The days passed by like a breeze—uneventful, immemorable. Each day in her adopted family’s household followed the last in an almost mechanical rhythm. Waking up early. Sweeping the compound. Bathe in the cold. Serving the family. Going to school. Returning, eating scraps. Doing chores. Sleeping; and repeating. It was a cycle Matou had quickly come to accept, but never embraced.
Every day brought its own new learning, yes—a new task, a new name, a new word—but they were lessons drenched in fatigue. The one lesson that remained steadfast was the growing understanding, carved deeper with each passing day, that Matou would never truly belong. She felt it in her bones, in the way she was looked at, spoken to, managed.
She was a child, a helpless one. She was too easy to accuse, too powerless to defend herself, and too honest to deceive. Like what happened one humid afternoon, just after lunch, when the children were let loose in the compound to play. The air was thick with the scent of overripe mangoes and the distant rumble of an approaching storm. That was the day one of the Owens boys claimed he had lost a sock. A single sock—striped blue and white, and apparently new.
The compound was instantly on edge. The boy, wailing with exaggerated grief, pointed fingers before anyone could think straight. And as if on cue, all eyes turned to Matou.
Matou stood frozen, more confused than afraid. She had been sweeping the corridor near the kitchen, her faded wrapper tucked tightly around her waist, her forehead slick with sweat. She couldn’t understand why they thought it was her. What would she, of all people, do with a single sock?
She had never stolen a thing in her life—not out of fear of punishment, but because her mother had instilled in her a deep understanding that dignity was a form of wealth, more enduring than anything money could buy. “We may not have much, Matou,” her mother used to say, “but our hands are clean, and that is something no one can take from us.”
That lesson was not taught in passing; it was forged in the fire of lived experience. It followed a bitter incident a few years ago, when an affluent guest at the Atlantic Hotel falsely accused Ousman Bah, Matou’s granduncle, of stealing a wristwatch. The hotel Manager, a Gambian, sacked him from the job without even giving him a chance to recount his side of the story. He had been working there as a caretaker for years—a quiet, dignified man who rose before dawn and returned home long after sunset, always with dust on his shoes and integrity in his eyes. The accusation landed like a slap across the family’s face. But instead of shrinking into shame, Ousman Bah fought back.
Infuriated and humiliated, he reported the matter to court, enlisting the help of a well-meaning tourist who had witnessed the incident and was outraged by the injustice. On the day of the hearing, Ousman Bah stood in the crowded courtroom, his faded shirt tucked in with the care of a soldier on parade, and spoke with the fire of a man defending not just his name but his lineage.
“It is not pride,” he said, his voice steady but fierce, “it is about my dignity as a human being. I do not envy any man who cannot account for his riches. It takes a thief to accuse a decent man of theft. But this one you accuse is no thief. I am the son of Buya Sané, the grandson of Nyabou Siray, the great grandson of Ghandor Jayri. My three grandmothers before me were daughters of ‘Awliyā’—women of great virtue, honour, full of piety, devotion, and spiritual insight. I don’t steal. I am not a thief. I would rather die poor than live by dishonest means!”
His words echoed beyond the walls of the courtroom and settled into the hearts of his family like scripture. That moment became a defining pillar of their household—a lesson passed down from one generation to the next.
And it was true. Back in their home, there were days when roasted groundnuts and water made up the entirety of their meals. On other days, they simply tightened their lappas and endured. But even in those lean times, they stood tall. Because for them, poverty was a condition—not a curse. It was dishonour that they feared, not hunger…
Still, suspicion hung thick in the air like smoke from the evening fire. Whispers danced behind Matou’s back as the children searched frantically, overturning cushions, peeking under beds, even rummaging through Matou’s few belongings. The househelp, a young woman named Anna, yanked open Matou’s basin of folded clothes and shook each item with the fury of someone desperate to find guilt.
Matou watched silently, her face unreadable, her heart heavy. No one spoke up for her. Not one child. Not even the ones who had giggled with her a day before.
