Matou was small for her seven years. Her limbs, thin and fragile, struggled under the weight of each step, burdened by the long trek to Bakau School. The walk was more than just a commute; it was an endurance test, an endless challenge for her tiny frame. The humid morning air hung heavy, thick with moisture, clinging to her skin like an unwanted blanket. Each breath she took felt labored, her lungs fighting the oppressive heat that made the air almost unbearable. As she trudged along the uneven, waterlogged path, she carefully navigated the puddles, aware that her bare feet would soon be caked in mud. Her sandals—hand-me-downs from a neighbor’s older daughter—were little more than scraps of leather, worn thin and fraying at the edges. They offered almost no protection from the muck that splashed onto her legs with each passing cart.
The donkey carts rattled by, their wooden wheels creaking with every turn, splashing muddy rainwater onto the path. The sloshing sound of the wheels turning, combined with the distant chatter of the market and the bleating of goats, filled the air. The carts left behind a trail of muddy streaks on Matou’s legs and school uniform, a faded yellow dress that had once been bright but now looked washed-out and patched in several places. Sweat dripped steadily from her forehead, slipping into her eyes, blurring her vision as she hurried forward. The collar of her dress, soaked with sweat, clung to her skin, and she wiped her brow with the back of her hand, not caring that her sleeve smeared with the dirt from her forehead. Her breath came in quick gasps, and still, she pressed on, knowing she couldn’t afford to slow down.
The sight of her mother, Borogie, waving her off that morning still lingered in her mind. Borogie had stood at the edge of their compound, her long sleeves rolled up and dirt under her fingernails from the morning’s work in the fields. Together, they had walked toward the garden, their feet sinking slightly into the soft earth as they moved past the rows of young crops. Matou remembered the way Borogie’s hands moved rhythmically, watering the plants in slow, steady motions, a quiet prayer for them to grow strong.
“Hurry, Matou! Don’t be late again,” Borogie’s voice had called out, soft but firm, filled with a quiet urgency. Matou had nodded, her fingers clenching tighter around her tattered school bag, the one that had seen better days. She had promised she would hurry, but deep down, she knew she was already behind. The dread of Aunty May’s reprimand gnawed at her insides, filling her stomach with a sickening twist. Her mind raced, wondering if the headmistress would finally lose patience with her, if today would be the day she was sent home for good.
At home, her older sister Nata was already deep into her morning chores. Nata was always the dependable one, the one who shouldered the household responsibilities without a word of complaint. Nata, with her quiet strength, had become the cornerstone of their home since the arrival of Mbentoung Mballow, their granduncle’s new wife. The arrival of Mbentoung had turned their daily rhythm upside down. With the new woman in the house, the roles and responsibilities had shifted, and things had become more complicated. The older women in the family, once free to tend to the farm and fields, now had to rotate cooking meals for the household. This new dynamic had left Nata to shoulder much of the extra burden.
Nata swept the compound with her usual diligence, moving with precision as she collected the dry leaves and debris from the previous day. Then, without pause, she gathered the water pots and took them to the well, filling them to prepare for the next batch of cooking. After that, she would wash the bowls from the night before and still find time to finish cooking lunch before heading to the fields with their mother. It wasn’t uncommon for Nata to step in for their mother, cooking the evening meal if Borogie was too tired or busy with the fields. Matou, in contrast, was left largely to herself, sheltered from the adult burdens that came with the household, but that also meant she was often left alone in the world of school, carrying her worries on her tiny shoulders.
The sun was higher in the sky by the time Matou reached the gate of Bakau School, and the usual noise of children’s chatter and laughter had died down. The early-morning play, where students would race to claim their favorite spots on the playground, was now replaced by the organised chaos of the school day. Students filed into their classrooms, chattering in low voices as they prepared for the lessons ahead. The once-vibrant schoolyard, filled with colorful chalk drawings and the echoes of childhood games, had become a space of order and routine. The smell of chalk dust and the faint scent of freshly washed uniforms filled the air.
Standing at the entrance of the school, the figure of Aunty May loomed large. Her posture was stiff, her blouse starched to perfection, and her face set in a permanent frown. Flanked by two prefects, she exuded authority, her presence commanding the respect of every child who passed by. The younger children parted like the Red Sea, instinctively moving aside to avoid her gaze.
