When Borogie returned home with Nata, the ache in her chest throbbed with a sharpness that refused to dull. The walk back from the compound felt like a slow march through memory and shame, every step pulling her deeper into the well of regret she had fought so hard to ignore. Her daughter, her Matou, once so full of life and laughter, had been reduced to a silent shadow. A child she had entrusted to strangers had come out to her bruised in spirit and soul.
She clung tightly to Nata’s hand, not just for comfort, but in an unspoken vow: This one I will never let go of, no matter how desperate, how poor, how broken I become. She glanced down at Nata and saw a flicker of concern in her eyes, the kind only children who had seen too much too early could express. Borogie knew then that Matou’s pain had rippled through the entire family. They had all felt her absence, but none had imagined the cruelty she had endured.
Her thoughts spiraled back to that cursed day when Ousman Bah first suggested the arrangement. His words were cloaked in tradition, in duty, in the false generosity of kinship. He had said it as if offering an opportunity. But Borogie had hesitated, her motherly instincts raging against the calm logic of a man’s world. She had almost refused, but Yerro — her Yerro — had gently supported the idea. Not because he was cruel, but because he had been raised to believe that obedience was virtue, that the elder’s word was divine law.
She remembered how he had nodded quietly, solemnly, after Ousman Bah spoke, avoiding her eyes. She saw the discomfort in his body, the stillness in his silence. Yerro, a man who rarely said no to authority, had offered up their daughter not with his heart, but with the weight of duty on his shoulders. Even now, she did not fully blame him. But the pain was there, fresh and raw, like an open wound she could not dress.
As she walked, her mind was tormented by images of Matou — the once boisterous, endlessly curious child who had filled their compound with song and questions and cheeky schemes. The Matou who once asked, completely seriously: “Mama, can you sell me to President Jawara so I’ll grow up rich and come back with money to build us a big house?” Borogie had laughed then, brushing it off as a child’s fantasy, but now the words returned like a prophecy. Had her daughter felt hunger, so gnawing that even the idea of being sold to a stranger felt more promising than staying home?
She sighed, heavily. Had the angels overheard those words and taken them too seriously? Or was it the cruel fate of the innocent child to bear the burdens of adult deficiencies?
She glanced again at Nata, grateful that this child had been spared. “Even if we are going to eat sand,” she whispered aloud, more to herself than to her daughter, “we eat it together. But we will never again be slaves to such mean people. Never again.” Her voice cracked. Her hands trembled…
Borogie swallowed the lump in her throat, the pain that had lodged itself like a bitter stone in the pit of her stomach. She pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to let the tears fall. She had become a master of this — holding in the hurt, mastering the art of silence in the face of injustice. It was an old pain, ancient almost, rooted in memories from a childhood long gone but never truly left behind.
She had been raised not by her mother, but by her mother’s co-wife — her father’s favourite. A woman who ruled the household with cold authority, who favored her own children while treating Borogie like an unwelcome guest. And in that crowded compound filled with voices, laughter, and noise, she had grown up feeling invisible — like a shadow on the wall that no one acknowledged. People walked past her, around her, over her, but never to her.
She remembered how it felt — to be unseen, unheard, unwanted. She remembered how the favoured child was treated like royalty, his every whim met with smiles and applause, while she was barely regarded. Even when she did everything right, even when she was careful, respectful, obedient, they found reasons to correct her. The chastisements were not just words or punishments — they were reminders that she did not belong. They chipped away at her spirit like rust eating through iron.
She would stand silently as the accusations rained down, the scolding sharp and public, meant to humiliate. And though her mother, beautiful and hardworking, knew her child was innocent, she would say nothing. She stood there too, eyes downcast, lips sealed.
But when night came and silence fell, her mother would find her. In the solitude of darkness or the quiet corners of the backyard, she would speak in a low, trembling voice, brushing her daughter’s hair with fingers that felt like feathers.
“This will pass, my daughter,” she would whisper. “Nothing lasts forever. One day, the very people who overlook you will regret ever treating you this way. Just bear everything in good faith.”
Borogie hated those words. She hated how her mother only defended her in private, how she watched injustice in daylight and chose silence. It felt like betrayal — quiet, soft betrayal wrapped in love. Her mother never stood up publicly, never confronted the co-wife, never raised her voice even when her daughter was shamed for simply existing.
And yet, she couldn’t blame her. Not fully. Not anymore.
As a grown woman now, with her own burdens pressing down on her chest, Borogie understood what powerlessness looked like. She knew the despair that ate at her mother’s soul, the way silence could sometimes be the only protection for a woman caught in a storm too great to fight. Her mother, despite her beauty and work ethic, had been despised by her husband’s people. Her father, full of pride and quick to anger, had made her life harder, raising his hands more often than his voice to “set her right.”
Borogie watched her mother shrink year after year, her spirit curling in on itself like a dying leaf. And when her mother’s heart finally gave out — young, far too young — Borogie knew it wasn’t just illness that took her. It was grief. It was defeat. It was the weight of years spent holding back tears and burying pain beneath a quiet smile.
Now, as Borogie felt her own heart clench and her breath catch in her throat, she feared becoming her mother. She feared the silent demise that came from swallowing pain for too long. She did not want to fade into invisibility while her own children bore the brunt of a world stacked against them.
She had once thought the worst thing was losing a mother. But now she knew — the worst was having a mother whose presence couldn’t shield you, whose love was hidden in shadows, whose hands were tied while you were pushed to the margins of your own home.
Borogie inhaled sharply and steadied herself. No, she would not end like her mother. She would speak. She would stand. Even if her voice trembled, even if no one listened, even if it cost her everything — she would not let the next generation carry the weight of silence.
That night, as the compound quieted and the moonlight draped their modest hut in silver sadness, she turned to Yerro. It was her turn to sleep with him. In their home, where wives rotated nights in a rigid rhythm, tonight was hers. She lay beside him in silence for some time, her body tense and unyielding.
Yerro shifted beside her, his breathing steady. She wondered if he already sensed what was coming. She reached for his hand and spoke, not in anger, not in accusation, but with the quiet urgency of a mother broken. “Matou has suffered,” she said. “That family—her foster family—they treat her like a stranger, like a burden. She’s not the child we sent away.”
Yerro said nothing, but she felt his hand tighten around hers. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t speak. But she heard the breath catch in his throat. It was all the confession she needed. The weight of her words landed in the hollows of his chest where guilt had already made its home. He had known. He had always feared this outcome, but he had hoped—hoped—that tradition would redeem itself, that trust would be enough.
It wasn’t.
She didn’t need him to say sorry. Not tonight. What she needed was his resolve, his backbone. Her voice was steady when she said, “No more giving our children away. No more trusting people just because they seem nice. From now on, we protect what’s ours.”
Still, Yerro said nothing. But she saw his chest rise and fall—once, sharply, like a man swallowing the sea. The tears that pooled at the corners of his eyes did not fall. But Borogie saw them. And that was enough, for now.
In the stillness, the two lay side by side, each lost in their own sea of remorse and resolve. Two parents, bruised by their own choices, but finally united in a silent pact of protection.
Borogie closed her eyes, cradling her guilt and pain like a newborn. She would do better. She would be the shield her mother had never been able to be. For Matou. For Nata. For Khadjel. For Bubel.
And in his own corner of the bed, Yerro, broken by the weight of unspoken remorse, finally understood what it meant to fail your child—not by ignorance, but by misplaced obedience…
To be continued…
