With Rohey Samba
There were no answers in the dark, only the soft rustle of her children moving in their sleep. Borogie’s arms tightened around them, pulling them close, as if the sheer force of her love could shield them from the hunger and the uncertainty. If only she could be their armor, their protector from the world’s cruelties.
She thought of Matou’s bold statement earlier that night: “Sell me to President Jawara.” The absurdity of it made her smile sadly in the darkness. How was it that a five-year-old could say something so heartbreaking, yet laced with such innocent bravery? Matou, in her youthful optimism, had somehow imagined a future where she could fix everything, where she could save them all.
But Borogie knew better. She knew the world didn’t work that way. Still, Matou’s words lingered with her, fueling something deep within—a determination that had always been there but now burned brighter.
“I will not let this break us,” she whispered into the night. Her voice was barely audible, even to herself, but it was a promise nonetheless. “I will find a way.”
Borogie’s mind drifted back to Kanjor, to her own childhood, when she had been the one huddled close to her mother in the lean seasons. Back then, she hadn’t known the extent of her mother’s struggles, just as she had hoped her children wouldn’t know hers. But now, she realized, there was only so much she could shield them from. The reality of their situation was pressing in, and her children were no longer ignorant to it.
Her mother had found a way to keep them alive back then, through ingenuity, through faith, and through an unshakable belief in better days to come. Borogie would have to do the same. She didn’t know how yet—perhaps she would ask Yerro to find her work, or maybe she would approach neighbors. It wasn’t in her nature to ask for charity, but for her children’s sake, she would swallow her pride. They deserved more than this.
Matou shifted in her sleep, snuggling closer into the warmth of her mother’s body. Borogie kissed the top of her daughter’s head, feeling the softness of her curls beneath her lips. Nata, ever the watchful one, stirred slightly, but her eyes remained closed, her brow furrowed as if even in sleep she was thinking of solutions.
Borogie stayed awake long after her children had drifted into deep slumber, her mind racing through possibilities, her heart aching with both love and fear. There had to be a way out of this. For Matou, for Nata, for Khadja Bobo, and for Buba, her youngest, still too small to understand any of this.
They deserved more than just surviving. They deserved to thrive, to laugh without the shadow of hunger lurking in the corners of their joy.
Borogie made a vow in the stillness of that night—a vow as sacred as any she had ever made. She would do whatever it took to secure a future for her children where hunger wasn’t their constant companion, where their dreams weren’t sacrificed for survival. Whether it meant begging, borrowing, or even leaving this place altogether, she would not stop until she had found a way to give them the life they deserved.
And somehow, she would make sure they got it.
With that final resolve, she closed her eyes, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion that had been threatening to overtake her. But even in sleep, her mind remained vigilant, always searching, always planning, always hoping for the day when her children could wake up to a world that wasn’t shaped by hunger or want.
At the first crow of the rooster, Borogie woke, slipping out of bed quietly so as not to wake her children. The early morning air was cool and crisp as she made her way to the small kitchen in the corner of the compound. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness as she reached for the sack of millet stashed in the shadows. Today, she would prepare the breakfast, but this time, with a renewed purpose in her heart. She usually asked Nata to help with the pounding, which was no small task. The millet had to be pounded in stages, first to loosen it, then with water added gradually until it was ground into powder. Finally, she would roll it into pellets and cook it into porridge.
But this morning, she let Nata sleep, watching her daughter’s peaceful face for a moment before slipping out. The rhythmic pounding of the millet echoed across the yard, a comforting and familiar sound that made Borogie feel rooted, connected to the generations of women before her who had labored in the same way to provide for their families. Her thoughts were full of ideas and dreams of what she might accomplish if she could get her hands on a piece of land, just a small plot for a garden to grow rice and vegetables. It could be enough to feed her family and perhaps even a little extra to sell at the market. The prospect filled her with a quiet joy.
After finishing the meal preparations, Borogie’s cheerful voice carried through the yard as she woke her children, “Wake up, my little ones! Time to wash your faces—breakfast is ready!”
