My grandmother was blaming the gods for leaving the earth at the mercy of a young ‘Malaikah’. To which my grandfather elongated his oral fissure. But my grandmother was calm, she smiled in a mocking gesture to his protest. They were lover birds – these two who now pretend as if the fairytale love story my grandmother told me wasn’t true. It was my father’s fault. He built a house and put them in separate rooms. Like it dominates with present-day Skype and Viber lovers, the distance between them was creating problems. But perhaps for strategy not meant for young ones like me to understand, their rooms have no ceiling. This allows them to chat. And they do often have a nice chat when no one seemed to be eavesdropping. In our presence, they quarrel even on petty points.
My father sat on his mat, playing indifferent, methodologically counting the prayers beads in tongues. He paused for effect and stared at me. He cleared his throat. His fatherly instinct was wearing on. I knew something was tucked up in his sleeves, but the habitual wrongdoer that I am would not trigger it. The atmosphere was unsettling for me. I knew there always is accusation galore against me for failing to do customary this and family-obligation that. To most of the indictment, I am as guilty as charged.
He told me: “Saikou, I know you know what you know and what you write is right and is clear to you. But I am your father; I have been here for a while. I know you’ve been careful to not wrong a soul in the course of your work, particularly the state. But our people say that no matter how fast a horse runs, you can always whip her to run faster…”
Tears often swell in my eyes any moment this piece of advice replays in my mind. It was from a man who probably needs a Nfally Fadera to be able to appreciate what I write. Besides, he after all, would not entirely approve of my choice of calling for its relative bad pay and professional risks. Yet, here I am, at Standard-su. I am not alone. Every twist and turn I make at every nook and cranny I see men and women, younger and older, more intelligible and more responsible, risking life and limb to carry out the commandment.
Perhaps, Sheriff Bojang was right; that Dr Owl’s message has to be delivered even if his Mansa Appai has to cut off heads. But why the messenger, not the inciter of the content of the message, is the sinner I cannot understand. This, I am at pains to understand.
Oh yes, I do. The Oracle has assured one thing: At every point in the life of our nation, there would be few courageous – not brave – souls who would seek to speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. The truth they tell has a peppery flavour; it reddens the eyes of oppressors and hardens the hearts of the oppressed. In the beginning of man, during the period of darkness in our land, there was foreign domination and exploitation. The blue-eyed strangers in town were not only stealing the groundnuts of our forefathers, but also had the audacity to dictate to them how many wives they ought to marry.
Then, there was our father, EF Small, who planted the seed of enlightenment that we represent. He demystified their false claims and false ways. Through Small’s pen, the forbearers of our land were elucidated. Then, they moved to claim that they owned. Ultimately, a sovereign republic was born.
But the commandments of Dr Owl shall remain alive and well. The people in white mask have left, giving way for those in black mask. But they should not eat the food that the former eats; they should not live in the houses they built; they should not speak in their language. If they did, he commanded us, invoke the voice of the people, for the voice of the people is the voice of the gods. Half a century on with this commandment, Dr Owl’s envoys still struggle for breath in a republic they have founded. They’re seen as threats to the peace that they created, in a republic they’ve founded. Interestingly, the judges are the prosecutors who are also the offspring of the enablers of the oppressors of our forefathers.
And look at what’s happening in Standard-su. He is a man of God, not a man of guns – this Ousman Bojang. He is a man of peace, not a man who pinches – that ‘Miss’ta’ Bojang. He is a man with humble virtues, not a man with honking tendencies – my friend’s ‘Missa’ President. He is a good man.
When I first came to know him, like me, he is an etudiant at Alliance Française. That time, he is a secret police initiated into the Nomadic Investigation Association. He wears deeply tanned, well-polished leather shoes and dons western-styled suits. He has the keys to a sleek four-wheeled drive. He has a chauffeur who drives it, and he sits in the owner’s corner, invisible behind the tinted glass windows while zooming in on the world.
It was after the rains before I saw him again. When I did, he looks like a Muhammedan police, masking his once proud face before his large beards. He wears dusty flip-flops and didn’t bother or forgot to dust off before squeezing his Yekini-figure through the slim doors of The Standard. He dons a Ghanaian outfit that has seen better days during Nkrumah’s days, but now so common among Ghanaian peasants as if it’s the only souvenir Nkrumah left for them. Whatever happened to the Ousman Bojang whose pale shadow was sitting right before me, the proverbial curious cat in me wanted to find out. Oh, he is victim of the devices he was in charge of at the Agency. He fled, to Ghana then to North Africa, before returning home. Ah, no wonder the Ghanaian boubou and the mountain of beards.
He wanted to bury his past, to change his gears, to become a journalist. I was struck with panic. For such a switch, from the business of keeping secrets to the business of revealing secrets is both rare and dangerous. But his warmness soon pacified me, my fears were somewhat allayed. Whatever his experience is, he was not embittered, he was ennobled. And I could not help but wonder: If this man had been who he is today, why did he not shut down Bambadinka before he fell into it. Who am I to judge him?
