The intervention by Baa Bocar brought great joy to Nata.
It was not the kind of joy that burst out loud and demanded witnesses. It was quieter than that—like water seeping back into dry ground. After Bocar left, her father became subdued, almost regretful, if Nata could dare say. Not regretful in the way a man admits wrong, not in the way a father looks at his child and says, forgive me. Yerro did not apologize. His pride sat too high for that, and he held little remorse about lifting his hand. But there was something in him that had shifted all the same. He no longer looked at Nata as if she were an enemy. He looked at her as if she were an inconvenient truth.
He was sorry—not for the beating, but for the fact that he had refused her grace. Sorry that he had not allowed her even a small resting space after her third loss. A woman’s body was not a field to be planted without pause. Even land needed fallow seasons. Deep down, he knew that. Bocar had only said aloud what his own conscience had been pushing at in the dark.
Nata required no apology. Neither did her mother, Borogie. In their world, apologies did not come the way rain came. They came like harmattan dust—rare, reluctant, and never quite clean. They had learned to live without them.
But waking up again in a place she considered home—seeing both her parents, and even her stepmother, together in one space—gave Nata a gladness so sudden it frightened her. She almost felt giddy the next day, as if her body, after so much pain, had mistaken safety for celebration.
Morning entered their compound gently.
Nata listened for the sound she trusted most.
The muezzin’s first call.
It came around 4:30 am, long and clear, cutting through the early air like a rope thrown from heaven. The voice rose from the distance and landed gently on the compound roofs, moving from mosque to mosque in overlapping echoes. It always amazed her how the sound could be so strong and yet so soft, as if it knew it was waking people who were carrying burdens.
Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, her chest loosened. It was not faith exactly—Nata’s faith had been bruised by loss—but it was familiarity. It was the sound of continuity. The sound that reminded her the world still knew how to begin again.
She stayed awake through the quiet that followed, waiting for the next call before the final call of Fajr. That interval—between the first adhan and the next—was always the strangest part of the night. Not quite darkness anymore, not yet day. It was a space where thoughts grew loud if you allowed them.
Nata did not allow them.
She lay very still, listening to the compound.
…………
The birds arrived first. In The Gambia, dawn always belonged to birds before it belonged to people. The village weavers chirped in quick, busy bursts, as if gossiping before the sun could overhear. A robin chat, that small bold bird with its sharp, confident song—threw notes into the air like someone scattering seeds. Somewhere closer to the trees, doves cooed softly, steady and mournful, as though even joy must carry a little grief. And high above, the pied crows called out with their hoarse authority, announcing the day in a voice that sounded like warning and laughter at once.
The trees swayed too, not dramatically, just enough—leaves brushing against one another in a sound that felt like quiet applause. It blended into the bird calls until the compound seemed to hum, as if the earth itself was singing under its breath.
The distant clink of someone’s pot. A dog scratching its fleas. The soft rustle of a wrapper when someone turned in sleep. The world moving in small ways, reminding her she was not alone.
Then she heard it.
Her mother’s cough.
It was small, controlled, the kind Borogie always made before she rose—like an announcement to her own body: wake up, we have work.
Nata’s heart lifted. A familiar warmth spread through her, immediate and childlike. Mama is up. That alone meant safety. That alone meant the day would not swallow her.
She got up quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping children. Her feet found the earth without noise. She opened the door to the outside, and the cool morning air kissed her face. It smelled of damp soil and ash from last night’s fire.
She stepped toward the kitchen before Borogie could even fully rise.
The kitchen was not a separate room, not in the way city people imagined kitchens. It was a space—half shelter, half open air—where stones held pots, where soot marked the walls, where firewood leaned like tired soldiers waiting for duty.
Nata moved through it with the expert hands of a girl who had cooked before her body had finished growing. She reached for the matchbox in the dark. Her fingers found it by memory. She struck a match. The tiny flame flared, and for a second it illuminated her hands—thin, trembling slightly, still marked by hardship.
