The night dragged for Ousman Bah like moringa cooked to paste in its slimy form — every thought he tried to pull away only clung tighter, stretching, sticking, refusing to let go.
Lying on his mat, sleep eluded him. His eyes followed the slow crawl of moonlight across the wall, his mind circling the same painful truth: Words, once spoken, are like water poured onto the ground. You can never gather them back in their purest form.
He had listened to Mbentoung’s apology, eaten her food, even shared a moment of lust. But forgiveness was another matter. As much as he wanted to forget, anger still simmered somewhere deep, blending uneasily with pity. Beneath both lay a hollow ache — the ache of a man who had expected peace and found exhaustion instead.
He thought of how their marriage began — arranged by family, sealed with prayers, and weighted with expectations he barely understood. He had not chosen Mbentoung out of passion or pursuit; she had been chosen for him. The elders had said she was a good match — young, respectable, from a sound lineage, with a temperament that could “steady a man’s old age.”
He had trusted their wisdom and bowed to their decision, as men of his generation often did. To him, marriage was not a romance to be felt but a duty to be honored. He had done his part.
He gave her comfort — a solid roof over her head, fine wrappers, a compound where she commanded respect as his wife. He spoke to her with the restraint of a man who preferred calm over passion, and he treated her with the kind of dignity any woman of her station could have hoped for. But love — that kind that burns, that disarms, that pulls laughter out of a tired heart — had never truly settled between them.
She was chosen for him, and he had accepted her the way a man accepts the farm his father leaves him: not for its beauty, but because it is his to tend. He watered it, weeded it, did all that was expected — yet the harvest was poor, and over time, duty began to feel like drudgery.
Five years had passed, and still, no child.
It had never been a prerogative for him, not at first. Ousman Bah was not a man who measured his worth through progeny; he had long accepted that what comes, comes by Allah’s will. But lately, the silence of their home had begun to press on him in ways it hadn’t before. The laughter of other men’s children stung in ways he did not expect.
Even his nephew, Yerro, now had a household bustling with life. Yerro’s eldest, Nata, was already married and heavy with child. Sometimes, when Ousman entered their home, the sight of that family filled him with a strange mixture of pride and emptiness.
He told himself it was envy’s whisper, but it lingered all the same.
It wasn’t that he blamed Mbentoung for their childlessness — no, he never voiced such a thing. But in quiet moments, he wondered. Had fate withheld children as punishment for his marrying without love? Or had the coldness between them drained the soil of blessing?
What made it harder was the memory of her insults — the words she had hurled at him in anger. “What kind of man cannot even give his wife a child?” She had spat those words one night, her voice sharp as broken glass.
He had not answered her then. He had turned away, because to respond would have been to crumble. But that sentence had stayed with him. It clung like smoke — invisible in daylight, but choking him at night.
And now, he found himself reconsidering things he once thought settled. He was an alone child; his parents long gone, his siblings at the other side of the world – living different lives. If he died without issue, his name would vanish with him, his land divided, his house passed to distant kin.
It shouldn’t have mattered — yet it did.
In the evenings, as he sat alone beneath the neem tree, he sometimes imagined the laughter of a child running through the compound, the small voice calling, “Baba, Baba!” The thought warmed him, even as it pricked like a thorn.
But no child came. And the woman who could have shared that longing with him had turned it into a weapon.
He had once thought faith and duty were enough to keep him steady. But lately, his prayers came slower, his faith thinner. A man can withstand loneliness for only so long before it begins to sound like a taunt.
That was why the young woman from the gathering had unsettled him so deeply. She was not a promise, nor even a plan — just a reflection of what he had never known. Her presence had reminded him of the man he could have been — warm, laughing, alive — before life reduced him to silence.
And now, he was caught between obligation and the yearning to feel human again.
