The morning light crept slowly across the room, casting pale stripes over the woven mat where Ousman lay. He had slept, but not well. His dreams had been restless — shifting scenes of old memories, sharp words, and the laughter of the young woman whose name he did not even know.
He sat up slowly, joints stiff, mind heavier still. The call to fajr had passed, and though he had prayed, the prayer had not settled him. Instead, it left him suspended — between what he owed and what he wanted.
He washed his face in a basin of cool water, watching the ripples tremble at his touch. A trembling man, he thought. When had he become such a man?
He moved outside, settling under the neem tree the way he always did, his prayer beads sliding beneath his fingers more out of habit than devotion. The yard was quiet. Even the chickens clucked softly, careful not to disturb the morning hush.
Yet inside his chest, everything was loud.
He could not ignore the truth he had tried to bury: he wanted to see her again — the young woman from the gathering. Not to pursue her. Not to dishonour his marriage. But to know whether the feeling would pass, or whether it had already taken root.
If I see her once more, he told himself, perhaps this ache will dissolve. I can understand it, name it, and lay it to rest.
But another voice — quieter, older, wiser — whispered:
Or perhaps seeing her again will feed it.
He rubbed his forehead. He wished things were simpler. He wished his heart were still the steady, obedient thing it once was.
Years ago, before marriage bruised and reshaped him, he believed in the simplicity of being a good man. A good husband. A good Muslim. But life had weathered him. Disappointment had carved small hollows inside him, and loneliness had learned to live there, quiet and persistent.
And now, loneliness had found another face.
It wasn’t love — not yet. It was possibility. And possibility can be the cruelest temptation.
He closed his eyes. He could still hear the softness in her laughter, the warmth of her greeting, the way she did not flinch when speaking to him — neither intimidated nor bold, simply… present. He felt seen in a way he had not felt in years.
Though he knew well — that feeling was dangerous.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself upright just as footsteps approached. Yerro emerged from the side compound, his expression cautious.
“Caw, you didn’t sleep,” Yerro observed.
“No,” Ousman replied simply.
Yerro took a seat beside him, mirroring his posture. For a moment, they sat silently, watching the morning stretch open.
“You are thinking of her again,” Yerro said quietly.
Ousman didn’t pretend otherwise. “Yes.”
“And of your wife.”
“Yes.”
“And of the child you do not have.”
Ousman’s breath caught, and he closed his eyes. “…Yes.”
Yerro nodded. “It is a heavy place to stand — between what hurts you and what calls to you.”
Ousman’s eyes glistened, but his voice remained steady. “I do not want to sin, Yerro. But I also do not want to die with my heart locked away. I have lived five years in silence beside my wife. And now — after all the insults, all the battles — I find myself asking if I can still live the rest of my life this way.”
He swallowed hard.
“My nephew, even you — you have children. You will be remembered. Your name will be carried forward. But when I die, my name dies with me. It will fade with the sound of my last breath.”
Yerro was quiet for a long time. Then he spoke gently.
“Uncle… do not confuse the longing for children with the longing for love. They are not the same thirst. If you seek the girl to fill a space inside you, you will drink and still be thirsty. But if you seek peace with your wife — even just enough to breathe — you might find the child you desire will still come.”
He looked into his uncle’s face, steady but kind.
“Seeds grow when the soil softens. Not before.”
The words settled between them — neither solution nor command — just truth.
Ousman nodded slowly, his breath unsteady.
He did not answer.
Because he did not yet know which way his heart leaned.
He needed time.
He needed space.
He needed silence that was not empty.
But silence did not always give answers — sometimes it only reminded a man how loud his own soul was.
…
That night, Nata had been turning on the mat for hours, sleep teasing her then pulling away like a tide. When it finally came, it came thick and heavy, like being submerged under warm water.
She found herself standing in an open field of tall, golden grass. The sky above her was wide and pale, and the world felt suspended. Then she saw him.
A man, tall — impossibly tall — with skin so fair it glowed in the sun. His eyes were gentle, almost sorrowful. He walked toward her slowly, as though he had always known where to find her. When he reached her, he touched her cheek — softly, reverently, like she was something fragile.