After many moons, he disappeared without a trace. I was away. If he were a Haalepularen, I would have asked: To whom did he say ‘mi hoti’. But he is an Ajamataw, supposedly inclined to displaying his mystical prowess in public. Oh, my former secret police has been forced into a state of secrecy. Who’s going to police around for the missing former police?
Oh, Dr Owl chief envoy’s envoys’ sons are in trouble. The other day, two moons ago, my friend, Editor Darboe, was sitting in his office when one of the sons of Bakary Niuminko paid him an unwelcome visit with four wrong choices. First, he’s a member of the Armed Force, a wrong choice of name for people who are meant to secure their people. If the colonialists should create such an institution, they would want it to live up to its name – to use force against the people. The intention is now different, I assume. Or, am I wrong? Secondly, his choice of cloth is bad for the humid weather. Thirdly, he wears a heavy boot that commits genocide on the ants and microorganisms, besides breaking the fragile tiles of The Standard. Fourth, he came with a recorder; a wrong choice of weapon for someone who deals with bullets, not ballots.
My friend, Editor Darboe knew the man sitting before him with blood-shot eyes was not here to make friends. He looked above his shoulders, the windows were framed. There was nowhere for escape. He frets and fidgets and out of the blue, a rescue came. Chei y, our people are right:’Even if you’re as useless as a tobacco leave, if you have a big muscle, only a fool will tempt your wrath’! MK barged in, closed the door behind him and presented his figure for the guest to buy, but he would not go there.
If he were here when war drums of Burma were beaten, MK would have been conscripted. If his Lady Faith Cole’s wish for forced military were to materialise, MK would belong to the Alpha Company. But he escaped all these ifs, enlisting in the military of petite-sized fellows with big hearts and big brains.
True to his character, when he requested me to write an essay on his saga, over the birthday cake of our friend’s wife, he warned me not to use any ‘hyperbole’! His facial expression is not a reliable judge on whether or not he was serious. MK was two days away from his own birthday. A few days later, he received the best birthday gift he could ever have: freedom after 10 months’ legal battle. I watched in admiration as MK dropped his whole Balla Gaye weight on Musa Sheriff in the dock. His smile was iconic. But the outcome did not tell the whole story. Now, he is free, only to flee for his life. Oh, poor MK! He could not even wait to read the printed copy of the essay he commissioned. I was told the witches of Madikaba-sutu were after him. He took with him every fun in journalism in The Gambia. I could not imagine my life as a journalist without MK around to drop grammatical bombshells that could earn him an award.
Oh, Dr Owl’s chief envoy’s sons are in trouble! Lo and behold, it’s a classic case of like father, like son. This chief envoy of Dr Owl; there are two sides of him that I can’t reconcile. He prefers seyfolu over seyfos yet he uses expressions like snow white in his essay. His bent for the truth and desire for finer things in life, from his cloths to his concubines, can make many flee, yet his humility and expansive knowledge can make many flock.
This chief envoy of Dr Owl, named after a descendant of Muhammed Mustapha, a man whose wishes are God’s commands and the grandchild of a farmer who turned down a US President’s invitation in favour of his crops. His grandfather was a man who, save Kukoi, had it his way with everybody, from Dikay Jawara to Banjul elders. He’s the father of Manding-English, telling tourists on visit to his garden: ‘Toubabo, Kembujeng is my small village and Nyanibereh is my small kankangba (garden). I have oranges and mangoes. You can eat the ballo (fruit) and leave the kullo (seed).’
This chief envoy of Dr Owl, isn’t he the best of the bests among us? We watched him as he set the pace. But he said that was not enough. He went to the land of the people who enslaved our forefathers. He returned home with a new kind of feather in his cap, different from the one given to Burma warriors. Now, he can rub shoulders with the remnants of Queen Victoria’s representatives and eat from the same table with sub-Saharan Europeans. We yearned for his homecoming, to make a difference. And he didn’t fail us. He set up a newspaper and calls it The Standard. He promised to ‘jazz things up’ and he did indeed raise the bar. But we also expect him to take care of us. For, he walks in our skin, knows how we feel. Now, he’s accused of the crimes that were the sports of the members of our Uncle’s Union. He might have a thick skin; that of a rhino, but he’s wise enough to know that no one wins a libel contest against a libel-proof. He probably would not have been in the fray had it not been for my mentor, and his beloved son, now in Njai Kunda-ba. I watched him as he walked up and down. His stare was blank. He knew he could not do what he was thinking about: hate his son.
We all know that he’s not perfect; that as Rome was not built in a day, so shall Standard-su not be. He knew he’s not saint that was Mother Theresa. Perhaps, like Mandela, he’s a saint that makes mistakes, repents and tries to improve.
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