With Rohey Samba
It was a slow, lazy Sunday afternoon in September, the kind where time seemed to drift endlessly in the heavy, sweltering heat. The sun sat high and unforgiving in the sky, its glare so intense it made everything shimmer. In the compound, the family gathered beneath the welcome shade of the towering mango tree, its wide, leafy branches providing a natural canopy in the middle of the yard. Beneath it, on a low, 2x3m roughly hewn bench made of thick, sturdy branches intertwined to form a simple yet solid cross-section, sat the children—Nata, Matou, and Khadja Bobo. The spot under the tree, where they played and lounged, also served as a drying area for kitchen utensils, a small but telling detail of the humble life they led.
The elders, Borogie and Neneh Dado, sat nearby on low wooden stools, their faces worn with the marks of life’s trials but still dignified. The veranda was occupied by Ousman Bah and Yerro, who had just returned from the corner mosque. Ousman Bah, as the imam, had led the Asr prayer, and now the men settled into quiet conversation, content after the afternoon meal of sorrel leaves prepared with dried, fermented locust beans and fish on rice. Their voices were low, carried away by the slight breeze that momentarily offered relief from the suffocating heat.
The stillness of the afternoon was broken by the arrival of visitors—a family of Aku descent from Bakau, where Ousman Bah worked both as a gardener and caretaker. He had mentioned to them that his family had recently arrived from Fulladu, and they seized the opportunity to visit. Leading the group was Mr Daniel Owens, a tall man with a quiet but commanding presence. His wife, Mary Sowe, followed closely, holding the hands of their two girls, Ebi and Mamdoye, with their sons, Cummy and Danny Boy, trailing behind. The Owens family, known for their piety and respected in Bakau for their education and prosperity, stood in sharp contrast to the modest life led by Ousman Bah’s family.
Upon seeing them, Ousman Bah’s face lit up with a broad smile. He hurried over to greet them, offering a warm welcome in his broken English, a language he wasn’t fluent in but used with pride in front of his family. His voice cracked with the effort of speaking clearly, trying to show his nephew and his family the importance of the guests they were hosting.
“Welcome, welcome! This is my family!” Ousman gestured toward Borogie, who, seeing the visitors, immediately handed over baby Buba to Mrs. Owens at her polite request. Then, she rushed inside to fetch water from the clay jar, the traditional way of welcoming guests, offering them a cool drink to quench their thirst.
The children, sensing the need for space, left their bench and retreated to the bedroom. As they entered the small, cramped room, Nata and Matou shared a playful smile, already eager to return to their games. Khadja Bobo, being the spoiled cadet of the family, was less pleased. She pouted her lips in silent protest but followed her sisters anyway, sulking as they all jumped onto the hay mattress with the glee only children could muster. Inside the room, they giggled and whispered to each other, unaware of the significant conversations unfolding outside.
Back under the tree, the adults exchanged pleasantries. Ousman Bah, proud to be in the presence of his “bosses,” struggled through his English, beaming with gratitude and deference. His family, not understanding the foreign language, sat in polite silence, their eyes shifting from guest to guest, trying to pick up meaning through body language. The atmosphere was comfortable yet laced with the unspoken tension that often arises when worlds collide—the rural simplicity of Fulladu meeting the urban, educated sophistication of Bakau.
It was Mary Sowe who finally shifted the conversation in a more serious direction. As a teacher at Bakau School, education was always at the forefront of her mind. She looked around the compound, her eyes settling on the children’s bench, now empty. “Ousman,” she began, speaking slowly to ensure he understood, “Are any of your nephew’s children enrolled in school?”
Ousman’s face fell slightly. He knew this question was coming; it had lingered at the back of his mind for some time, a nagging reminder of his inability to provide certain opportunities for his family. “No, madam,” he replied quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “They no go to school yet.”
Mary exchanged a glance with her husband, and then, in her gentle yet firm way, she asked the question that would change everything. “Would you be open to one of your children being educated? We could help, if you’re willing.”
The words hung in the air like a promise, heavy with the potential they carried. Borogie, who had been listening quietly, and to whom Ousman Bah relayed the message, felt her heart race. The idea of one of her children going to school was both thrilling and terrifying. School meant opportunity, a way out of the poverty they lived in, but it also meant separation—letting go of her child, even if only for the school day, was a sacrifice she wasn’t sure she could bear.
After a brief silence, Ousman turned to Borogie, his eyes pleading for her input. In their own dialect, he asked quietly, “What do you think, Borogie?”
Borogie, feeling the weight of the decision on her shoulders, hesitated. She looked down at her hands, still moist from handling the clay jar. “If they can help… maybe it’s a good thing for one of them to go,” she said softly, almost to herself.
Encouraged by her response, Mary Sowe pressed on. “Bring the children out,” she suggested, her tone kind but decisive. “Let us see them, and we will choose one to take to school.”
Ousman called for the children, and the three girls came running outside, standing in a neat line, though Khadja Bobo’s lower lip still jutted out in defiance. Mary studied them carefully. Nata, the eldest, stood tall, her eyes bright with curiosity. Matou, who was only five, smiled shyly, her tiny frame almost hidden behind her sisters. Khadja Bobo, the youngest, crossed her arms and frowned, clearly unhappy to be disturbed from her play.
After a few moments of consideration, Mary made her decision. “We will take Matou,” she said, her voice warm but firm. “She’s young, but we will give her the best education.”
A flurry of emotions swept through Borogie. Matou? Her sweet, timid Matou? She loved all her children dearly, but Matou, who reminded her the most of her own mother, Mariama, had always been the quiet one, the one who clung to her the most. Sending her away to school felt like cutting a piece of herself away. But then she thought of the future, of the opportunities Matou could have, the life she could lead if given an education. The pain in her heart warred with the hope in her mind.
Ousman, on the other hand, was overjoyed. He clasped his hands together and bowed slightly to the Owens family. “Thank you, madam, thank you, sir. This…this is great thing you do for us all. Me and my family, we are happy.”
Matou, sensing the excitement in the air but not fully understanding what it meant, smiled uncertainly. She tugged at her mother’s wrapper, looking up for reassurance. Borogie, fighting back tears, knelt down and gently stroked her daughter’s cheek. “You will be fine, Matou,” she whispered. “You will be fine.”
The decision made, the conversation shifted to logistics. School would start in two weeks, and Matou would need to be prepared—uniforms, books, and shoes. The Owens family promised to take care of everything, leaving Ousman and Borogie nothing to worry about. All they had to do was bring Matou to Bakau school when school reopened.
As the Owens family prepared to leave, the weight of the decision hung over the compound like a cloud. It was a momentous occasion, yet it came with an undeniable sense of loss. Borogie’s heart ached at the thought of her daughter leaving the compound, even if it was just for school. But deep down, she knew it was the right decision. Matou would have a chance at a better life, a life with possibilities far beyond the confines of their modest home.
As they waved goodbye to their guests, Borogie held Matou’s hand a little tighter. The future was uncertain, but in that moment, she made a silent vow to herself: no matter how hard it was, no matter how much it hurt, she would do everything she could to ensure her children had the chance to build better lives than the one she had known.
The sun, now lower in the sky, cast a warm, golden light over the compound. The children, still buzzing from the excitement of the visitors, resumed their playful chatter, but Borogie and Ousman sat quietly, side by side, each lost in their own thoughts, long after Yerro and Neneh Dado, went inside their own hut. The decision they had made today would change the course of their family’s life forever, but whether it was for better or worse, only time would tell.
To be contd.
