The arrival of Mbentoung Mballow, the bride that Yerro brought from Fulladu for his uncle, Ousman Bah, was an event that would live in the memories of both Fuladu and Jeshwang. It came with the pomp and pageantry of a time when traditions were treasured, and the Fulani customs of the 1960s were honored with every step of the way.
Mbentoung’s journey to The Gambia was not a simple affair. It was a grand procession that unfolded over days, rich with culture, symbolism, and the quiet but powerful bonds of family and tradition.
In Fuladu, Mbentoung Mballow’s home had been a hub of activity for days leading up to her departure. Her family, once resigned to the idea that she might never marry, now celebrated her union with gratitude and relief. Well past her twenties, Mbentoung was considered “a spinster,” a woman who had grown into adulthood without finding a suitor. In a time and place where a woman’s marriage often defined her worth in the community, her parents had long carried the quiet shame of having an unmarried daughter.
When Yerro arrived, acting as the emissary for his uncle, the entire village took notice. Ousman Bah’s proposal was a surprise, but also a blessing. The Mballow family saw it as the hand of fate—their daughter would have a home, a husband, and a chance to live out her years with dignity.
The days before her departure were marked by “remmugol,” the Fulani ceremony of preparing a bride. Her mother and elder women gathered in the hut, bathing her with scented water infused with herbs and “nyaru,” medicinal leaves that symbolized purity and blessings. Her hair was braided into elaborate Fulani styles, each plait decorated with beads and cowries, signifying beauty and prosperity. Around her wrists, her mother fastened “kaadi,” silver bracelets that had been passed down through generations, their faint jingling a soft song of legacy.
“She leaves with the blessing of her ancestors,” the village imam said as he led a prayer, his voice heavy with tradition and reverence.
Mbentoung’s trousseau was packed with care—a carefully wrapped calabash of “laalo” (dried milk curds), bags of millet, woven mats for her new home, and pieces of cloth, embroidered and dyed with the deep, vibrant colors of Fuladu. These gifts were as much a symbol of her family’s pride as they were provisions for her new life.
At dawn, the day of departure arrived. The women of her family ululated loudly, their voices rising to the skies in celebration. Mbentoung’s face was veiled, her head wrapped in layers of indigo-dyed cloth, a sign of modesty and her new status as a bride. Her relatives, a mix of men and women, formed a procession that would accompany her to The Gambia. It was customary for brides to travel with their kin, both as a farewell gesture and a display of her family’s strength and standing.
The journey from Fuladu to Jeshwang took a day and hours, winding through dusty roads and villages. Mbentoung spoke little during the journey, her face hidden by her veil, but her heart beat with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. She was leaving everything she knew behind to start a life with a man she had never met.
The air was filled with chatter, laughter, and songs as the caravan moved forward, its spirit unbroken despite the fatigue.
It was late afternoon, the next day, when the procession finally entered Jeshwang. The town children, curious and wide-eyed, gathered along the paths, whispering to one another about the new bride and her entourage. Women peered from behind doorways, eager to catch a glimpse of the bride whose arrival had already become the talk of the village.
Ousman Bah waited nervously at the edge of the compound, his hands clasped behind his back. Though stoic, there was a sense of quiet anticipation in his eyes. He had been divorced for years, the absence of a wife and children a silent weight on his life. Yerro had convinced him of the value of companionship, and now, as he watched the procession approach, he felt both nervous and hopeful.
The first to greet Mbentoung were Neneh Dado and Borogie, the two wives of Yerro, who had come together to receive her. Neneh Dado, regal and confident as always, stepped forward first.
“Welcome, sister,” she said, her voice formal but kind as she reached to touch Mbentoung’s veiled head. “May this house bring you peace.”
Borogie stood slightly behind, her expression softer and more open. She, more than anyone, understood the struggles of leaving home and starting anew. Her heart swelled with empathy as she looked at Mbentoung.
“Be at ease,” Borogie said gently. “We are family now.”
