In the shade of a large mango tree in a sandy courtyard of her village in northwestern Senegal, Khady Sène rhythmically weaves reeds, the first steps in making a colorful basket.

Although this craft, typical of this West African country, is sold all over the world, sometimes at high prices, the women who produce these baskets feel they do not reap the benefits commensurate with their success.

Like many afternoons during the week, Khady Sène and about ten other women meet to braid, a technique passed down from mother to daughter for generations.

The women of the village of Mborine rarely have the opportunity to leave this remote region of Senegal, but their creations can be found in decoration shops in the United States or France.

For an authentic "Made in Senegal" basket, prices can reach hundreds of euros, of which the Senegalese artisans receive a tiny share.

"I've been doing this job since I was born," Khady Sène told AFP in her yard, where animals can be heard bleating behind the cinder block walls.

These baskets, originating from Wolof villages in the northwest of the country, are woven with reeds bound together with colored plastic threads, formerly palm fibers.

Laundry baskets, storage boxes or presentation trays: women produce a variety of woven objects that are sold on the roadsides of Senegal and in craft markets.

"Those who buy them at the market take them from us at a ridiculously low price that doesn't even allow us to cover our costs," protests this 35-year-old mother.

While a laundry basket can be sold for around 13,000 CFA francs (20 euros) at the market, those exported abroad - through intermediaries - can sell for more than 150 euros.

Khady Sène would like more help from the authorities to defend this craft with its strong national identity and to help women "make a living from this work".

Especially since, if you look closely at the label of some similar products in Western stores, there is a good chance that they were made in Vietnam, a major producer of copies.

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During a trip to Vietnam in 2017, Fatima Jobe, a Senegalese-Gambian architect, was astonished to discover a wholesaler presenting himself as the world's largest exporter of Senegalese-style basketry... although it was made in Asia.

Having already established connections with basket weavers, she decided to take action to defend them. "There are all these wonderful basket weavers who are ready to work," Fatima Jobe told AFP.

A few years later, she now owns Imadi, a well-known basket shop in Dakar, which works with 260 women, including Khady Sène, in 15 villages.

Most of the designs are her own creations, often in muted colors and adorned with leather, which she manages to export abroad. Some are intended to be traditional, like the winnowing baskets called "layu," while others are innovations.

Fatima Jobe doesn't earn a living from Imadi and has another job. But she hopes one day to make this business her livelihood.

She implemented a higher wage scale, banned child labor, and was able to fund village schools. She personally delivers the raw materials directly to the women and then transports the baskets, saving them time at the markets.

Those who "pay us according to our efforts" like Fatima Jobe are "rare," testifies Khady Sène.

And Senegal lacks the infrastructure and support needed to compete with major Vietnamese exporters, laments Fatima Jobe.

"Ridiculously low prices"

In her shop along a dusty national road about thirty kilometers from Mborine, Fatim Ndoye sells colorful baskets of all sizes to tourists.

She buys them from women in the region on Mondays at the market. "Baskets sell for ridiculously low prices in Senegal," she says, explaining that she sells 3,000 francs (4.5 euros) worth of baskets per day during the week and 10,000 francs (15 euros) on weekends.

Despite the tiny margins, these revenues are essential in a country where thousands of young people are leaving to escape economic hardship.

Adama Fall, a 49-year-old widow, manages to support her family by working as a coordinator for Imadi and by weaving large baskets.

In his village of Thiembe, several young men set off to try and reach Europe by pirogue via the perilous Atlantic route. Four of them have not been heard from in five years.

Near her in the yard, her youngest daughter plays with a group of children around the baskets they have made: the seams are undone, plastic threads stick out, but they contain the knowledge of the generations that preceded them.