with Rohey Samba
Part 7
Matou had always thought of school as her escape. It was the one place where she could temporarily forget the struggles at home—the oppressive silence that followed the daily arguments between her stepmother and her mother, the humiliation of her father’s violence, the ever-present tension that clung to their house like a suffocating fog. Matou feared violence. She was a gentle child. One time she came home late, having spent most of time playing with the other school children after school closed. She didn’t only feel corrected after the incident, she felt crushed by her father’s harsh response. She felt she her spirit broken. School was where Matou could be a child again, unburdened by the weight of responsibilities she had no business shouldering at her age.
The little school they attended, situated in a large compound surrounded by different fruit trees, was a simple building with bare walls and small wooden desks. Yet it was a world unto itself, where Matou could lose herself in the rhythms of daily lessons and the carefree play of childhood. The teachers, missionaries from far-off lands, were kind but strict, and they taught everything in English, though the children, including Matou, were still learning to grasp it fully. Despite the rigidity of the classroom, there was a sense of freedom in the air, a quiet promise that here, among the chalkboards and small wooden chairs, things could be better.
At seven years old, Matou was still a child of wonder. The days stretched out like endless summers, filled with games and laughter. There were other children at school, and though some were distant, Matou had found friends who made her feel seen and understood. The girls—Haddy Garjo, Binta Jadama, and Sannu Sey—were her close companions. Matou loved them with all her heart, and they, in turn, adored her. They were a tight-knit group, always together during break times, giggling over shared secrets and running through the open fields that surrounded the school.
Haddy Garjo was especially special to Matou. Tall for her age, Haddy towered over Matou’s slight frame, but it wasn’t just her height that made Haddy stand out. It was the way she carried herself—non-judgmental, always smiling, and incredibly kind. Haddy was the protector of the group, especially when the other kids teased Matou for her strong accent. She would stand in front of Matou, her eyes fierce, ready to fight off any taunts. Matou felt safe behind her, knowing that Haddy had her back.
In school, Matou was learning things she had never known before. The missionaries were the teachers, and their classrooms were filled with new languages and unfamiliar words. She had never heard English spoken in such a structured way before, and though it was difficult at first, the more she heard, the more it made sense. Her teacher, a kind woman with soft eyes and a gentle voice, would teach them about the world beyond their village, about faraway places where people spoke different languages and wore different clothes.
Matou loved those lessons. She loved hearing about new lands, new cultures, and imagining a world far from the confines of her home. It felt as though there was so much to explore, and school, with its books and chalkboards, was the key to it all.
In the classroom, the children were all around the same age, seven years old, and their bond was immediate. They sat at their small desks, fidgeting in their seats as they tried to learn the new language that the missionaries spoke. Some children picked it up quickly, others struggled, but the teacher was patient with them all. Matou, though shy, was determined to learn. She would repeat the words the teacher said over and over, practicing in the quiet of her room at home when she wasn’t helping with chores.
“Can I go to the toilet?” Matou would ask in English, even if she stumbled over the words. She wanted to get it right, even though it wasn’t always easy.
Binta, another classmate, always seemed to know when Matou needed help. Binta, quick to learn and quick to smile, would often take Matou under her wing, showing her the correct way to pronounce words or helping her understand the assignments. Matou cherished these moments when her friends took care of her. It made school feel like a safe haven, a place where she was loved and appreciated for who she was, no matter how different she felt from the other children.
But it wasn’t just in the classroom where Matou felt the weight of her experiences. When the bell rang for recess, she would join her friends in games of hide-and-seek, chasing each other through the tall grass behind the school. The laughter of the children echoed through the air, and for a few precious moments, the worries of the world outside the schoolyard would vanish. For Matou, those moments were sacred. They were the moments when she could forget the sorrow and tension in her home and simply be a child.
And then there was the language. As the months passed, Matou’s language skills improved. She learned to speak Mandinka fluently, even though it wasn’t the language she spoke at home. Matou loved the sound of Mandinka, the rhythm of the words, the warmth of the syllables that seemed to carry the spirit of the land. She felt proud of herself each time she spoke it without hesitation, and soon enough, she could converse with the other children easily, without worrying about her accent.
Even when her hair was cut, Matou found that her friends gave her the strength to carry on. Borogie had cut her hair short after the incident with her father, and while it was a painful reminder of everything that had happened, Matou knew that it didn’t define her. She wrapped her head tightly with a scarf, not out of shame but as a way to protect herself from the cruelty of children and of adults whose growth was stunted. She didn’t need to show her hair to prove her worth. It was her heart, her kindness, her strength, and her friendships that mattered the most.
At school, Matou’s friends never lifted her headscarf to tease her. They knew better. Haddy, Binta, and Sannu understood the importance of love and support, especially when things at home weren’t as easy as they seemed. They never questioned her or made her feel inferior. Instead, they made her feel like she belonged, just as she was. And that sense of belonging—of being accepted for who she truly was—was the greatest gift school gave her.
But even amidst the joy of learning, the sharp pain of home lingered in Matou’s mind. She often found herself thinking about her mother. There was no escaping the memories of the violence, the tense silence that had settled over their home after the incident. Her mother had been different ever since, carrying a weight Matou couldn’t understand. She could feel it in the way Borogie looked at her, as though the joy had drained from her soul.
On one occasion, when Matou returned home from school, she noticed that Nata, who had been bedridden for so long, had gotten better. But even though the physical pain had healed, Matou could sense that something was still missing. There was an emptiness in Nata’s eyes, a dullness that made her seem far away. It wasn’t just the shock of the beatings, though that still haunted Matou’s dreams. It was something deeper, something that had changed in the very fabric of their family.
When Borogie called for Matou, it wasn’t the usual warmth in her voice. There was a weariness there, a sadness that made Matou’s heart ache. Borogie, despite her strength, was no longer the woman she had once been. It was as if the weight of the years had finally caught up with her. She smiled at Matou, but it was a smile tinged with sorrow, a smile that couldn’t quite reach her eyes.
Matou tried to ignore the sadness that clung to her mother’s spirit. She focused instead on the small, beautiful moments at school, the moments when she could laugh with her friends, when they would play and forget their worries. She clung to these moments, knowing that they were her escape, her haven from the pain and confusion of her life at home.
Even now, as Matou sat with her friends in the schoolyard, laughing and chatting with Haddy, Binta, and Sannu, she could still feel the weight of her circumstances. But for that brief time, in that small corner of the world, she was free. Free from the pain, free from the sadness, free to just be a child, surrounded by friends who cared for her.
For Matou, school would always be a place of refuge, a place where the simple act of learning, of playing, and of being surrounded by friends gave her a sense of normalcy in a life that often felt anything but…