She piled the firewood quickly, arranging it the way Borogie always did: thicker sticks at the bottom, smaller ones above, enough space for air to pass through. When she lit it, the flame caught reluctantly, then brightened. Smoke rose, curling into the morning like a prayer.
Behind her, Borogie entered quietly, wrapper tied tight, headscarf slightly loose from sleep.
She stopped when she saw the fire already burning.
“Nata,” she whispered, surprised.
Nata turned, the match still in her fingers. “Mama,” she said softly, like someone speaking to confirm a dream.
Borogie’s eyes warmed. She did not smile immediately. She walked closer, touched Nata’s shoulder gently, the way you touch someone to make sure they are real.
“You did not sleep,” Borogie said, not accusing, just observing.
“I slept,” Nata lied lightly. Then she looked down and corrected herself without being asked. “A little.”
Borogie nodded. She understood. There were nights sleep refused to come. She had lived long enough to know that grief did not respect darkness or day.
Nata busied herself with the pot, filling it with water from the clay jar.
Borogie sat on the low stool and watched her daughter move. The way Nata’s shoulders were held. The careful control of her hands. The quiet urgency, as if Nata was trying to prove something simply by being useful.
After a while, Borogie spoke, her voice low.
“My child… how is your body this morning?”
Nata hesitated. “It is… there,” she said. “It is hurting, but it is there.”
Borogie nodded. “And your heart?”
Nata’s hands froze on the pot handle. For a moment, she could not speak. The question was too direct, too tender. It threatened to open what she had spent days trying to keep shut.
She turned her face away slightly. “Mama,” she said, her voice thinning, “I feel like a woman whose arms were made to hold nothing.”
Borogie’s throat tightened. She reached out and took Nata’s hand.
“Do not say that,” she whispered.
“But it is true,” Nata replied, her eyes bright but not yet spilling. “Three times. Three times I carried life and brought home silence. I am tired of being strong. I am tired of people saying Allah will replace, as if a child is a calabash that breaks and can be bought again.”
Borogie squeezed her hand firmly. “They speak because they do not know what else to say.”
“I don’t want their words,” Nata said, suddenly sharp. Then her voice softened into something almost ashamed. “I want my baby.”
Borogie closed her eyes briefly. She let the grief sit between them without rushing to fix it.
“You are home,” Borogie said at last. “For now. You will rest.”
Nata swallowed. “Baa Bocar saved me.”
“No,” Borogie corrected gently. “Allah saved you. But Allah used Baa Bocar’s mouth.”
Nata shook her head. “Papa wanted to send me back.”
Borogie’s gaze lowered to the fire. “Your father is a man,” she said carefully. “Men carry pride like a second skin. Sometimes it protects them. Sometimes it blinds them.”
Nata looked at her mother. “And you?”
Borogie met her eyes. “I carry patience,” she said simply. “Not because it is easy. Because it is necessary.”
Nata’s lips trembled. “Mama… I don’t want Bukari.”
The words came out like confession.
Borogie did not flinch. She only sighed—a long, deep sigh that carried years.
“I know,” she said softly.
Nata’s eyes widened. “You know?”
Borogie nodded. “I have known since the first time you looked at him and your spirit stepped back.”
Nata’s breath caught. “Then why did you allow it?”
Borogie’s face softened with pain. “Because in our time,” she said, “a girl’s voice was not a drum. It did not call people to gather. Decisions were made above your head. And sometimes… women survive by choosing the battles they can win.”
Nata turned back to the fire. The water began to warm. The day began to brighten. Outside, the birds continued their chorus, as if urging the world forward.
And in that small kitchen, with smoke curling upward and the taste of grief still fresh on Nata’s tongue, something began to settle.
Not healing.
Not yet.
But safety.
And for a woman whose life had been mostly fear, safety felt dangerously close to joy.
To be continued…
