By Nyang Njie
My beloved children, sons and daughters of the winding river and sun-kissed plains, hear my voice weary yet unbroken. I am Kambi Bolongho, your Mother Gambia, whose soil has cradled your ancestors and whose waters have quenched your thirst for centuries. Today, I write not with pride, but with a heart heavy with sorrow, for the legacy of sacrifice that birthed this nation now lies trampled beneath your feet.
For 400 years, I endured the lash of foreign masters Portuguese, French, and British who plundered my body in the name of gods they did not understand. Yet, from this crucible of suffering rose giants: EF Small, PS Njie, ME Jallow, Sanjally Bojang, Maba Jahou, Solo Sandeng, and Femi Peters. These were not mere men; they were flames of defiance, who dared to dream of a nation free. They bore humiliation so you might stand tall. But what have you done with their sacrifice? You fill the dump site of Bakoteh with names like Jemus Jammeh and Seedy Njie, those who ransacked my treasures and left scars on my soul. You shame their memory.
In 1965, when the British finally loosened their grip, I wept with hope. David Kwesi Kairaba promised redemption, but his courage faltered. Then came Kukoi, the maverick who lit fires of rebellion in 1981, only to leave ashes in his wake. And Jemus of Kanilai the brute who claimed to heal but instead shattered my bones for two decades. His banishment brought fleeting relief, yet his shadow still chills your hearts.
Now, you rally behind Barrow of the Upper River, but 96 moons into this “transition,” I see only bickering and greed. You consult me on laws and reforms, yet your hands remain stained. Hospitals rot, schools crumble, and roads dissolve into dust while you pilfer the coffers meant to mend my wounds. Fatou and Ancha, my daughters, stumble as functional illiterates; Samba and Pateh flee to deserts and distant shores, chasing mirages of hope. Is this the nation our martyrs died for?
I am sick and tired of being sick and tired as one of my offspring Rosa Perks once said in Alabama. My rivers weep with plastic, my forests gasp for breath as the Wanton greed of wayward children decimate, Monkey Park, Salagi and Nyambai forest, and my people my children sell their dignity for crumbs. You ask, where were you when I needed you? I care not for excuses. I care only for action.
Hear me now: If you continue to disgrace my name, I will collapse into the arms of Senegal Ndiaye, my elder brother, and let his currents swallow what remains of my pride. Do not force me to this end.
“Doleh denkaneh la” lead with mercy, for your wrath falls upon your own kin. To all my children, remember the words of Kochi Barma Fall “Jurr mou deh do yaradaal. Jurr nyou nyakaa barkeh moyee yaradaal” a nation thrives not on greed, but on shared purpose.
Rise, my children. Let the ghosts of Solo Sandeng and Maba Jahou stir your conscience. Let the courage of those who faced colonial whips ignite your resolve. Rebuild my schools, heal my hospitals, and root out the rot of corruption. Barrow must have a rethink because I gave him a chance to unite the elders and the restless youth, for my salvation lies in your hands.
Yerem len maa y Tass naa teh awmaa kaataan. I weep for you. My strength wanes with each passing day. Do not let my last breath be one of despair. Wake up, Gambia. Before the night swallows us all.
Yours forever,
Mother Gambia.