The bride’s entourage began to unload the gifts they had brought—calabashes, gourds, and mats were carefully laid out in front of the compound. The ritti players struck up a jubilant rhythm, and women from the neighborhood began to ululate again, celebrating Mbentoung’s arrival as if she were one of their own.
Ousman Bah stepped forward, his expression both serious and welcoming. “You are home now,” he said simply, his voice deep but kind.
Mbentoung knelt before him, a gesture of respect, and murmured her thanks softly, her voice barely audible beneath the layers of her veil.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky with hues of gold and crimson, the compound came alive with festivities. A feast was prepared in honor of the new bride—rice cooked with groundnut stew, roasted meat, and calabashes of “corsam” (fermented milk). Women laughed and shared stories as they stirred pots and carried food to the men, who sat in a circle, exchanging pleasantries about the day.
Mbentoung, still veiled, was led into a small hut prepared for her and her husband. A white cloth had been laid on the hay mattress—a custom to symbolize purity and the beginning of their married life. Outside, the drumming and strumming continued, their cadence carrying into the night like the pulse of the village itself.
Ousman Bah entered the hut quietly, his movements deliberate. He sat beside her, clearing his throat as if unsure where to begin. “I am not a young man, Mbentoung,” he said softly, his voice steady. “But I promise to treat you with respect and kindness.”
Mbentoung nodded, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice finally clear and calm.
And with that simple exchange, a new chapter began.
Adjusting to Life in Jeshwang
In the days that followed, Mbentoung settled into her role as Ousman’s wife with quiet diligence. Though she spoke little at first, her presence quickly became a source of warmth in the compound. She carried herself with the calm grace of a Fulani woman, rising early to sweep the yard, fetch water, and prepare meals.
The bond between Mbentoung and Neneh Dado grew quickly. While Mbentoung admired Borogie’s unrelenting hard work, there was something about her seriousness and drive that felt off-putting. To Mbentoung, Borogie appeared too serious, too driven, and even a little vain—an air of someone who carried herself like she had already conquered life. It was as though Borogie’s successes, her garden thriving and her children doting on her, made her untouchable.
Soon, Mbentoung began to view Borogie with a quiet but growing aversion. The woman seemed to have it all: a family that adored her, a profession in farming that earned her respect, and, worst of all, the affection and admiration of the entire community. Everywhere Mbentoung turned, people sang Borogie’s praises—how hard she worked, how self-reliant she was, how her garden fed not just her family but others in need. It stung like a thorn in Mbentoung’s side.
Bitten by jealousy and a growing sense of inadequacy, Mbentoung found solace in Neneh Dado. Dado, unlike Borogie, did not carry herself with that quiet arrogance; she preferred the comforts of idleness and the certainty of Yerro’s favoritism. To Mbentoung, Dado’s lethargy felt less threatening, less judgmental. The two women began spending more and more time together, exchanging glances and quiet words that grew into whispered grievances.
Neneh Dado, always perceptive and cunning, noticed the jealousy simmering within Mbentoung and seized the opportunity. She fed Mbentoung’s insecurities with sly remarks and half-truths, painting Borogie as a woman who thought herself superior, a woman who needed to be brought down a notch. “You’re right, Mbentoung,” Dado would say, her tone conspiratorial. “Borogie wants to be the center of everything. She works so hard not for her children, but for the praise it brings her.”
Over time, what began as casual complaints turned into a solid alliance between the two women—an alliance born of shared resentment and jealousy, a union that would soon prove hellish for Borogie. Borogie, oblivious to the shifting dynamics within the household, continued to work tirelessly for her family, unaware of the storm brewing against her.
What Mbentoung could not yet see was that her envy was fueled by her own struggle to find her place in this new life. Compared to the industrious Borogie, who seemed to turn everything she touched into gold, Mbentoung felt adrift. Her days, though filled with tasks alongside Neneh Dado, lacked the fulfillment and purpose that Borogie’s garden and family provided. Instead of seeking her own strength, Mbentoung clung to Dado, whose grievances only fanned the flames of her bitterness.
And so, under the same roof, a quiet conflict took root—one that would test Borogie’s patience and deepen the fractures within the household…
The end of Echoes of Fulladu I