Nata stirred, sitting up with a sleepy expression. “You didn’t ask me to help with the chores, Mama,” she said, her tone both surprised and a little guilty.
Borogie smiled, her heart softening at her daughter’s sense of responsibility. “No, my baby,” she replied, smoothing down Nata’s rumpled hair. “I saw you sleeping like an angel, and I didn’t want to ruin your sweet dreams.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead, and the girls began to giggle as they piled out of the room, playfully jostling each other as they made their way outside.
Under the broad mango tree in the yard, Borogie placed a gourd of water, and the girls took turns splashing their faces, squealing as the coolness of the water brought them fully awake. Seeing their laughter lifted Borogie’s spirits even higher. She could already imagine a different future, a brighter one, for her children.
Once they were ready, Borogie gathered them for breakfast and then called out to the elders with the same cheerful tone. Yerro and his first wife, Neneh Dado, joined them, taking their places on the ground where the meal was set. Borogie served the millet porridge, each of them using hollowed-out gourds as makeshift spoons. The usual silence hung over their meal as they ate, but Borogie could feel her heart pounding with anticipation. She had a plan, and today, she would bring it to life.
Clearing her throat, she addressed her husband, “Alagie, I’ve been thinking… I want to work in the gardens. If I can grow my own rice paddy and vegetables, we’ll have food for ourselves, and perhaps I can even sell a little at the market to add to the fish money.” She paused, glancing up to see his reaction.
Yerro looked at her, surprised but attentive, his hand paused mid-scoop. “But we are not natives of this land, Borogie. How do you plan to find a garden plot for farming?”
Encouraged by his interest, she leaned forward, her voice filled with conviction. “I can ask the natives to let me borrow some land. There are plots around Jeshwang left untended, bits of land that could be used. I’ve seen them myself, and perhaps someone would be willing to allow me to farm a small portion. I know I can make it work.” She glanced toward Neneh Dado, adding, “If you’re interested, I could ask for both of us.”
But Neneh Dado shook her head, a small smile touching her lips. “Thank you, but I am content here, Borogie. I’ve tended enough gardens back home in Casamance. I don’t have the energy to start again here, in the Kombos.”
Borogie nodded, understanding her co-wife’s reluctance. Casamance had been a world of fertile land and well-known traditions for them both, and the transition to their new lives in The Gambia had not been easy. Still, Borogie felt in her heart that this was the right path for her.
Yerro studied her for a moment before finally speaking. “If this is what you want, Borogie,” he said, his tone gentle yet firm, “then I will talk to my uncle when he returns. He has connections here, and perhaps he can help find you a piece of land. He helped me when we first arrived, and maybe he will help you too.”
Borogie’s heart swelled with gratitude and a newfound pride. She looked down at her children, who were watching her intently, sensing the importance of the moment. “Thank you, Alagie,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. She felt a surge of strength at the thought of having a garden of her own—a place where she could sow and reap, a place where her efforts would yield food for her family.
The rest of the meal passed in quiet contentment, but Borogie’s mind was alight with thoughts of the future. Her children chattered excitedly among themselves, catching bits and pieces of her conversation with their father. Matou, ever the bold one, piped up, “Mama, does this mean we’ll have our own rice and vegetables? And we won’t have to wait for someone to bring us food?”
Borogie chuckled, pulling her daughter close. “Yes, my little one. It means we’ll grow our own food, and we’ll have enough to fill our bellies every day.”
Nata’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Can we help, Mama? I want to learn how to plant and water and make things grow!”
Borogie’s heart warmed at her children’s eagerness, and she nodded, feeling a sense of purpose as she looked at their hopeful faces. “Of course, you’ll help. A garden grows best with many hands to care for it.”
As they cleaned up after breakfast, Borogie caught Yerro’s eye and felt a silent understanding pass between them. His nod of approval meant everything to her; it gave her strength, knowing that he trusted her vision.
To be contd.
