The sun was low in the sky. The sandy streets of Bakau were hot on the bare feet that trudged along, and the air was still, warm, and filled with the scent of the sea, just a short walk from Ousman Bah’s compound. Inside, the boys—Yerro, Sabou, Ebrima, and Ali—sat cross-legged around a shared bowl of rice, their bellies full after a long day of laboring under the sweltering sun. It was their daily ritual to come together like this, sharing the food they had begged for in Serekunda after a day’s work on construction sites.
The year was 1950, and these four boys were just teenagers, far from their home in Casamance. Like many youths from their region, they had come to The Gambia during the dry season, when farming offered little, seeking out menial jobs to earn a few coins to take back home. It was an unspoken rite of passage for many young men like them—venturing out into unfamiliar territories to find work, often relying on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter.
Their benefactor in Bakau, Ousman Bah, a fellow Firrdu Fula Kunda, had opened his modest home to them without question. His wife, Kombeh, a Jola, had a kind heart and, though she had little, she always found a way to make sure the boys had something warm to eat at the end of the day. Tonight was no different. After gathering food from several households in Serrekunda—food they had received in old tins, passed to them by generous housewives—they brought it back to Ousman’s compound. Kombeh mixed it all together, heating it over a small fire before serving it to the boys.
As they ate, Ousman sat nearby, observing them. He had grown fond of the young men, reminded of his own youthful adventures traveling from his home in Fulladu to find work in the cities. He recognised the hunger for opportunity in their eyes—the same hunger that had driven him all those years ago. But tonight, there was something different in the air—a sense of curiosity and connection that led him to ask a question he had not before.
“Where do you boys come from?” Ousman asked, his voice rich with curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees. “I know you said Casamance, but where exactly?”
The boys exchanged glances, and Yerro, being the eldest and most outspoken, took it upon himself to answer.
“I come from a place called U’ra, in Sinchang,” Yerro began, his voice carrying the soft cadence of his native tongue. “But I don’t remember much about my home. My father was always sick. I never knew my mother. She died when I was too young to remember her.”
At these words, Ousman’s eyes softened. There was something in Yerro’s voice that tugged at his heart—a note of loss that Ousman recognised all too well.
“What was your father’s name?” Ousman pressed gently, his tone inviting further conversation.
Yerro hesitated, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory for fragments of a past that had long eluded him. “His name was Samba… Samba Jamanka,” he said slowly. “Before he passed, he took me to live with his friend, Sam Chukayel, in Kanjor. Sam became my foster father, who took care of me as if I were his own.”
Ousman nodded thoughtfully, taking in every word. He then asked the question that had been brewing in his mind since Yerro had first mentioned his mother.
“And what about your mother? What was her name?”
For a moment, the room fell silent, the only sound being the distant murmur of the ocean and the soft crackle of the fire nearby. Yerro glanced down at his hands, his expression clouded with emotion. He had never spoken much about his mother, partly because he knew so little about her.
“I was told her name was Buya Saaneh,” he said quietly. “She gave birth to only me.”
The name hit Ousman like a blow to the chest. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he could only stare at Yerro in stunned silence. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick with the weight of unspoken recognition. Ousman’s heart raced, his mind whirling as he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of what he had just heard.
“Buya?” Ousman whispered, his voice trembling. “Buya Saaneh?”
“What is the name you were given at birth?” Ousman asked.
“Doudheh,” Yerro replied slowly, startled by the change in Ousman’s demeanor. He had never seen the older man so shaken, his calm, composed exterior suddenly crumbling.
“Yes, Doudheh is my original name,” Yerro replied, his brow furrowing in confusion. “That was the name I was told my mother used to call me. Why?”
Ousman’s eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, he seemed unable to speak. He stood up abruptly, his chest heaving with emotion as memories long buried came flooding back. He paced the room, his hands running through his hair as he tried to steady himself.
“Ousman, what is it?” Kombeh asked, rising from her place by the fire, concern etched on her face.