It wasn’t until a while later—when the sun had begun to sink and cast long shadows across the ground—that the missing sock was discovered. It lay quietly beneath the old avocado tree at the edge of the expansive compound, half-buried in dry leaves and red dust. Sam, the boy who had raised the alarm, had been playing under that very tree earlier that afternoon, flicking pebbles with his toes.
A collective gasp spread through the compound as the truth dawned. Some children looked away in shame. Others chuckled nervously, trying to act as though it hadn’t been such a big deal after all. But the damage had been done.
Matou didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shout. She simply returned to her sweeping, which she had halted to help search for the sock. Her back straight, her strokes steady, she contiunued to sweep unmoved. Because deep down, she had always known the truth—that she was blameless in the matter.
But knowing you are innocent does not always protect you from the sting of being accused…
The thing is, Matou had no mean bone in her. Her spirit was soft, her temperament gentle. That very gentleness made her easy to ignore. And yet, her capable hands, her quiet obedience, and her warmth made her invaluable.
Her natural ability with her hands didn’t go unnoticed, especially by the children. Slowly, without meaning to, she became a constant presence in their play. They sought her out, especially those close to her age. Her humility drew them in. Her quiet laughter soothed them.
Martha, bright and imaginative, was the first to ask. Just days after Matou arrived, she invited her into her “play house” under the mango tree where she was cooking a fantasy meal of okra soup using leaves, pebbles, and strips of bark.
“Matou, you come help me cook,” she said, handing her a broken spoon and a leaf bowl.
Matou smiled and joined her. Her instincts kicked in, and soon she had arranged the leaf bowls with a perfection even Martha’s older cousin couldn’t replicate.
Margo, not to be outdone, brought out her stick dolls, tied together with twine. But when she saw what Matou did with bits of fabric and discarded cotton from an old cushion, she was amazed. Matou crafted a childlike doll—round-faced, soft-bodied, with carefully knotted eyes and hair braided from black thread she’d found. It was the most beautiful toy they had ever seen.
“You are really clever!” Margo exclaimed.
“My mom is. She taught me everything I know,” Matou beamed in pride.
Even Jane, Kate’s younger sister and the closest in age to Matou, began to include her in everything. She insisted that Matou join them in hopscotch, in hide and seek, and in telling riddles under the avocado tree. Sometimes, Jane would sneak her an extra biscuit, or share her school notebook to help Matou with classwork.
But their innocent camaraderie drew the ever-watchful glare of Aunty Bae.
The older woman would squint from her perch on the verandah, her walking stick resting by her side. Every time she saw Matou laughing or playing too freely, she would call her name sharply, as though swatting a fly.
“Matou! You done sweep front yard?”
“Matou! Go clean the boys’ shoes.”
“Matou! Stop wasting time.”
Her tone was never angry. It was dismissive. As though Matou were not a child, but something less. A presence meant to serve, not exist.
These constant interruptions taught Matou more than any classroom lesson. She learned that she must stay in the shadows. She learned their Creole—a language filled with chopped words and quick rhythm—faster than she expected, not from any desire, but because it was the language of command. Of chores. Of survival.
One day, she was sitting under the guava tree with Jane, Martha, and Margo, laughing and building tiny houses out of stones and clay when the front gate creaked open. Mrs Owens, Matou’s adopted mother and school mistress, stepped in, clutching a handbag and a basket full of food ingredients.
Matou, without thinking, stood quickly and called out, “Mama!”
It was instinct. It was the name she had used back home, the word that meant safety.
Mrs Owens froze in her tracks. Her expression stiffened.
“Don’t call me Mama,” she said sharply, her voice cold and clipped. “Call me Aunty. I am not your mother.”
Matou’s face flushed. Her lips parted slightly in shock. For a brief moment, the world tilted.
“Yes, Aunty,” she whispered, lowering her head.
The children were silent. Jane stared at her, eyes wide with confusion. Margo blinked. Martha looked away.
Something shifted inside Matou in that moment—a wall, a final thread of hope, began to fray.
To be continued…
