After Matou began her schooling following the visit by the Aku family, life began to find a new rhythm. Each morning, before the first rays of sunlight bathed the horizon, Borogie would gently wake Matou, her touch soft but firm enough to rouse the little girl from her slumber. Matou, though groggy at first, quickly grew accustomed to the routine and would eagerly prepare herself for the day ahead.
“Mama, are my clothes ready?” Matou would ask, her sleepy voice tinged with excitement.
“They’re folded at the end of the bed,” Borogie would reply, her tone warm but efficient as she ensured Matou had everything she needed. The modest uniform—washed and ironed the night before—symbolized a world of opportunity that Borogie had never known for herself.
After a quick breakfast of leftover porridge or sometimes just roasted groundnuts, Borogie would take Matou’s small hand in hers, and together they would walk the winding path to Bakau School. The journey was quiet at first, the air crisp with the scent of early morning dew. As they walked, the mother and daughter often exchanged snippets of conversation, a mix of practical reminders and the kind of gentle encouragement that only a mother could give.
“Remember to listen to your teacher and be respectful, Matou,” Borogie would say, glancing down at her daughter’s eager face.
“I will, Mama. Aunty May says I’m her best pupil,” Matou would reply proudly, her eyes lighting up at the mention of her teacher.
Bakau School was a modest building, its walls weathered but sturdy, standing as a beacon of learning at the fringes of the town of Bakau. When they arrived, Aunty May, a kind but firm school teacher, would meet them at the gate.
“Good morning, Matou! And good morning to you, Borogie,” Aunty May would greet them with a smile, her Aku-flavored English accent both soothing and authoritative.
“Good morning, Aunty May,” Borogie would reply respectfully, her hands folded in front of her as she handed over Matou.
“Your daughter is doing so well, Borogie. She’s quick to learn and always eager,” Aunty May would often say, her praise filling Borogie with quiet pride.
“Thank you, Aunty May. Please, continue to guide her,” Borogie would reply humbly before turning back toward the field, her heart swelling with hope for her daughter’s future.
Matou loved going to school. She relished the challenge of learning to read and write, often coming home with small assignments that she would proudly show her mother. “Mama, look! I wrote my name today!” she exclaimed one afternoon, holding out a scrap of paper with wobbly but legible letters.
“Well done, my daughter,” Borogie replied, her voice thick with emotion as she ran her fingers over the words. “You make me so proud.”
Despite her enthusiasm for school, Matou never shirked her responsibilities at home. After returning from school each day, she would change out of her uniform and head straight to the fields where her mother worked tirelessly.
“Let me help you, Mama,” she’d say, grabbing a small hoe or carrying a gourd of water to the plot.
“You’ve already worked hard today at school, Matou. Rest for a while,” Borogie would urge, though her heart swelled with pride at her daughter’s determination.
“No, Mama. I want to help. The rice is growing because of you, and I want to be part of it,” Matou would insist, her small hands already busy smoothing the soil or pulling weeds.
Their time in the field was marked by a blend of work and play. Borogie would hum traditional songs from Fulladu, her voice a soothing backdrop as Matou giggled and mimicked her mother’s movements. Sometimes Nata would join them after completing her own chores, and the sisters would chat and laugh, their voices blending with the rustle of the growing rice.
……………………………………………
On a bright May morning, the sun cast its golden light over the flourishing garden, where green shoots swayed gently in the breeze. Borogie knelt in the soft soil, her hands deep in the earth as she carefully pulled out weeds. The rhythmic hum of her children’s laughter filled the air, a melody that seemed to harmonize with the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird. The garden, once barren and unforgiving, was now alive with promise.
The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. Looking up, she saw Maa Sireng Bojang, the Alkali’s first wife, walking toward her. Maa Sireng’s bright wrapper shimmered in the sunlight, its colors as vibrant as the woman herself. Her headscarf was tied with precision, and she carried herself with the authority and grace of someone who commanded respect.
Borogie stood quickly, brushing the dirt from her wrapper and bowing her head in greeting. “Asalamu Alaikum, Maa Sireng,” she said, her voice steady but filled with respect.
“Wa Alaikum Salam, Borogie,” Maa Sireng replied warmly, her eyes scanning the garden. She took in the neat rows of vegetables growing, the carefully tended soil, and the visible effort that had gone into transforming the plot. Her face broke into a wide smile.
“You have done well, child,” she said, her voice rich with approval. “The soil looks good. It will reward you.”
Borogie’s heart swelled with pride. She wiped her hands on her wrapper and bowed her head again. “Thank you, Maa Sireng. Your kindness has given me a chance to make something of this land.”
