That afternoon, when Matou returned home from school, the dusty path leading from Bakau School to their compound seemed unusually quiet. The familiar sounds of children’s voices and the rhythmic clack of donkey carts had faded into the background as she made her way toward their simple hut. She felt the weight of the day pressing on her shoulders, heavier than usual. The reprimand from Aunty May still echoed in her ears, and the fear of her mother’s response gnawed at her insides.
As she reached the doorway, she found Borogie seated outside, her hands skillfully weaving a basket, the long strands of straw bending under her fingers with practiced ease. Borogie’s face was calm, but the deep lines around her eyes revealed the quiet burdens she carried, the endless days of hard work and sacrifice etched into every wrinkle. The baskets she wove were always sturdy and practical, much like the woman herself.
Matou hesitated for a moment before she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mama,” she began, “Aunty May said you must come to school with me tomorrow. She wants to know why I’m always late.”
Borogie’s hands stilled for a moment, the rhythm of her weaving interrupted. She lifted her gaze to meet Matou’s, her expression unreadable, but her voice was calm, steady. “She said I must come to school tomorrow?” Her tone was measured, the kind of calm that only came from years of navigating hardship with a quiet dignity.
“Yes, Mama,” Matou replied, her eyes downcast, her voice barely audible. “She wants to know why I’m always late.”
Borogie sighed, the sound soft but carrying the weight of unspoken words. She set the basket aside and wiped her hands on her wrapper, the worn fabric of her clothing speaking to the long years of hard work and sacrifice. She stood slowly, her body moving with the fluidity of someone accustomed to physical labor, and she took Matou’s hands into her own, holding them gently but firmly. “Do not worry, Matou,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I will go. And I will speak the truth.”
Matou looked up at her mother, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over her. Borogie had a way of making everything seem manageable, even when the world felt too heavy. Matou knew that her mother’s words were more than just comfort—they were a promise. A promise that she would stand up for her daughter, no matter what.
With a deep breath, Matou ran to their modest bedroom, her heart still racing. The room was small, cluttered with the few possessions they had, but it held a warmth that was uniquely theirs. She walked over to the clay pot that contained their water and took a long drink from the metal cup, savoring the coolness against her dry throat. Afterward, she made her way to the chest where all their clothes were stored—her own, her siblings’—neatly folded, each item well-worn but cared for.
Matou peeled off her school uniform, the damp fabric clinging to her body, and replaced it with a worn wrapper and her favorite second-hand t-shirt. She couldn’t help but smile as she slipped the shirt over her head. It was faded, its edges frayed, but it was hers, and it made her feel strong in a way nothing else could. She wasn’t sure why it meant so much to her, but she had worn it for as long as she could remember, and it had become a part of her identity.
Once dressed, Matou walked back outside to sit with her mother, who was now gathering the weaving materials she had set aside. The sound of laughter echoed from the neighboring house, where her younger sister Khadja Bobo was playing with the other children, and the quiet murmurs of her brother Buba’s sleep filled the air. Nata was out running errands, likely gathering herbs or fetching something for the house. Matou, for a moment, found solace in the stillness of the home. The lunch was late, but that was nothing new—her stepmother’s habitual lateness had become a part of their daily rhythm. Everything seemed to move in its own time, and sometimes that meant waiting.
Sitting on the cool earth next to her mother, Matou began to recount her day. She spoke about her classmates, the lessons she had learned, the way she had carefully traced the letters of the alphabet in the sand. Her hands moved in the air as she explained the shapes of the letters, the joy she felt when she got them right. Matou’s love for school was undeniable. No matter the hardships, no matter the mockery or the challenges, school was her escape—a place where she could dream and learn and be something other than the daughter of a farmer. She had grown to love the feel of chalk on her fingers, the rhythm of writing, the feeling of being part of something bigger than herself.
But as she spoke, her smile faltered slightly. There were things she didn’t mention—the teasing from some of the other children. Samba Bah was the worst of them all. He would mock her for the tattered shoes she wore, the ones that barely protected her feet from the rough ground. He would imitate the way she spoke English, calling out her mispronunciations with cruel laughter, making her feel smaller than she already did. But Matou didn’t tell Borogie about that. She couldn’t bear to burden her mother with the cruelty of her peers. Instead, she focused on the good—the things that made her feel proud, the moments when she succeeded, when she showed the others that she belonged.
“I wrote in the sand today,” she said, her voice lighting up. “I wrote my name. I wrote ‘Matou’—in big letters. It felt good, Mama. Like I could do anything.”
Borogie smiled, her eyes softening as she listened to her daughter’s words. “That’s wonderful, Matou,” she said, her voice warm with pride. “You have a bright mind. I see it in you every day.”
Matou’s heart swelled with the warmth of her mother’s approval. It was enough to make her forget, if only for a moment, the harshness of the world outside their compound.
As the day wore on, the scent of food began to waft through the air. Matou’s stomach growled in protest. She had grown used to the unpredictability of their meals. It was just another part of their life.
After lunch, as her mother began to wash the clothes, Matou helped where she could, fetching water and assisting with the small tasks that needed to be done. In those moments, she felt a deep sense of connection to her mother. Together, they worked in silence, their hands moving in a rhythm that spoke volumes of the bond they shared. It was in these quiet moments, amidst the mundane chores, that Matou felt truly seen—by her mother, by the land, and by herself. Later that evening, just before sunset, they went together, all of Borogie’s children and their mother, to her garden to water the crops.
The next morning, Borogie accompanied Matou to Bakau School. The sun had barely risen, casting a golden light over the path as they walked together. Matou felt her mother’s presence like a shield, strong and unwavering. The weight of the day ahead seemed a little lighter with her mother by her side. Borogie’s head was held high, her posture regal despite the humble clothes she wore. She didn’t need fine garments to command respect. Her presence alone was enough.
At the school gate, Aunty May stood waiting, her eyes narrowing as she observed Borogie and Matou approaching. Borogie stepped forward with quiet confidence, her voice calm but firm as she spoke to the headmistress. She explained their circumstances—the shared responsibilities, the delays caused by others, the struggle to balance farm work and raising children. Her words were simple, but they carried the weight of truth.
Aunty May listened intently, her expression softening as the conversation unfolded. By the end, she had promised to be more understanding. She even suggested a solution—Matou could arrive earlier and wait in the library until classes began, ensuring she wasn’t marked late. “I’ll make sure you have breakfast every day, just like my children,” Aunty May added, her tone gentler than it had been before.
Matou, stunned by the sudden change in attitude, felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, things could be different.
That day, as she walked back home, Matou felt a renewed sense of purpose. She knew the road ahead would still be difficult, but she also knew that she wasn’t alone. With Borogie by her side, she would face whatever challenges came her way. Together, they would navigate the complexities of their world—one step at a time.
Over time, Matou began to embrace her identity with quiet confidence. She corrected her classmates and teachers when they mispronounced her name, insisting on “Jawo” with a firmness that surprised even herself. The teasing from her peers, once sharp and painful, began to subside as they saw her resilience. Matou had found her voice, and with it, a strength that no one could take away.
To be contd.
