With Rohey Samba
A few days before the visitors from Bakau arrived, and before the intervention by Ousman Bah to share the evening together, the family experienced a night that none of them would forget—a night that hovered on the cusp of both innocence and despair, where hunger twisted with hope in the most unexpected ways. It was an ordinary evening, yet the weight of the moment hung in the air like the thick heat that clung to everything.
Ousman was out on night duties at Bakau school, where he would spent the night as watchman. Neneh Dado and Yerro, the family’s elders, had retired to Yerro’s hut for the evening meal, leaving Borogie and her children huddled together in their own quarters. The small kerosene lamp flickered weakly in the corner, casting strange, wavering shadows across the mud walls. The smoke from the lamp filled the room, irritating their eyes and noses, making the small space feel even more oppressive.
Borogie’s room was both their bedroom and the heart of the home, humble but filled with a kind of solace that only her presence could provide. In one corner stood a clay pot covered with a wooden plate, where water was stored, and beside it, a hollow gourd used for drinking. The two metal beds with hay mattresses might have seemed meager to others, but to the children, it was a sanctuary, for it held the warmth of their mother and each other.
That evening, though, hunger gnawed at them with relentless persistence. Their bellies were empty, and no amount of huddling could erase the dull ache. The smell of ‘Maafeh Laaloh’—a Fulakunda dish made of dried moringa leaves and seafood—wafted from Neneh Dado’s pot in the adjoining hut, teasing their senses, yet there was none for them. Borogie had tried to hide her distress, but the children sensed it, especially Matou, the five-year-old with a heart far too big for her little frame. She sucked her thumb more than usual, lying quietly on her mother’s lap, feeling the rise and fall of Borogie’s chest beneath her head.
Borogie’s thin arms rested protectively over Matou’s small body as the other children—Nata, the eldest, and Khadja Bobo, who followed after Matou—snuggled close. Buba, the baby boy, was fast asleep on his mother’s bed, with no care in the world.
The children’s proximity to their mother, though comforting, did little to dull the hunger that gnawed at their insides. The room felt suffocating, not from the heat, but from the palpable sense of helplessness that lingered like a shadow in the corners.
Suddenly, Matou raised her head from her mother’s lap. The stillness in the room was broken by her small, bold voice. “Nenneh, why don’t you sell me off to President Jawara so you can have money? Then you won’t have to worry about being hungry anymore.” Her words hung in the air, shocking everyone in the room. Borogie’s heart skipped a beat as she gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief.
President Sir Dawda Kairaba Jawara had just been elected President of The Gambia a few years earlier, and was held as a paragon of virtue, a gift from God to Gambans and to the children the wealthiest man in The Gambia.
Nata sat up abruptly, her eyes darting to her sister’s face, unsure whether to laugh at the absurdity of what Matou had just said or cry at the raw, innocent desperation behind it. Even Khadja Bobo, too young to fully grasp the weight of the situation, turned her wide eyes toward her older sister.
Borogie was silent for a moment, her mind racing. How could such a young child come to such a conclusion? Her heart broke at the realisation that her daughter was already thinking of ways to sacrifice herself for the good of the family. It wasn’t right. No child should have to think like that.
Matou, emboldened by the attention, continued. “It’s okay, Nenneh,” she said, patting her mother’s knee as if to comfort her. “When I grow up, I will escape from the president’s palace, come back home, and be a rich woman. I’ll take care of you and Nata and Khadja Bobo and Buba. We’ll never be hungry again. I promise.”
The words came out with such confidence that for a fleeting moment, Borogie almost wanted to believe them. She could see the earnestness in Matou’s eyes, the fierce determination that belied her age. But then reality crashed back in, and Borogie felt tears prick at the back of her eyes.
“Oh, Matou,” Borogie whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. She gathered her daughter closer, holding her tightly, as if by doing so she could shield her from the cruel world outside. “You don’t have to do that, my child. You don’t ever have to think about such things.”
“But why not?” Matou persisted, her face scrunched in confusion. “Isn’t it better if I help? I’m not scared of President Jawara. He can’t keep me forever. I’ll run away, and when I come back, I’ll have lots of money.”
