Aunty Bae was the first to see him approach the house.|
She had been sitting on the edge of her low wooden bed, by the large jalousie window of her bedroom, brushing her tightly coiled hair with long, slow strokes. The late morning sun had begun to lean toward its noon blaze, and the street shimmered with heat. From her vantage point, shaded by the bougainvillea vine that crawled up the outer wall, she spotted the figure.
He was a thin-framed man, very light-skinned — the kind of light complexion some called hess pech, though in his case, it came with no airs. He walked with purpose, head slightly bowed, as if deep in thought. On his legs, he wore a chaaya — a large, loose short trouser that swayed gently from side to side with each unhurried step. It was burnished cream, frayed at the edges with age, but freshly laundered and crisply ironed. His top, a lighter cotton — poplin maybe — was armless, with a V-neck, pale as the sun-bleached walls of the compound.
He was barefoot. Unbothered by the white-hot gravel road or the unforgiving sun. There was something almost saintly about his gait — serious, meditative—but not harsh. Not angry. A quiet determination cloaked him like something invisible yet immense.
“Who is that?” Aunty Bae whispered to herself, leaning further out for a better glimpse.
She didn’t recognise him. And in this neighbourhood, she knew everyone. Who was this man? And why was he coming to her house?
As the questions buzzed in her head, a shrill cry pierced the quiet midday.
“Baba! Baba!”
Matou.
The child who had been sent to buy bouillon cubes and tomato paste from the corner shop came dashing back toward the man, her tiny legs kicking up dust, arms stretched wide in frantic joy. The man, startled at first, stopped mid-step — and then, as if a storm of light burst through his stern demeanour, his face cracked open into a grin. It was wide, warm, beautiful. So sudden and full of life that, for a second, Aunty Bae wondered if it was even the same man she’d seen moments before.
He dropped to one knee and caught Matou in his arms, wrapping her in a long, fierce embrace that seemed to swallow her whole. Borogie was right, he thought pensively, his daughter had lost so much weight she was barely recognisable. Matou, unaware of her father’s turmoil, squealed in delight, nestling her face into his neck, giggling uncontrollably as he lifted her with both arms and spun her gently once before setting her down. Then he cupped her face in his hands, eyes locked into hers, speaking to her with such intensity — no, tenderness — that it caught Aunty Bae by surprise.
It was like watching a man hold his entire world in his hands.
Aunty Bae couldn’t look away.
There was a sacredness in the way he treated the little girl — as if she were made of glass, precious, breakable, irreplaceable. He crouched low again to her level, brushing dust off her cheeks, adjusting the twisted hem of her dress, even picking a stray leaf from her hair. All the while smiling, talking, laughing. She beamed back at him, animated and unfiltered — the kind of joy that only comes from being seen — truly seen — by someone who loves you.
Aunty Bae watched from her window and felt the beginnings of a sob claw at her throat.
How could there be so much love in the midst of such visible poverty?
His clothes, though clean, spoke of hard times. His feet were cracked at the heel, the edges of his chaaya threadbare. He had no shoes, no wristwatch, no aura of wealth or class. And yet there, in that sunlit moment, with dust clinging to his ankles and sweat trickling down his temples, he looked richer than any man she had ever known.
She looked down at herself then.
At her satin wrapper, at her bangles stacked high on her wrist, at the gold chain resting against her ample chest. The polished tiles beneath her feet. The electric fan spinning lazily overhead. The scent of imported body lotion lingering in the air. And for what?
Her house was full of opulence—too full. But it was hollow. There was no warmth like what she had just witnessed. Her wealth had built her a house, but not a home.
If only, she thought bitterly. If only I had ever received that kind of love from my own father… I would’ve been the happiest woman alive.
But she hadn’t.
Aunty Bae, born Beatrice Williams, had known nothing of tenderness. Her father, a man of stature and means, one of the first Gambians to work under the British colonial administration in the 1950s, had been cruel, dismissive, and cold. The failure to bear a son was, in his eyes, the greatest sin his wife and daughters could commit. And they paid dearly for it.
