By David Kujabi
In 2015, I met a man briefly during a peacekeeping mission in Darfur. He was Senegalese. I was Gambian. We shared a surname and a few hours of conversation while waiting for a helicopter. That was all. Five years later, that same man would drive through heavy rain in the middle of the night to pick me up from an airport in Dakar. He would coordinate with colleagues to fast-track me through immigration. He would refuse to let me find my own way home. My own department, where I had served for eleven years, had just told me to figure it out on my own. A near stranger showed me what loyalty actually looks like. That is the story I want to tell. It is not a story about me. It is a story about the bonds that hold security officers together, bonds that sometimes prove stronger than institutional obligation.
In 2015, amidst a peacekeeping mission in Darfur, I crossed paths with Abdou Goudiaby, though I also know him as Abdou Kujabi. He was a dedicated member of the Senegalese Formed Police Unit stationed in Nertiti, Central Darfur, while I was deployed at the Mukjar Team Site in the same region. What began as a chance encounter evolved into a profound brotherhood and an inspiring display of camaraderie, especially when my own department left me in a challenging situation.
We met briefly when Abdou and his colleagues stopped at our team site in Mukjar, waiting for their chopper during a transit. The natural bond between Gambian and Senegalese officers, rooted in the Senegambia relationship, made it easy for my fellow Gambian police officer, Abdoulie Jallow, and me to connect with them. Furthermore, Abdou and I shared the same surname, which naturally drew us closer. Though our paths diverged after that encounter, we stayed in touch, occasionally communicating until the end of our mission.
At some point, we lost contact. But thanks to social media, specifically Facebook, we occasionally stayed in touch. In 2018, while I pursued my master’s degree in the United Kingdom, Abdou’s unwavering encouragement and motivation proved crucial in keeping me focused on my goals. He was not a relative. He was not a colleague. He was simply someone who believed in supporting a brother in uniform.
My studies concluded in December 2019. I eagerly anticipated returning home in April 2020. However, the rapid spread of COVID-19 across Europe led to a widespread lockdown. Flights were grounded, including the one I had already booked. Consequently, I endured an extended five month stay in the United Kingdom, awaiting any opportunity to return.
As my approved study leave period neared its end, I informed the Office of the Inspector General of Police about my situation. When lockdown restrictions gradually eased and flights resumed, I attempted to secure a flight home. Unfortunately, The Gambia remained under lockdown. I was stuck.
In this trying time, a Gambian military colleague who had also completed studies in Japan suggested a solution. He advised booking a flight to Dakar, Senegal, and requesting my department to arrange transportation from there. This privilege had been accorded to him by the Gambia Armed Forces. He reasoned that, given my seniority as a police officer, I should also receive that same support. I had kept the office of the IGP informed of my situation. I assumed they could lend me the assistance to get home safely.
Before booking the flight to Senegal, I officially notified the IGP’s office of my intention to return via Dakar. I requested pickup arrangements. Regrettably, my request went unanswered. I reached out to the Personal Assistant of the IGP. He told me that my request was on the IGP’s desk and promised to follow up on it. When he finally got back to me, the news was not good. The advice was that I should try to find my way home, and the office would see what it could do afterwards. I understood then that if I had to make it home, I would do so without the help of my institution.
I felt a specific kind of disappointment in that moment. It was not anger. It was not even a surprise, entirely. It was the quiet recognition that eleven years of service did not translate into the support I needed when I was stranded far from home. That realisation stings in a way that is hard to describe.
Undeterred, I proceeded with my travel plans. Given the evolving COVID protocols, I contacted Abdou for information on Senegal’s entry requirements. I did not expect much. I simply needed practical advice.
To my astonishment, Abdou demonstrated a level of support that my own department, where I had served for eleven years, had not. Not only did he provide the necessary information, but he also offered to pick me up from Dakar’s airport and drive me to the Karan border. His generosity went even further. He coordinated with a colleague at the airport to expedite my immigration process.
This remarkable arrangement was made without my prior knowledge. I vividly recall the moment at the arrival lounge at 1 AM. A police officer called my name. He escorted me through a swift and efficient immigration process, ensuring I was out of the airport ahead of other passengers. I had done nothing to arrange this. Abdou had done it all. Waiting outside the arrival gate, he greeted me warmly.
This second meeting between us, five years after our first encounter, took place under heavy rain that night. It was a testament to the essence of esprit de corps, a bond understood by any professional security officer. Abdou’s actions transcended borders. They served as a powerful reminder that, regardless of the countries we serve, individuals in the same profession are more than comrades. They are family.
He drove me to the border. He made sure I crossed safely. He refused to accept anything in return. When I thanked him, he simply said, ” That’s what brothers do.”
I crossed into The Gambia and made my way to Banjul. I had planned my trip without informing my family, not wanting to worry them with the uncertainty of my journey. But to my long-time mentor and commander, Ansumana Kinteh, I had kept him posted on every development. He was one officer who had consistently supported me through my most challenging times at the GPF. When others hesitated, he stood firm. When I needed guidance, he provided it. He is not just a superior. He is a pillar.
What I did not know was that he had taken the personal initiative to welcome me home. He had called Amdalai Border Crossing Point to arrange all the help I needed. When I arrived at the Banjul terminal, exhausted from the long journey and still processing the generosity I had received from Abdou, I was pleasantly surprised to see Kinteh waiting there. He had come personally to receive me. He drove me home to my family.
In that moment, I understood something fully. The institutions we serve may let us down. The systems we work within may fail us. But the people, the individual officers who choose to show up, who choose to care, who choose to act when no policy requires it, they are the true backbone of any profession. Abdou Goudiaby, a Senegalese officer I had met once, drove in heavy rain to bring me home. Ansumana Kinteh, a Gambian officer who had mentored me for years, drove to Banjul Ferry Terminal to do the same. One showed me that brotherhood knows no nationality. The other showed me that loyalty, true loyalty, does not expire when you leave the office.
I am grateful to both. I carry them with me. And I try every day to be that kind of person for someone else. That is the legacy I want to leave. Not a title. Not a rank. Just the willingness to show up when it matters most.
I have told this story not to embarrass my former department but to illustrate a truth. Institutional loyalty can disappoint you. Personal loyalty, the loyalty of one officer to another across borders and years, can save you. Abdou Goudiaby had no obligation to help me. He was not my relative. He was not my colleague. He was a man I had met once, briefly, in a war-torn region. Yet he treated me like family. That experience taught me something about the profession I had chosen. The badge matters. But the person wearing it matters more. And the bonds we form with fellow officers, bonds of shared sacrifice and mutual respect, can outlast any institutional failure. I am grateful to Abdou. I am grateful for that rainy night in Dakar. And I carry that lesson with me still. When someone needs help, you help. You do not ask which country they come from or which badge they carry. You simply act. That is esprit de corps. That is brotherhood.
