The rain drizzled for the first time in early June, its rhythmic patter a herald of the long-awaited rainy season. For Borogie, it was more than just the start of the planting season—it was the promise of renewal, the hope of abundance for her family. She tied her headscarf tightly, its ends knotted firmly at the nape of her neck, and stepped out into the crisp morning air. Today was a day for planting rice, and her heart swelled with both purpose and anticipation.
A few days earlier, Borogie had noticed the unmistakable pattern of converging clouds, signaling the arrival of the rains. Acting quickly, she secured two long hoes from the market, their rounded, sharpened edges strong enough to cut through the rain-softened earth. They were sturdy tools, built for the arduous labor ahead. One hoe was for herself, and the other for Nata, her twelve-year-old daughter, who had insisted on helping. Though her frame was slight, Nata’s spirit was indomitable, and she was eager to share the work.
Matou, who was still too young for heavy labor, tagged along, her small face alight with excitement as she helped carry smaller tools and water gourds. Matou was equally occupied with her new life at Bakau School, attending Primary 1 under the watchful guidance of Aunty May. But on weekends and afternoons after school, she joined her mother and sister in the field, her childish enthusiasm adding a lightness to the task.
The plot Borogie worked was modest in size, situated near the Alkali’s wife’s garden at the edge of the small town. Though it wasn’t the sprawling expanse of Fulladu’s rice paddies where she had farmed in her youth, it was enough for her dreams to take root. At first, she had worried the plot might be too small, but Maa Sireng Bojang, the Alkali’s wife and her adopted mother, had reassured her with a warm chuckle. “Farm it this season, child. If it proves too small, we’ll adjust it next year.”
Though the words had felt slightly patronising, Borogie accepted them with grace. She knew that beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she was determined to make every inch of the land count.
The first planting day arrived with a gentle drizzle, softening the earth and making it pliable under the sharp edges of the hoes. Borogie dug the first row with practiced efficiency, sinking her hoe into the soil with a satisfying crunch. The scent of wet earth filled the air, stirring memories of her childhood in Fulladu.
“Mama, can I try?” Nata asked, her eager hands reaching for the hoe.
Borogie smiled and handed it over. “Be careful, my little farmer. Use both hands and let the weight of the tool guide you.”
Nata grasped the hoe with determination, mimicking her mother’s movements. The soil resisted at first, but she managed to break through, earning cheers from Matou, who clapped her small hands in delight.
“Mama, my turn!” Matou chimed in, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.
“Alright, my little helper,” Borogie said with a laugh, gently retrieving the hoe from Nata and handing it to Matou. “Just don’t tire yourself out. The rains are long, and so is the planting.”
The children took turns, their small hands working the soil with a mixture of earnestness and play. Borogie guided them with patience, showing them how to plant the rice seedlings evenly, ensuring they had space to grow.
The rice field quickly became a place of connection for the family. Each morning, Borogie rose early to tend the crops. As she worked, Borogie sang soulful songs from her youth, her voice carrying across the field. Nata and Matou when they were around would join in, their laughter weaving into the melody like a harmony of hope.
“Matou, be gentle with the seedlings,” Borogie instructed one day, watching as her youngest carefully pressed the plants into the soil. “They are fragile now, but with care, they will grow strong.”
“Yes, Mama,” Matou replied earnestly, her small hands patting the earth around the delicate shoots.
Nata, her brows furrowed in concentration, asked, “Mama, how long will it take for the rice to grow?”
Borogie smiled, her face glowing with maternal pride. “Patience, my child. The rains will nourish them, and in a few months, we will see the harvest.”
Watering the plot was a shared effort. With no irrigation system in place, the family relied on a nearby well, when the rains had not fallen. The children carried gourd bowls filled to the brim, carefully pouring water into the furrows to ensure the rice thrived. Borogie admired their dedication, her heart swelling with gratitude for their willingness to work alongside her.
Weeks turned into months, and the rice paddies flourished under Borogie’s diligent care. The children’s excitement grew with each passing day as they watched the plants shoot higher, their leaves swaying gently in the wind. The field, once barren, now teemed with life.
As the rainy season progressed, Borogie’s rice paddies became a source of inspiration for the village. Women tending their own gardens often stopped by to marvel at her work, some offering advice, others simply admiring her determination.
“Mama,” Matou whispered one evening as they sat by the fire, “do you think I’ll be as strong as you when I grow up?”
Borogie pulled her daughter close, her voice tender. “You already are, my little one. Strength isn’t just about working hard. It’s about caring for others, standing tall in the face of challenges, and never giving up on your dreams.”
As the firelight flickered, casting warm shadows across their faces, Borogie knew she wasn’t just cultivating rice—she was cultivating resilience, hope, and a legacy that would endure through her children. Together, they were building a future where hunger would be a memory, and dreams would have the space to thrive.
…
While Borogie worked the fields, Yerro had returned to Fulladu to address a deeply personal matter. His uncle, Ousman Bah, had lived alone for years, divorced and without children. It had been a source of quiet sorrow for Yerro, who believed his uncle deserved companionship.
In Fulladu, Yerro had identified a young woman named Binta Jarja, also known as Mbentoung Mballow. She was a distant relative of theirs, which added a layer of familial connection that both families found appealing. Convincing Ousman to accept a new wife had not been easy, but Yerro’s quiet determination had won out.
“Uncle,” he had said during their final conversation, “a wife is not just a partner. She is a companion, someone to share your burdens and joys. You deserve that.”
Ousman had sighed, his eyes reflecting years of solitude. “Perhaps you are right, Yerro. If this union brings peace to the family, then so be it.”
As the weeks passed, the first green shoots began to emerge from the soil. Tiny blades of rice pushed through the earth, a testament to the family’s hard work. The children were ecstatic, running to the field each morning to check on the progress.
“Mama, look! They’re growing!” Nata exclaimed, pointing to the small rows of seedlings.
Borogie knelt beside her, brushing her hand gently over the young plants. “Yes, my child. This is the beginning of something beautiful. Soon, we will have rice to eat, and we will never go hungry again.”
The sight of the thriving field filled Borogie with a sense of accomplishment she hadn’t felt in years. The land, though borrowed, had become her sanctuary — a place where she could cultivate not just crops, but hope and resilience.
By the time Yerro returned from Fulladu, the rice field was flourishing, a green oasis in the heart of Jeshwang. The family gathered to welcome him, their spirits lifted by the sight of the growing crops.
As the rainy season continued, Borogie and her children worked tirelessly to tend the field. Each day brought new challenges, but also new rewards.
In the evenings, as the family gathered to share simple meals, Borogie would tell her children stories of her childhood in Fulladu, weaving lessons of resilience and love into each tale. The rice field had given them more than food — it had given them a future worth fighting for. And for Borogie, that was everything.
To be continued.