Ousman shook his head, unable to answer her just yet. Instead, he turned back to Yerro, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I am not Ousman Bah,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “That is the name I took after my marabout, Alagie Cherno Baba of Niumi, gave it to me. But that is not my true name.”
The boys, who had been sitting quietly, exchanging puzzled glances, now looked at Ousman with wide eyes. What could he mean? And why was he so visibly shaken?
“My real name is Buckku Ban’deh,” Ousman continued, his voice thick with emotion. “And Buya… Buya Saaneh… was my sister.”
A stunned silence fell over the room. Yerro’s eyes widened, disbelief and confusion warring on his face.
“Your sister?” he repeated, his voice barely audible. “But how…?”
Ousman, now fully weeping, nodded. “Yes. We shared the same mother and father. Her name was Buya Saaneh Ban’deh before she married your father. And you…” He paused, his voice breaking. “You are my nephew.”
“My nephew has come home to me!” he said incredulously. “Who could believe in a thousand years this could happen? Allah is Great! Allah is Great!” he kept repeating to himself.
Yerro’s heart raced, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. Could it be true? Could this man, this stranger who had shown him such kindness, really be his uncle?
“But… how could we not have known?” Yerro asked, his voice filled with wonder and disbelief.
Ousman—no, Bukku—wiped at his eyes, his shoulders trembling with emotion. “I left Fulladu when I was young, before you were born. I went to Niumi to study under Cherno Baba, and I lost contact with my family. When I heard that Buya had died, I couldn’t bring myself to go back. It was too painful. But I never stopped thinking about her. I never stopped wondering what had happened to her child.”
By now, tears were streaming down Yerro’s face. He had always felt the absence of family, the loss of his mother and father like a gaping hole in his heart. And now, to discover that he had an uncle, that he wasn’t as alone in the world as he had thought…
The other boys, Sabou, Ebrima, and Ali, sat in stunned silence, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. They had known Yerro for years, but never had they imagined that his past held such secrets.
Bukku took a deep breath, his eyes shining with a mixture of grief and joy. “I thought I had lost everything,” he said softly. “But now, to find you here, to know that Buya’s son is alive and well… It is a gift I never expected.”
Yerro, overwhelmed with emotion, stood and crossed the room to his uncle. Without a word, he embraced him, the two men holding each other tightly, their tears mingling as years of loss and separation melted away.
Kombeh, watching the scene unfold, wiped at her own eyes. She had always sensed that there was something special about the connection between her husband and the boys, but never had she imagined it would be something like this.
As the night wore on, Bukku—no longer Ousman—began to share stories of their family, of their shared history, of the siblings Yerro had never known he had. Goundoh, Gellah, Fanny, Buya, Sira, and Omar—names that had been lost to time, now resurrected in the light of this newfound connection.
Yerro listened in awe, the pieces of his fragmented past slowly coming together. For the first time in his life, he felt a sense of belonging, of knowing where he came from and who he truly was.
The other boys, though not related by blood, felt the weight of the moment just as deeply. They, too, had left behind families and homes in search of a better life, and now they bore witness to the power of family—the bonds that transcend time and distance.
As the night deepened, and the fire crackled softly, the warmth in the air came not only from the flames but from the reunion of long-separated family. In that humble home in Bakau, the past and present intertwined, weaving together love, loss, and redemption. It was a moment of grace, binding them all with the unbreakable ties of family and the blessings of Allah.
Yerro would return to The Gambia one more time before marrying Sam Chukayel’s daughter, Borogie. Despite the miles that separated them, the bond between him and his uncle, Bukku, remained strong. When Yerro eventually lost his eyesight, he returned to The Gambia once again, this time accompanied by his second wife, Nenneh Dado. Their journey was not merely a search for healing—it was a reaffirmation of the familial ties that had endured.
On that final journey, Bukku urged Yerro to stay in The Gambia for good, convinced that the land had been kind to him and would do the same for his nephew. This was how Borogie and her children were summoned to begin a new life in a home that Bukku had acquired years earlier, before he ever knew he had a nephew to welcome. A home that Yerro himself had built for his uncle and his own family.
To be contd.
