Last year, as the new year dawned, I wrote to Sheriff Bojang with an idea—a simple yet profound desire to use my column as a space to tell stories that addressed women’s issues as fundamentally human issues. I wanted to craft narratives that were not just about women but about life itself, framed through the lens of their experiences. I hadn’t fully fleshed out what these stories would focus on, but I was certain of one thing: I wouldn’t lack material. Women’s stories, after all, are life stories. Women are the holders and sustainers of life; it is only natural that they have so much to bring to the table when it comes to everyday and current issues.
Sheriff, ever the gentleman, replied with encouragement. That was the spark that set Echoes of Fuladu into motion—or at least on paper. Its true origin, however, lay much deeper, rooted in the memories of my childhood.
Every time I visited my maternal side of the family, as if to remind me where I belonged, my relatives would bring out every piece of memorabilia they had of me. My baby cot, my dried out umbilical cord, the lump of my baby hair and the soap with which my baby head was cleaned before cutting, photographs, mementos—all tangible links to my origins, laid out for me to touch, see, and feel. It was a ritual, almost sacred in its intention, to ensure I never forgot my place in the lineage.
My grandmother, Borogie, was the custodian of these memories. She was a quiet yet formidable presence, a woman whose life seemed steeped in both sorrow and resilience. She carried herself with a dignity that spoke of battles fought and won, even if silently. She would often sit with me and my cousin Mariama, in the evenings, her mood dictating whether she would recount the stories of her youth told in Fulladu. These were not just tales; they were vignettes of a life defined by toil, survival, and an unyielding spirit. Her songs, woven with messages, captivated me and made the stories more memorable.
My mother, on the other hand, fed my imagination with classic fairy tales—Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White. But it was my grandmother’s stories that truly held my heart. Folktales like The Nightingale and the Herdsboy, The Sparrow and the Boy with the Catapult, The Wizard and His New Wife—these were the narratives that resonated, their lessons etched deeply in my young mind.
Soon, my thirst for stories turned from fiction to fact. I wanted to know about my story, about the people who came before me, who shaped the life I now lived. Who were my great-grandparents and their parents? What were their lives like? What drove them? My curiosity was a Pandora’s box, each answer only deepening my need to know more.
My grandmother indulged me. Every holiday, when I visited her in Farato, she would recount her life, the struggles of her mother, and the journey that brought her to The Gambia. Yet, as much as I tried to document these stories, many of my early scripts were lost over the years. Memory, as they say, is fleeting. But my grandmother’s persistence ensured I retained enough to piece together the tapestry of my lineage.
When I finally sat down to write my family’s story this year, a few years after my grandmother’s demise, I turned to my mother’s elder sister, Nata, the keeper of our collective memory. Much of what I share now comes from her vivid recollections, stories that have lived in her heart and mind like heirlooms passed down from one generation to the next. Yet, the nature of recounting from memory is inherently subjective, shaped by the teller’s perspective, tinted by their joys, sorrows, and personal truths. Were another relative to narrate these tales, the details might shift, their nuances colored differently by their own experiences. Memory is, after all, both a mirror and a lens, reflecting and refracting the realities of our lives.
What remains unwavering in the retelling of Borogie’s story, however, is the universal thread of human emotion that binds her struggles to the struggles of women across time and space. Jealousy, perseverance, hard work, patience, and persistence form the fabric of her narrative. It is a tale steeped in the raw dynamics of co-spouse rivalry, the tensions of sibling-wife relationships, the favoritism of a second wife, and the unrelenting burdens placed on a woman left to fend for herself and her children. These themes, far from being relics of the past, echo through the corridors of life today, repeated in different forms across generations.
The purpose of sharing these anecdotes transcends mere storytelling. It is not simply to entertain or to preserve a record but to illuminate the human condition, to glean lessons from the mistakes and triumphs of the past. Writing this cathartic and true story has unraveled layers of my own identity. It has forced me to confront and embrace my feminism, to understand my mistrust of authority figures, and to nurture my deep empathy for the less privileged. In these stories, I have found the roots of my defiance and the source of my resilience.
But more than anything, this journey has been an exercise in profound gratitude. To emerge from a lineage of farmers, of women who tilled the earth with bare hands, who endured hardships I can scarcely imagine, and yet find myself in an air-conditioned office, earning a living that far exceeds their wildest dreams—it is humbling beyond words. It is a stark reminder that my existence is built upon the sacrifices of those who came before me. My gratitude for their struggles fuels a quiet rage at anyone who dares to undermine what I believe is a generational blessing. It is this awareness that propels me forward, determined to honor their legacy through my own work and life.
The next chapter of Echoes of Fuladu will turn the spotlight onto Borogie’s children—their victories, their failings, and the ways they carried forward their mother’s indomitable spirit. It is a story I feel compelled to tell, especially in light of the recent passing of Binta Ebou Suso, one of Farato Village’s prominent female genital mutilators. Binta was a complex figure, a woman I grew to love deeply. She was present at my wedding and the birth of every one of my four children. Her life and death affected me profoundly. Without judgment, I acknowledge that she was the woman who cut me, performing a rite she believed necessary and good. It was not malice but the unyielding weight of tradition and the guidance of her time that led her to do what she did.
Her passing has only deepened my resolve to narrate women’s stories with tact, respect, and empathy, to tell them as reflections of their time and place without erasing the pain, the complexity, or the humanity inherent in their lives. In honoring these narratives, I hope to illuminate not only the lives of the women who came before us but also the enduring struggles and triumphs that define our collective existence.
As this year draws to a close, I extend my heartfelt gratitude to you, my readers, for walking this journey with me. Your engagement has been a testament to the power of stories to connect us, to challenge us, and to inspire us. May the coming year bring peace, prosperity, and the courage to confront life’s complexities with compassion, understanding, and an unwavering commitment to justice.
Best wishes for a beautiful and prosperous new year!