“My child,” he said.
His voice was soothing, but his hand was heavy — too heavy. It pressed down, over her chest, over her belly — and suddenly she felt something inside her shift, twist, tear.
She gasped — and the field vanished.
Pain, sharp as a blade ripped from the inside, tore through her.
She woke with her hand between her legs. Warm. Wet. The smell — metallic — unmistakable.
Blood.
A flood of it.
A scream ripped out of her, raw and animal.
“BUKARI! BUKARI!”
The compound jolted awake. Doors banged open. Feet slapped against the dirt.
Bukari turned on his bedside, half-dressed, panic already in his eyes. “Eh-eh, Nata! Kor Hon Nuong? What is happening?”
She could not speak — only cry.
He pulled the wrapper from beneath her, and when he saw the red soaking through, his face drained of colour.
“Ya Allah…”
His voice trembled.
This was beyond him.
“Let me go and call your mother.”
He sprinted out barefoot, shouting into the still-dark dawn.
“NENNEH BOROGIE! NENNEH! COME QUICK!”
Borogie burst in moments later from the compound next door, wrapper tied backward in her haste, breath ragged.
“Astagfirullah. Nata, my child. Hold on. Hold on.”
Her voice was steady — but her hands were shaking badly.
“Bukari—go! Call a taxi! Not the donkey cart — taxi!”
Bukari ran again, pounding on neighbours’ doors, calling out to the early fishermen headed to the river. Finally, someone shouted back:
“Go to the Jeswang junction! You might find one! But hurry!”
Bukari ran like a hunted thing.
In the meantime, Nata tried to stand, but pain doubled her over. Her head swam. The room tilted. She tasted iron in her mouth.
Borogie lowered her gently back down.
“No, no. Stay. Don’t push. Don’t strain. Breathe, my child. Breathe for me.”
“Mother, it hurts… I cannot-”
“I know.”
Borogie’s voice cracked.
“Just breathe.”
…
Bukari returned with a rusted blue Peugeot taxi, its engine coughing like an old man clearing his throat.
“JAMANO! Hurry!” he yelled at the driver.
The driver threw the door open, and they half-carried, half-lifted Nata into the back seat.
Borogie slid in beside her, pressing a cloth between her daughter’s legs.
“Hold on, Nata. Do not sleep. Do not close your eyes. Look at me.”
Nata nodded, but her eyes fluttered.
The taxi bounced over potholes, past early market women walking to Serekunda Market, buckets balanced on their heads.
The world blurred.
When they reached the steps of Royal Victoria Hospital in Banjul, the sun was just beginning to rise — a soft orange bleeding over the rustic city.
Borogie flung the car door open and shouted:
“Help! Help! She is losing the child!”
Two nurses rushed over, but Nata’s body was already taking over.
Her back arched.
Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream.
Her eyes went glassy, as though she was no longer in this world.
And there — right there — at the foot of the hospital steps, between her mother’s hands and her husband’s bewildered face —
the child slipped out.
A small, pale body.
Too still.
Too quiet.
No cry.
No breath.
The midwife did not need to say the words.
Everyone knew.
The silence was worse than any scream.
Nata stared at the tiny body, her face blank — expression emptied beyond tears.
Borogie did not cry at first.
She simply gathered the child — swaddling him in the same cloth that was supposed to bring him home — and whispered prayers broken in half.
Bukari sank to the ground, trembling, hands over his face.
People passing paused.
Some murmured, “God gives and God takes,”
Others quietly walked away.
A young nurse touched Borogie’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Borogie nodded.
But the apology was too small.
The world was too small.
Grief had swallowed everything.
They wrapped the tiny child for burial. No naming ceremony. No songs. No visitors. No kola nuts. No ram slaughtered. No incense.
Just silence.
The kind that clings to walls.
The kind that follows you.
The kind that sleeps beside you.
Just a quiet that felt like death sitting in the courtyard, refusing to leave…
To be continued…