The truth gnawed at him. A new feeling — dangerous, unbidden — had begun to take root. That young woman from the family gathering still haunted his thoughts. Her face came to him in flashes: the calm of her eyes, the easy grace of her laughter, the respectful way she had greeted him without shrinking into shyness. He told himself it was curiosity, nothing more. But in the hollow spaces of the night, curiosity began to sound a lot like longing.
He turned on his side and muttered under his breath, “If I see her once more, perhaps I will be free of this madness.”
But even as he said it, he knew that seeing her again might only deepen the pull.
When dawn came, the call to prayer found him already awake. He rose, washed, and prayed, his voice trembling slightly as he recited the familiar verses. His final supplication was half-plea, half-confession.
“Ya Allah, grant me peace where I have planted my loyalty. And if my heart wanders, bring it home before it sins.”
…
Later that morning, Yerro found him seated beneath the neem tree, his kinkiliba tea steaming beside him, eyes far away.
“You didn’t sleep,” Yerro observed, lowering himself onto the bench.
“Sleep has its own will,” Ousman replied. “It visits where the heart is quiet.”
Yerro studied him. “And yours?”
“Restless.”
“I heard you and Mbentoung shared supper last night,” Yerro said cautiously.
Ousman nodded, expression unreadable. “She tried. I listened.”
“That’s something,” Yerro said. “Reconciliation begins with listening.”
Ousman gave a dry chuckle. “Borogie’s words, no doubt. She’s been preaching that to everyone lately.”
Yerro smiled faintly. “And she’s not wrong.”
“She means well,” Ousman said, leaning back. “But you know what’s strange? The same Borogie your aunt despised the most is the one who came to plead for her. She said nothing unkind, only asked me to remember the woman Mbentoung used to be. I sat there thinking — the woman she once hated now carries her burdens without complaint. Some people are born to calm storms that others create.”
He sipped his tea slowly. “But as for me, I feel… distant. Like a man standing outside his own house, knocking softly, unsure if he even wants to go back in.”
Yerro hesitated before speaking. “You’re thinking of that girl, aren’t you? The one from the gathering?”
Ousman looked away. “You notice everything, don’t you?”
“I’m not blind, uncle. But listen to me: chasing that path will not give you peace. It will only stir the ashes.”
“I don’t plan to marry her,” Ousman said, though his voice lacked conviction. “I just want to see her again. Once. So I can put this restlessness to bed.”
Yerro sighed. “That’s how fire starts — with one spark that thinks it won’t burn.”
Ousman’s eyes hardened slightly. “You speak like I have no control.”
“I speak like someone who’s watched marriages crumble for less,” Yerro replied quietly. “Borogie says reconciliation takes both will and humility. You’ve given a bit of will. Try the other.”
The older man said nothing, tracing the rim of his cup with his thumb.
…
By midday, Borogie heard of the supper and the uneasy truce. She was tending to her garden when Yerro returned and told her.
“So they ate together?” she asked, brushing soil from her hands.
“Yes,” he said. “But peace hasn’t taken root yet. He’s still torn. His thoughts wander to that girl from the gathering. I fear if he sees her again, all we’ve tried to mend will come undone.”
Borogie sighed, straightening up. “That is the way of men, Yerro. When they feel unseen at home, they start seeking reflection elsewhere — in gentler tones, in new faces. But what they chase isn’t the woman. It’s the version of themselves they think they lost.”
She paused, gazing out toward Ousman’s compound. “Still, I’m glad they spoke. Even uneasy peace is better than silent war. Words, when spoken with care, can begin to patch what other words once tore apart.”
Then, softly, almost to herself, she added, “But words, once spilled, never return in their pure form. Like water poured on the ground — they seep in, leaving stains we cannot see until the earth dries.”
Yerro nodded slowly. “So what now?”
“Now,” Borogie said, “we watch. We pray. And we let time test whether what was said last night was apology or habit.”
She bent again to her work, her fingers pressing into the cool earth, steady and unhurried — as if she understood that some seeds must break before they grow.
To be continued…
