marie Ndiaye, 36, grew up in the United States and has helped new migrants through rights workshops and spare housing. Still, she finds some claims that older residents failed to help newcomers unfair.
At the same time, she credits the fresh arrivals with bringing more Senegalese culture to 116th Street after years of gentrification. Their clothes, speech, and daily customs have even helped her improve her Wolof.
Malamine Bamba, 33, has his own daily routine. He walks around Harlem with 10 liters of café touba, a Senegalese drink made with coffee and djar pepper. Sales can bring him $80 to $90 on a good shift.
That cash covers living costs, family support, and a $10,000 smuggling debt from his trip through South America. Roughly half has been repaid. Bamba treats sharing the spiced drink as a religious duty, and he keeps making fresh batches after each sellout.
For Bamba, hard work and faith remain reasons to stay hopeful. Even with debt and an uncertain future, he believes his efforts can lead to a better life.
