The division of evening meals had been a blow to Borogie, a wound that Nata had witnessed up close. Life had always been a struggle for Borogie, trying to feed her children on the little they had. When the family meals were shared, at least there was the relief of knowing everyone ate from the same pot. But Neneh Dado’s decision had upended that fragile peace. Now, Borogie was left to manage her own pot of rice, her own vegetables, her own cooking, without the support of the family.
It didn’t take long for the strain to show. Nata watched her mother labor daily, stretching whatever meager provisions she had to make sure her children didn’t go to bed hungry. Their neighbours, including Mbassi, who had welcomed them when they first arrived from Fulladu, had been very helpful. They would share the little they had and all their leftovers with her children. At night, Nata could sometimes hear her mother’s muffled sobs. The injustice stung—why should they suffer more than the others, simply because of a division set by Neneh Dado?
The simmering tension finally boiled over one evening during a family meeting. Nata, hiding behind the door, caught snippets of the conversation, her ears straining to absorb every word. The confrontation had been initiated by Ansumana Jamanka, a cousin of Neneh Dado’s, who had taken a stand against her decision.
The air in the room was thick with unease, almost suffocating. Neneh Dado sat upright, her spine as straight as a rod, her gaze locked firmly on her hands resting in her lap. Her hardened expression revealed everything—she had no intention of backing down. Every muscle in her face seemed frozen in a silent battle of will, as if even the slightest movement might signal a concession. She wouldn’t give in, not today.
In the adjoining living room, Borogie sat quietly, her frail arms wrapped around baby Buba as he nursed. At least breast milk was free; she didn’t have to buy that or beg for it. But the toll breastfeeding took on her malnourished body was unmistakable. As Buba grew heavier in her arms with each passing day, Borogie seemed to shrink, becoming smaller and more fragile. So tiny, in fact, that Nata couldn’t help but feel a pang of fear whenever she looked at her mother. Her once-strong figure was now all bones, the weight of motherhood pressing down on her like an invisible hand.
Borogie’s addiction to powder tabac, the finely pounded dry leaf of tobacco, had become her secret escape, a coping mechanism she had leaned on for years. In the villages of Western Africa, powder tabac was a common stimulant, used by many to relieve stress and pass time, but for Borogie, it had become more than just a habit—it was a refuge.
Her consumption had increased drastically, especially in the last few months. The demands of motherhood, the endless struggle to feed her children, and the emotional toll of living under Neneh Dado’s harsh rules had worn her down. Every time she felt the weight of her circumstances pressing on her, she would retreat to a quiet corner, pinch a bit of the powder, and rub it along her gums. The sharp, bitter sting brought an immediate rush, a numbing sensation that momentarily lifted her from the drudgery of her life.
Borogie knew the dangers of tabac—the dizziness, the way it left her mouth dry, and how it could aggravate her malnourished state—but she couldn’t stop. It dulled her hunger, calmed her nerves, and gave her a fleeting sense of control in a life where so much was beyond her reach. The powder, though simple in form, had become her anchor, something she could turn to when everything else felt too overwhelming.
Each time she indulged, it was like pressing pause on her worries. The troubles of the day—the long hours of labor, the cries of her children, the constant fear of not having enough food—faded into the background. But as the effects wore off, reality would come crashing back, harsher and more unforgiving than before. Still, Borogie clung to her tabac, knowing it wasn’t a solution, but unable to let go of the small comfort it provided in her otherwise difficult existence.
So that evening, despite the exhaustion creeping through her body, Borogie kept her face calm, her eyes trained on Buba. It was as if she willed herself to focus on the simple act of feeding her child, choosing not to engage in the chaos swirling around her. She knew the storm was coming, could feel it brewing in the heated voices and tense glances exchanged across the room. Yet, she remained silent, as though silence could shield her from the battle unfolding beyond her.
She focused on the rhythm of Buba’s suckling, the way his tiny fist clutched at her blouse. This moment, as exhausting as it was, was hers alone. In a world that had taken so much from her, at least this—feeding her child—was something she could still give.
Ansumana Jamanka rose to his feet, his wiry frame betraying the years of battles he had fought, both within the family and beyond. His voice, steady and deliberate, sliced through the tension like a sharp blade.
“Morrta,” he began, using Neneh Dado’s pet name, “what you’re doing is not right. This family has always eaten together. We share the evening meal because it is what binds us. Dividing it now will only bring hardship.”
Neneh Dado didn’t look up, but the others shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Yerro, her husband, sat by her side, his eyes averted, unwilling to be drawn into the argument.
Ansumana pressed on. “This is not Fulladu, Morrta. In Fulladu, yes, we had fields, we grew our own food. But here in The Gambia, in Jeshwang, we don’t have land. We must work together. If we each fend for ourselves, Borogie and her children will suffer the most.”
At the mention of Borogie’s name, Nata noticed her mother’s subtle reaction—a slight tremble in her hands as she adjusted Buba in her arms. Still, Borogie remained silent, her gaze fixed on her baby. This was a fight for her and her children, but she had no intention of engaging in the confrontation.
Neneh Dado finally spoke, her voice sharp and defensive. “Suffer? I have no children, and I suffer. I work as hard as anyone here. When the meals are shared, there’s never enough for me. How can you ask me to feed Borogie’s children? I am not their mother.”
Her words hung in the air, cold and piercing. Nata, crouched behind the door, felt a chill at hearing Neneh Dado’s resentment spoken so openly.
Ansumana’s voice grew firmer. “This is not about feeding just Borogie’s children. It’s about family. We all eat from the same pot because we are one family. Dividing the meals means dividing us. And you know, in hard times, it’s the women like Borogie who will carry the burden.”
Neneh Dado scoffed. “Family? You don’t live here every day, Ansumana. Every day, I cook, I clean, I fetch water, and what do I get? Scraps. I’m not a servant. I’ve earned the right to cook my own meal. If Borogie can’t manage, that’s her problem.”
Borogie flinched slightly at the mention of her name but still said nothing. Nata’s heart ached for her mother, wishing she could leap from her hiding place and defend her. But she knew better. This wasn’t a battle she could fight.
Ansumana took a deep breath, calming his frustration. “Morrta, this is not about you or Borogie. It’s about survival. We are far from home. If you divide this family over a pot of rice, it will hurt us all, including you.”
For a moment, Neneh Dado’s resolve seemed to waver. Her eyes flickered toward Yerro, who remained silent. But she quickly steeled herself again. “I’ve made my decision. I will not share the cooking. I have the right to live as I see fit.”
Before Ansumana could respond, Ousman Bah, the elder of the family, rose from his quiet corner. His presence commanded the room. Though he rarely intervened, when he spoke, everyone listened.
“That’s enough,” Ousman Bah said, his voice steady and calm, silencing the room. “Morrta, I understand your frustration. But this family will not be divided. As long as I am alive, the evening meal will be one. The Gambia is not Fulladu. We share our food because we must adjust to our new life here.”
Neneh Dado bristled but remained silent. Ousman’s authority was too great to challenge.
Yerro finally spoke, his voice low. “I agree with my uncle. It’s best for the family to eat together.”
In the living room, Borogie breathed a sigh of relief. The decision had been made without her needing to speak. Her children would not starve tonight.
Nata, still hiding, felt a surge of hope. The battle wasn’t fully won, but for now, her family remained whole. For Borogie, and for herself, that was enough.
To be contd.