Maa Sireng stepped closer, her gaze softening as she placed a firm but gentle hand on Borogie’s shoulder. “It is not kindness, child. It is wisdom,” she said, her tone both encouraging and knowing. “I see your determination, and I know you will succeed. You remind me of myself when I first started my own garden. And remember, if you need anything—seeds, tools, or even advice—you only have to ask.”
The words settled deeply in Borogie’s heart, a balm to her spirit. She nodded, her throat tight with gratitude. “Thank you, Maa Sireng. I will honor this land and your faith in me.”
Maa Sireng’s face softened further, and she let out a small chuckle. “You’ve already done so much, Borogie. You are teaching your children something far more valuable than farming—you are teaching them resilience, hard work, and hope. That is worth more than anything money can buy.”
As Maa Sireng turned and walked away, her wrapper billowing gently in the breeze, Borogie felt a renewed sense of purpose. This garden was more than a patch of land. It was a lifeline, a testament to her determination to rise above her circumstances and provide for her family.
Days turned into weeks, and the garden began to transform before her eyes. The once-dry plot now shimmered with the vibrant colors of vegetables. Each morning, Borogie tended to the garden with care, most times working together with Nata, her eldest. Sometimes, especially after returning from school, Matou would join in.
“Mama, look! This one is taller than the others,” Matou exclaimed one morning, pointing to a particularly healthy stalk. Her face glowed with pride as she crouched beside it.
Borogie smiled, her hands busy loosening the soil around another plant. “Yes, my little farmer. That’s because we’ve taken good care of it. The land rewards love and hard work.”
Matou grinned, the weight of her schoolbag forgotten as she knelt beside her mother. Nata joined them shortly after, carrying a gourd of water to pour around the base of the plants.
“Careful, Nata,” Borogie said gently. “Pour slowly, so the water sinks in and doesn’t run away.”
“Yes, Mama,” Nata replied, her concentration evident as she tilted the gourd with care.
The children’s laughter and chatter filled the air, a joyous contrast to the quiet struggles that had marked their lives before the garden. Borogie watched them, her heart swelling with pride. This was more than a lesson in farming; it was a lesson in unity, in working together to build something lasting.
One sunny afternoon, as they rested under the shade of a mango tree after a long morning in the garden, Matou turned to her mother with a thoughtful expression.
“Mama,” she began, her voice tentative, “do you think the garden will grow enough for us to share with others?”
Borogie looked at her daughter, her lips curving into a gentle smile. “One day, my child. One day, this garden will feed not just us, but anyone who needs it. Because when you share what you have, it comes back to you in ways you cannot imagine.”
Nata, always quick to add her thoughts, chimed in. “Like when the neighbors gave us water last week for the plants. That was kind, Mama.”
“Yes,” Borogie replied, her tone thoughtful. “Kindness is like a seed, Nata. When you plant it, it grows into something beautiful.”
By late May, Maa Sireng returned to see the progress of the garden. This time, she brought along her eldest daughter, Bintou, a spirited young woman who was eager to learn more about Borogie’s methods.
“Borogie, you’ve turned this land into something wonderful,” Maa Sireng said, her admiration clear as she surveyed the thriving plants.
Bintou nodded in agreement, crouching to examine the plants. “Mama was right about you. You’re an inspiration,” she said, her voice sincere.
Borogie felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “Thank you, Bintou. It’s the land. It’s generous when you respect it.”
Maa Sireng laughed, her tone light but full of pride. “It’s not just the land, child. It’s you. You’ve poured your heart into this garden, and it shows.”
As they walked through the rows of rice, Borogie explained her methods, sharing the small tricks she had learned from her years in Fulladu and her adjustments to the Kombos’ climate.
“It’s about balance,” she said, crouching to show them how she spaced the plants. “Too close, and they compete for nutrients. Too far, and you waste space.”
Bintou listened intently, nodding as she asked questions about watering schedules and pest control. Maa Sireng watched with quiet pride, her gaze occasionally drifting to the children who played nearby, their laughter a testament to the peace the garden had brought to their lives.
By late May, most of the vegetables were ready for harvest, a sight that brought tears to Borogie’s eyes.
“Mama, is it time?” Matou asked eagerly, her hands already reaching for a stalk.
“Yes, my child,” Borogie replied, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s time.”
The family worked side by side, their hands swift and steady as they gathered the vegetables. The children’s laughter echoed through the garden, a joyful soundtrack to the culmination of months of hard work.
She had planted hope, resilience, and a legacy of love that would nourish her family for generations to come.
To be contd.
