It was a normal Saturday morning in the compound, where the day began slowly, almost reluctantly, as if the earth itself still clung to the remnants of sleep. The early morning quiet was broken by the sounds of animals clucking and bleating, the familiar chorus that marked the start of the day. The chickens were fed, pecking at the mixture of grains and the scraps of leftover food from the evening meal. As the morning sun poured over the compound, the goats eagerly jostled with the chickens, fighting over the same scraps, their cloven hooves scrapping against the dry earth.
At the other end of the compound, Borogie bent over a basket of laundry. She worked quietly, her movements almost meditative, as she methodically folded the clothes. Her voice, once hoarse from the shock of the recent events, was now clear again, singing softly under her breath. The melody was familiar, a song of old that her mother had sung when she was a child. After the tumultuous weeks that followed Nata’s beating, Borogie had regained much of her peace. Watching Bubel, her three-year-old son, waddling about with such innocence and joy, brought a small smile to her lips.
Bubel’s feet were growing stronger each day, and today, he had made his way toward the chickens and sheep with a little more confidence than usual. As he approached the animals, a rustle of panic went through them — the chickens fluttered and the sheep shuffled nervously, as if sensing the approaching little boy. Bubel giggled with laughter, clutching a nearby twig like a scepter and waving it at the chickens. They squawked and scattered, and Bubel’s laughter filled the air, pure and unfiltered.
Borogie stood and watched from a distance, amused by her son’s antics. Bubel was growing fast, and his presence was a constant reminder of the joy in her life. He was a symbol of hope, of legacy. Named after her own father, Samba Mawdo whose Muslim name was Bubacarr, he was her pride. Boys held a high place in their society — prestige, wealth, and hope for the future were often wrapped up in the birth of a son. Having Bubel had been a turning point in Borogie’s marriage; his arrival had brought her joy during a time when there was much uncertainty.
She turned her gaze from Bubel to see Matou and Nata talking animatedly. Her heart swelled with affection as she watched them. The scars of the beatings had faded — though not completely — time had a way of healing the visible wounds. Borogie paused, reflecting on how quickly the young ones seemed to recover, how they bounced back from the trauma that had shaken their family to its core. She admired their resilience, but it also filled her with awe and sorrow. For Borogie, the recovery had not been so swift. Even now, the weight of her own suffering was still with her, like a heavy shadow, lingering just out of reach but never fully gone.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Caw Ousman Bah emerging from his bedroom. He was her husband’s uncle, and although he lived in the compound, his presence was less constant. He worked as a caretaker at the Atlantic Hotel in Banjul, and his schedule was demanding. But today was different. It was his day off, and the young ones had not seen him the night before. As he stepped out, he exchanged a few quiet words with his wife, Mbentoung Mballow, who was busy preparing lunch for the family. Caw Ousman, a man of few words, made his way toward the two girls, his grandnieces, as he did every morning. When they saw him, their faces lit up with excitement, and they ran toward him to greet him, their feet kicking up dust as they hurried to meet him.
Ousman Bah, always gentle with the children, reached into his pocket and pulled out small gifts — condiments he had bought from the hotel, rare treats that made the children squeal with delight. “So today,” he asked in his quiet, thoughtful way, “what are your dreams, my grandchildren?” He loved to hear their dreams. Often, when the children had unusual or vivid dreams, he would tell them to share it with him, and he would narrate the dream to Cherno Baba, a malam who lived far from Jeshwang. Cherno Baba was known for interpreting dreams, a practice that fascinated Ousman Bah and the children.
On that particular morning, it was Nata who had a dream. She had always been the one to dream the most vividly among her siblings, and today was no exception. As she stood before her grandfather, her eyes wide and full of excitement, she began to narrate her dream.
“Yesterday,” Nata began, her voice animated with enthusiasm, “I dreamt that Matou had done very well in her exams and was called and received by President Jawara at his residence. Lady Chilel Jawara, his wife, handed a big present to her. Her name was announced on the radio, and she was appointed to work with President Jawara.”
The dream hung in the air, vivid and surreal. Matou, who had been standing nearby, looked up at Nata in astonishment. She had not expected Nata’s dream to be about her. The words, though fantastical, seemed to fill her with a strange sense of possibility. For a moment, Matou found herself lost in the vision her sister had conjured — Matou, standing in front of the president, holding a present given by Lady Chilel Jawara, her name announced on the radio. It was a dream so grand that it almost felt like a wish, a wish that perhaps, one day, could come true.
“Wow, that is a big dream, Nata,” Ousman Bah said with admiration. His voice was warm, and there was a hint of pride in his words. He loved listening to the children’s dreams, their innocent hopes, and unspoken aspirations. He knew they were still young, still dreaming of possibilities that seemed far away, but it filled him with joy to hear them speak with such conviction. “May your dreams come true, my dear,” he added softly.
Nata’s eyes sparkled, and she smiled brightly at Ousman Bah, her heart soaring with the warmth of his words. She had always been a dreamer, someone who believed in the possibilities that lay ahead, even if the world around her was complicated and sometimes harsh. Matou, who had been silent for a moment, found herself drawn into the warmth of the conversation. The image of President Jawara, the first president of The Gambia, seemed so distant, so out of reach. And yet, the dream felt real in a way that made her believe it was possible. Perhaps one day, someone from her family would be recognised in such a way, perhaps one of them would make a difference in the world. The thought was both comforting and awe-inspiring.
As the day wore on, the conversation shifted to the usual chatter about household chores, school, and what the future might hold for each of them. The sounds of the compound began to fade into the background as the family gathered around, settling into their usual rhythm. Matou and Nata continued to chat, their voices blending together as they discussed everything from the smallest things to the bigger dreams that filled their hearts. Ousman Bah stood beside them, quietly listening, content in the presence of his grandchildren and his family.
For Matou, the dream had awakened something deep within her. It was not just about the dream itself, but about the hope it represented. In that moment, she realised how important it was to hold onto dreams, to believe in them, no matter how far-fetched they seemed. She had been living in a world where dreams felt impossible — where her father’s anger had almost stolen the possibility of hope from her. But here, in the warmth of her family, surrounded by love and support, she understood that dreams were not just stories, they were the fuel for the future. And perhaps, just perhaps, one day her name too would be announced for something great.
The children, though young, had an intuitive understanding of the power of dreams. They had seen their mother’s strength and resilience, and though they couldn’t fully comprehend all the complexities of their world, they knew that there was more out there for them. There was a future, one that was not defined by their circumstances but by their own will to create something better.
As they sat together, their voices blending into the warmth of the afternoon, Matou felt a sense of peace that she had not known for a long time. The pain of the past, the trauma that had haunted her family, was still there, lingering like a shadow. But today, in this small, quiet corner of their world, they were whole. They were together, and they were dreaming…
To be contd.