He never had a kind word for Beatrice or her sisters. Not even for their mother — a fragile woman who withered quietly under the weight of his emotional violence, and who turned to alcohol to endure it. Beatrice still remembered her mother drinking to stupor during the day and crying silently at night, her sobs muffled into her wrapper, enduring the humiliation of her husband’s public affairs, his many children born of maids and mistresses. Women talked. The whole town knew. And they pitied the Williams women.
She had learned bitterness the way one learns to walk — stumbling at first, then steadily, until it became her nature.
When she married, she thought love would heal her. Her late husband, Jeremy Joiner — God rest his soul — had tried. He was kind. He had patience like water. But Beatrice, already hardened by life, responded with ice. She tormented him with her moods, insulted him in front of their children, denied him softness. Her pain became her weapon. She wielded it mercilessly.
He died quietly. A stroke.
And her children, grown and scattered, barely called or acknowledged her existence — except for her son, with whom she lived, and now her daughter, who had been persuaded to come in with her entire family to fill the big house.
She jolted back to the present. The man — Matou’s father, she now guessed — had stepped inside the gate, still holding the girl’s hand, as she led him toward the veranda.
Aunty Bae wiped her eyes quickly, unsure whether she was crying for her own losses or for what she had just seen.
There was something about a father loving a child in this manner — not loudly, not extravagantly, but deeply, like a sacred trust — that undid her.
And just like that, her resentment, so firm and familiar, cracked slightly at the edges.
She closed the window softly, letting the curtain fall back in place. Then she turned and walked slowly toward the front of the house, unsure what she would say, but knowing she had to say something.
Because today, she had witnessed something pure.
Something redemptive.
“To what do we owe your visit, Yerro?” Mr Owens asked lightly, his voice friendly but measured.
The sun had softened into a golden shade, and the wind was starting to pick up, rustling the wide leaves of the avocado tree that shaded the front of the house. Children’s laughter floated from the street, mingling with the clinking of pots in the neighbour’s compound.
Matou had been sent to summon him. She came hesitantly, her eyes darting between her father and her guardian, as if afraid of what the encounter might bring. Yerro had refused to enter the sitting room despite being urged twice by Beatrice. Instead, he stood quietly on the veranda, barefoot, his eyes fixed on the patchy ground beneath him — like a soldier awaiting command. He wasn’t being rude. He just had no interest in velvet-covered chairs, foreign calendars, or glass ashtrays resting on doilies. His business was direct. And heavy.
Mr Owens, a tall, gentle-faced man, walked out of the house and motioned to a plastic stool nearby. He pulled it under the avocado tree and offered it to Yerro.
“Please, have a seat.”
Yerro nodded, murmuring thanks in Fula, and settled slowly onto the stool. His posture was dignified, back straight, eyes steady but soft. He folded his hands together in his lap.
Sellou had been called upon to help translate. Though Yerro spoke some broken English, he preferred Fula — a language in which his voice carried both nuance and conviction.
“I thank you, Mr Owens,” Yerro began, his words slow and deliberate, eyes mostly on the ground but occasionally lifting to meet Mr Owens’. “I thank you and your family for welcoming my daughter, Matou, into your home. You did not have to, but you did. I will not forget that.”
Mr Owens nodded gently.
“She is my blood, my heart. She is my daughter. I know… maybe we are not as rich or educated as some families, but we do have love. We have a home. Maybe not a big house or plenty food, but she is wanted. She belongs.”
He paused, pressing his thumb into the other palm, steadying himself.
“If… if she is a burden to your family,” he said slowly, “please know that I can take her back. She has a place. She always will.”
Sellou translated each sentence carefully, without embellishment, though the weight of Yerro’s words hung heavy in the air.
Mr Owens sat up straighter. The seriousness of the plea was not lost on him. He watched this proud man, barefoot and simply dressed, speaking with more dignity than many men in suits. It was clear how much it had cost him — in pride, in fear, in sheer effort — to come here and say these things.
He thought of the child — Matou — and how bright and warm she always was. She had quickly become part of the household: helping with errands, reading aloud on the veranda, sometimes even singing to herself when she thought no one was listening. Mr Owens had grown fond of her, though he mostly left her care to the women of the house.
Now, he felt a twinge of guilt. Had he been too distant? Had something happened? Was this it? Was the father going to take her back?
To be continued…
