Nata’s new home stood just a few hundred metres from her mother’s yard, yet it felt worlds apart. The narrow port carved into the back fence of the compound connected them in the way a forgotten path might link two estranged souls — close in distance, distant in spirit. In Jeshwang, that hay fence did more than separate buildings; it held stories in its cracks, witnessed tears that never fell in public, and muffled the echoes of lives unfolding on either side. Some secrets it kept like lullabies. Others it carried like screams that refused to die.
Bukari had secured the modest room and parlour outbuilding from a wealthy business tycoon named Mama Sellou – a man as formidable in presence as he was in wealth. He was barrel-chested and broad, the kind who entered a room as if it belonged to him before he even spoke. He wore his lineage as a Maabo as he did with his fortune – with pride: silver rings on his stubby fingers, a thick silver chain nestled against his tunic, bouncing with each belly laugh like punctuation to a story only he could tell.
His house – no, his palace – was a vision plucked from Nata’s most extravagant daydreams. She had never seen anything like it. The floors were coated in slick, marble-like tiles that reflected light like still water. Sofas, plush and upholstered in fine fabric, lined the sitting room like watchful elders. There were heavy wooden beds with carved headboards that looked like they belonged in a storybook, and curtains so thick they swallowed sunlight whole. In the middle of the room, a standing fan rotated lazily, as if burdened by its own comfort.
The first time Nata sat on one of those sofas, her knees locked and her hands gripped her lap like she was perched on royalty’s throne without permission. It was the day Bukari brought her to greet the landlord’s family after they moved in. The wives had offered her kolanuts and shy smiles, but Nata could sense the invisible veil between them – woven from class, tradition, and some unspoken understanding that she did not belong.
The luxury of the main house was not meant for her. Nata and Bukari were tucked away in the boys’ quarters with other tenants – an afterthought at the edge of the grand estate. Their rooms were simple, built from mud bricks and corrugated iron, with a leaky zinc roof that moaned in protest during rainy nights. From her window, Nata could see the main house glowing at night like a distant city, its lights always on, the laughter from the children drifting across the yard like teasing lullabies.
The house itself, though stately and expansive, was a theater of quiet tensions. Beneath the orderly greetings and polite exchanges, a current of rivalry and suspicion rippled just under the surface. The two wives of Mama Sellou – Nenen Siray and Fatoumatta – shared a balcony but not much else. One draped in silks, the other in silent rage. Their children eyed each other with measured caution, each group moving like shadows around the other. Even the house help picked sides in this unspoken cold war.
The first wife, Nenen Siray, ruled the household with her brows alone – thick, stern lines that cast judgement on anyone who passed. Grumpy and partially hard of hearing, Nenen Siray had borne nine children — seven boys, two girls. Most of her sons were off chasing dreams in Guinea Conakry or working in the family’s Banjul shop. The last boy, Bailo, went to Bakau school and rarely looked up from his books.
The daughters were a different matter altogether. The first, Yama, had long since married. The second, Zainabou, remained in the house – unmarried, sharp-tongued, and tormented by a mind that danced to its own rhythm.
Zainabou was schizophrenic.
People whispered it. They said it under their breath, behind door frames and over fences. She was “touched by the jinn,” “different,” “not all there”. But Zainabou was very much there – loud, vivid, and always at the center of household drama.
She had a delicate build and a stiff, curled arm she held close to her chest, a result of a childhood illness. One side of her face drooped ever so slightly, but she was not pitiful. No – Zainabou did not allow herself to be pitied.
Her voice was sharp, her insults biting. Her moods changed with the tide. She’d sing old lullabies one minute and hurl a water calabash the next. Her favourite target was her father’s second wife, Fatoumatta – young, beautiful, and perpetually cautious.
“Snake-woman! You stole my father with your skin and your teeth!” Zainabou would yell, her voice echoing across the courtyard. “You think you’re better than my mother? You? With your gelled hair and snake eyes! Would you have married a fat, ugly, old man, if he wasn’t rich?”
Fatoumatta, always demure, would retreat indoors with her head bowed. Her sons — three teenagers and one younger boy — would clench their jaws and stare, helpless. Mama Sellou tried to hush things, wave them away like flies, but Zainabou could not be silenced by mere fatherly gestures.
Nata observed all this from her small veranda, usually while peeling cassava or folding her wrapper. At first, she had been terrified. Every bang of a door or shriek of accusation sent her heart racing. But over time, she began to watch with a kind of detached curiosity. It was like theatre — a never-ending play whose lead actress refused to stay on script.
In the midst of her own sorrow, Zainabou’s rage became oddly comforting. Nata, newlywed and still bleeding from the memory of a lost childhood, found a strange kinship in the chaos.
One afternoon, Zainabou caught her watching.
“You — young girl! Wife of Bukari!” she barked, standing with her arms akimbo, chin jutted high. “Why are you always looking like a goat ready for slaughter? You think sadness makes you prettier?”
Nata froze. She hadn’t expected to be addressed directly.
“I wasn’t looking at you,” she mumbled.
“Yes, you were. You look all the time. Always quiet, always hiding in the corners like a lizard.” Zainabou’s voice softened, unexpectedly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not the devil they say I am.”
Nata blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her like that in weeks — not like a wife, but like a person.
“I’m not afraid,” Nata whispered. “Just… I don’t know what to say.”
Zainabou walked closer. Her steps were light, almost uncertain, like someone stepping into water. She sat beside Nata without asking.
“I heard you lost your baby,” she said plainly.
Nata turned to her, startled.
“People talk,” Zainabou continued. “They think I’m mad, but I hear everything. You were too young anyway. Your hips haven’t learned how to stretch yet.”
The words landed like pebbles in a pond — rippling, unsettling.
“I didn’t want the baby,” Nata said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t even want the marriage.”
“Of course you didn’t.” Zainabou leaned back against the wall. “They marry us too early. They think keeping us ‘safe’ means selling our bodies to the highest bidder. My father wanted to marry me off at fourteen. I threw faeces at the suitor.”
Nata’s eyes widened.
“He never came back,” Zainabou said with a satisfied nod. “That was my victory.”
For the first time since her wedding, Nata laughed — a small, cracked laugh that caught her by surprise. Zainabou didn’t smile, but her eyes sparkled.
“I want a husband though,” she said wistfully. “Someone who sees me. Who doesn’t just look and whisper and point. I want a man who isn’t afraid of my mouth or my madness.”
Nata looked down at her hands. “You think that’s possible?”
“Yes,” Zainabou said.
They sat in silence for a while after that. Two young women, one bearing the wounds of the body, the other of the mind, joined by the shared understanding of being misunderstood.
Over the following weeks, Nata found herself drawn to Zainabou’s world. It was unpredictable and loud, but it had a truth that no prayer or elder’s blessing could offer. Zainabou called things as she saw them. She asked questions others were too polite – or too afraid – to ask.
…………………………………
One late evening, as the sky turned the colour of pawpaw skin, Nata sat with her mother, Borogie, behind the compound.
“Ma,” she said softly, “do you think I can ever start over?”
Borogie looked at her daughter — the flat belly, the quiet eyes, the hardened voice that belonged more to a woman than the girl she had raised.
“You’ve already started,” she replied. “You just haven’t realised it yet.”
Nata nodded, and her eyes wandered toward the main house. Zainabou’s laughter drifted through the trees, full and unrestrained.
Maybe, Nata thought, there were many ways to be free. Maybe madness, in a world that demanded silence, was its own form of resistance.
To be continued…
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