Borogie awoke before dawn, the faint light of the early morning barely breaking through the thatched roof of their modest hut. The air was cool and still, the kind of quiet that only came before the world truly stirred. She glanced over at her children, careful not to disturb them. Nata’s arm was slung protectively over Matou, who snored softly, her small frame curled into a tight ball. Khadja Bobo lay on her back, her thumb firmly planted in her mouth, while little Buba stirred slightly, his tiny chest rising and falling with the rhythm of deep sleep. Borogie’s gaze lingered on them, a warmth spreading through her chest.
These children were her world. Their smiles, laughter, and even their tears were her reason to rise each day and face the grueling work ahead. They depended on her entirely, and though the weight of that responsibility was immense, it was also what kept her moving forward. She slipped out of the bed, moving with the quiet precision of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of not waking sleeping children. She tied her headscarf tightly, letting the morning’s determination settle in her bones. Today was another day of toil, another day to push forward.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight stretched hesitantly across the horizon, casting the compound in a soft golden glow. The yard was still empty, the mango tree standing like a sentinel over the quiet space. Borogie picked up her tools—a rusted hoe, a small spade, and a woven basket for carrying soil—and started toward the plot of land that had become her sanctuary. It wasn’t her turn to prepare the family meals today, a rare reprieve that gave her more time to tend to her work. She knew Nata and Matou would take care of the house once they awoke, sharing the chores like they always did: sweeping, washing bowls, and tackling other tasks assigned by the extended family.
The borrowed plot was small, far smaller than what she had been accustomed to in Fulladu. Back home, women farmed vast lands, tending to expansive rice paddies and vegetable gardens that stretched as far as the eye could see. Here in the Kombos, things were different. Women farmed on smaller scales, often in plots tucked behind their homes. When Maa Sireng Bojang, the Alkali’s wife, had chuckled at Borogie’s request for more land, it had stung.
“If it is too small, we’ll adjust next season,” Maa Sireng had said with a smile, her tone kind but patronizing. Borogie had nodded in agreement, swallowing her pride. She knew she had no choice. The size of the plot wasn’t ideal, but it was a start. Beggars, after all, couldn’t be choosers. Besides, Maa Sireng’s encouragement had been genuine, and Borogie took comfort in that. If nothing else, this small plot was hers to nurture, to cultivate, to transform into something that could sustain her family.
The soil was dry, cracked in some places, stubborn and unyielding in others. To an untrained eye, it looked hopeless. But Borogie saw possibility. She saw a blank canvas, a place where she could plant not just crops but the seeds of a better future for her children. Armed with her simple tools and unshakable determination, she began clearing and preparing the land.
The sun was climbing higher when Borogie heard the sound of small feet approaching. Her children, wide awake and ready to join her, came tumbling onto the plot. Matou carried a gourd of water, her face bright with excitement. Nata followed, carrying a hoe almost as big as she was, her expression one of determined concentration. Khadja Bobo toddled behind them, her thumb still in her mouth, clutching a small stick she had picked up along the way.
“Mama, should I pour it here?” Matou asked, holding up the gourd of water.
“Yes, right there, my little farmer,” Borogie replied with a smile. “And don’t spill too much. We’ll need every drop.
Matou carefully poured the water onto the dry soil, her small hands steady despite the weight of the gourd. Nata grabbed the hoe and began digging, her thin arms straining against the stubborn ground. After a few attempts, she stopped, wiping sweat from her forehead.
“Mama, this soil is harder than Khadja Bobo’s head!” she exclaimed, earning a burst of laughter from Matou and even a chuckle from Borogie.
“Keep at it, Nata,” Borogie said gently, her voice steady and encouraging. “The soil will yield, but only if you are patient and kind to it.”
The plot began to take shape under their combined efforts. Matou carried water back and forth, softening the earth in small patches. Nata, now fully invested in the task, attacked the soil with renewed vigor, her strokes growing more confident. Even Khadja Bobo tried to help, using her stick to poke at the dirt, though she mostly ended up drawing squiggly lines that amused her more than anything else.
As the sun beat down on them, Borogie sang softly, her voice rising and falling in a soothing melody. It was a song from her childhood, one her own mother had sung while working in the fields. Nata and Matou picked up the tune, their small voices joining hers. The music seemed to fill the air, lifting their spirits and making the hard work feel lighter.
“Mama, what are we planting today?” Matou asked, her face smeared with dirt but glowing with excitement.
“Today, we’ll start with vegetables,” Borogie said. “Lettuce, tomatoes, and a little okra. They grow quickly and will give us food sooner.”
“And then rice, Mama?” Nata asked eagerly.
“Yes, my child. But rice takes time. We’ll plant it when the rains come,” Borogie replied, her voice filled with a quiet determination.
By midday, the sun was unrelenting, and Borogie called for a break. The family retreated to the shade of the mango tree, where they shared a simple meal of millet porridge Borogie had prepared that morning. The children ate eagerly, their laughter and chatter filling the air.
“Mama, when the garden grows, will we be able to sell some of the vegetables?” Nata asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“Yes, Nata,” Borogie said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “And with that money, we’ll buy more seeds, maybe even a chicken or two. But first, we must make sure we have enough to feed ourselves.”
Matou leaned against her mother, her small hand clutching Borogie’s arm. “Mama, will the garden make us rich?”
Borogie chuckled, her heart warming at her daughter’s innocence. “Richness, my child, is not always about money. The garden will give us food, and food will give us strength. Strength to dream, to work, and to build a better life. That is the kind of richness we need.”
As the afternoon wore on, the family returned to their work. The rows of soil became more defined, the seeds nestled securely in their new homes. Borogie watched her children with a sense of pride that she couldn’t put into words. They were learning the value of hard work, the importance of nurturing something from the ground up.
That evening, as the family rested in their modest hut, Borogie lay awake for a while, listening to the soft breathing of her children curled around her. The weight of gratitude sat warmly in her chest, mingling with the quiet joy of self-reliance. She thought of Maa Sireng’s kindness, of Ousman Bah’s unwavering support, and of Yerro’s quiet pride in her efforts.
The earth beneath her hands, though dry and stubborn, had become a promise. With patience and care, it would yield sustenance for her family. And as Borogie closed her eyes, she knew she was cultivating more than just crops. She was planting seeds of hope, resilience, and a future where her children would never know hunger.
To be contd.