Borogie’s heart ached. She looked over at Nata, who was watching her mother’s face with concern. Nata, wise beyond her years, understood more than Borogie liked to admit. She could see the sadness in her mother’s eyes, the same sadness she’d felt when their granduncle, Ousman Bah, had come home late with barely enough food for one meal. It was a sadness born of love and worry, of the constant struggle to provide for her children while trying to protect them from the harshness of their circumstances.
“Matou,” Borogie began, her voice gentle but firm, “we don’t need money like that. What we need is each other. And you’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here with me and your sisters.”
“But Nenneh, what about the food?” Matou asked, her innocent eyes wide with concern.
Borogie stroked her daughter’s hair, her fingers trembling slightly. “We’ll find a way, my love. We always do. God will provide for us, just like He always has. You don’t have to worry about that. It’s not your job to worry.”
For a moment, the room was quiet again, the only sound the distant hum of crickets outside. Nata, sensing her mother’s need for reassurance, spoke up.
“Matou, Nenneh’s right,” Nata said softly, her voice carrying a quiet strength. “We don’t need to go anywhere. We’re a family, and as long as we stick together, we’ll be okay. Besides,” she added with a small, teasing smile, “I don’t think President Jawara could handle you.”
Matou giggled at that, her earlier solemnity giving way to the playfulness of a child. Khadja Bobo, sensing the shift in mood, began to laugh too, her chubby hands clapping together in delight. The heaviness in the room seemed to lift, if only for a moment.
Borogie watched her daughters, her heart swelling with love and pride. Despite the hunger, despite the uncertainty, they still had their laughter. They still had each other. And for now, that was enough.
Later that night, as Borogie lay down on her bed, her children curled up beside her instead of moving to their own small bed just a few feet away, she felt the weight of Matou’s words lingering in her mind like an echo that wouldn’t fade. The quiet breathing of her daughters filled the room, rhythmic and soothing, but Borogie’s heart remained restless. Matou’s innocent remark, though spoken without true understanding of its gravity, was a stark reminder of the harsh realities that loomed over their small household.
Hunger. Poverty. The daily uncertainty of how they would make it through to the next meal. These were burdens Borogie had carried silently, but now, they were beginning to creep into the consciousness of her children. Children who should have been dreaming of games and laughter were instead speaking of being sold for money—of leaving, of sacrifice. It broke her heart.
Earlier that day, the last grains of rice from Yerro’s sack had been cooked, the final bit of sustenance it had provided now gone. With no farms to sow, no crops to harvest, their options were few. Borogie could endure hunger herself; she had known it well in Kanjor, the village of her birth. There had been long, dry seasons where drought and disease had ravaged the land, leaving their crops wilted and their livestock dead. But back then, they had the forests to rely on—expansive, wild forests filled with fruit trees, tubers, and plants they had learned to forage and cook to stave off starvation until the rains returned.
But The Gambia was not Kanjor. There were no wild forests here for them to forage from, no secret bounty to be plucked from the earth. Here, the struggle was more relentless, more unforgiving. Her children must not know this kind of hunger, she thought fiercely. They must not.
Borogie’s gaze drifted upward to the dark, soot-stained ceiling. The small kerosene lamp that had flickered for hours had long since been extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. But even with her eyes closed, her mind would not settle. The stillness of the night only amplified her worries. How long could they go on like this? How long before the gnawing hunger overtook the fragile joy that still fluttered within her children’s hearts?
She shifted slightly, careful not to wake Matou, whose tiny body was curled against her side, her thumb still resting near her lips. Nata, always the protector, was on the other side, her arm draped over Khadja Bobo, keeping her close. Borogie’s heart swelled with love for them, her chest tight with the weight of responsibility. These children depended on her for everything—for their safety, their happiness, their very survival. And yet, here she was, unable to provide them with something as basic as a full belly.
A mother’s love was supposed to be enough to shield her children from the world’s harshness. But love couldn’t fill an empty stomach, couldn’t banish the gnawing ache that came from days of barely enough to eat.
She let out a long, slow breath, careful not to disturb the sleeping forms around her, and closed her eyes. In the silence, she prayed. It was not the first time she had done so, nor would it be the last. Borogie prayed for strength, for the will to keep going, and for provision—anything to make this relentless cycle of scarcity stop. She whispered her hopes into the night, asking God for a way, any way, to protect her children from the hardships they were beginning to notice.
To be contd.