When Matou finally approached the gate, breathless and with her legs shaking from the long walk, Aunty May’s sharp voice cut through the morning air. “Matou, you are late again,” she said, her tone unforgiving and stern. There was no warmth in her words, only the cold weight of disappointment. Matou’s heart sank, the familiar sting of shame filling her chest.
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and, in a small, timid voice, greeted the prefects and then Aunty May. “Good morning, school prefects. Good morning, Madam Headmistress,” she said, trying to sound confident, though her voice quivered.
Aunty May’s frown deepened as she took in Matou’s appearance—her dirt-streaked uniform, her bare feet, the dampness of her face. “How many times must we have this conversation, Matou?” she asked, her gaze locking onto the small girl. “Do you not understand the opportunity you’ve been given? This is your chance to better your life—and your family’s! Why are you wasting it?”
Matou swallowed hard, the words like lumps in her throat. Her stomach churned with a mixture of embarrassment and helplessness. How could she explain? How could she tell Aunty May that her mornings began before dawn, helping Nata sweep the compound and prepare for the day? How could she convey the weight of her stepmother’s slow mornings that delayed breakfast and left her hungry? How could she say all this in the language that never seemed to fit her properly, the words not quite reaching the surface, struggling to stay in place?
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her gaze fell to the ground, unable to meet the stern eyes of the headmistress. The silence stretched on, suffocating, as Aunty May’s gaze drilled into her. And all Matou could do was stand there, small and silent, her heart pounding with the knowledge that, no matter how hard she tried, she was never quite good enough.
“Matou,” Aunty May continued, “this is not just about you. When you are late, you squander the sacrifices your mother has made for you to be here. Bring her tomorrow. I need to understand why this continues.”
Matou nodded, her eyes stinging. She knew her mother, already burdened with work, would have to face yet another challenge. The weight of guilt pressed down on her as she followed Aunty May to the Primary 1 section, the stares of the prefects burning into her back.
The classroom buzzed with soft murmurs when Matou entered. The teacher had already begun the roll call, her voice crisp and methodical. Matou slipped into her seat, avoiding the curious gazes of her classmates.
“Matou Jallow,” the teacher called out.
Matou hesitated. Her family name was not Jallow—it was Jawo. She knew the teacher had likely changed it, finding “Jawo” unfamiliar or difficult to spell. But Matou, timid and eager to avoid conflict, responded quietly, “Present.”
The head mistress frowned. “Your name is not Jallow,” she said, her tone impatient. “Why are you responding to Jallow? You are Jawo.”
Matou’s cheeks burned as her classmates giggled. She felt a mix of embarrassment and relief. While she was grateful her name was being corrected, the public nature of the exchange left her feeling exposed.
“Rewrite her name,” the Aunty May instructed. “J-A-W-O. It’s not difficult.”
Matou watched as the correction was made, a strange tension settling in her chest. She felt both vindicated and diminished, reminded of how easily others could alter her identity without her consent.
Bakau School in the early 1970s was a microcosm of Gambian society. Children from affluent families arrived in polished shoes and neatly pressed uniforms, their lunches packed in pristine tins. Then there were students like Matou, whose faded attire and patched sandals betrayed their modest backgrounds. Her dialect, steeped in the rhythms of Fulladu, marked her as a stranger, an outsider navigating unfamiliar terrain.
Her integration was not easy. Some classmates teased her, calling her “Matou Farmer” when the teachers weren’t listening. Others, drawn to her quiet determination, shared their snacks with her or invited her into their games. Despite the challenges, Matou found solace in the classroom, where her thirst for knowledge outweighed her insecurities.
In a school that prized English as a mark of modernity, Matou’s accent became both a source of curiosity and ridicule. Her teachers, though well-meaning, often corrected her pronunciation harshly, emphasizing the need for “proper” English. But Matou persevered, practicing her lessons under the dim light of the family’s kerosene lamp each evening.
Despite the teasing, Matou found moments of connection. During recess, she would often sit under the shade of a large baobab tree with a group of girls who shared her curiosity about the world. Together, they would trade stories—Matou speaking of her life in Fulladu, her friends marveling at the idea of vast rice paddies and life in a village.
Her perseverance did not go unnoticed. Aunty May, though strict, began to recognize Matou’s potential. “This girl has a fire,” she remarked one day during a staff meeting. “If we can keep her on the right path, she’ll make something of herself.”
For Matou, the school was more than a place of learning—it was a bridge to a world she barely understood but desperately wanted to be part of. It was a world where her name, her identity, and her dreams were finally starting to take shape.
