It’s the year 2024, and resolutions are just not my thing. I mean, I can barely remember what I had for lunch a few minutes ago, let alone keep track of whether I prayed two or five rakats. My prostrations of forgetfulness (sujud sahw) in obligatory prayers have become legendary, in spite of trying to perform all my prayers with full conviction of belief. In all honesty, my forgetfulness is seriously making me doubt my own mental acuity. So, no, no new year resolutions for me. It’s a burden I am unable to bear.
But let me take you back to a time when my memory served me well, to a significant moment from my early years. Picture this: the year is 1996, and the sun is gracefully making way for the moon in the overcast sky above Sukuta-Sanchaba. It’s almost 6 pm, and I find myself in my mom’s little sister’s home, a family compound where my aunty, Neneh Khadja, resides with her husband and their kin.
On that particular day, a pivotal decision lingered in the air. Acting on a whim, I chose to head back home, despite my aunt’s plea for me to stay one more day. The magnetic pull of home and the impending end of summer vacation proved irresistibly compelling. Each summer, I reveled in the familial embrace of Brikama at my mom’s matrimonial home, savoring the warmth of my maternal side. Subsequently, I would return to Fajara, reuniting with my dad’s side for the remainder of the year. Being a child torn between two families presented both advantages and complexities. While there were merits to this arrangement, the emotional toll of feeling estranged from my mother and the persistent sense of not fully belonging to either side became isolating. This intricate issue, laden with complexities, is one I anticipate exploring more deeply when the currents of my creative musings guide me there someday. Notably, my upbringing has influenced my perspective on divorce, leading me to choose enduring personal suffering over subjecting my children to the potential loneliness of being strangers in either of their parents’ respective families …
As the sun began its descent, the evening air enveloped me with a comforting nostalgia. Strolling through the expansive compound, I bid farewell to various members of the household. It was a sprawling extended family, including my aunt’s husband’s brothers and their families, all residing in a lengthy line house, each with their two-bedroom quarters.
Earlier that day, I encountered a pair of twins with the most captivating of features. Their left eyes boasted a different hue than their right ones, and a distinctive characteristic, almost like a subtle hollow beneath each eye, caused them to slant at an intriguing angle. The rarity of such birth defects in two relatives left a lasting impression on me. Later, I discovered the fascinating truth that this distinctive look was a familial trait shared by all five sisters, including the twins—a remarkable lineage traceable back to their father. It served as a compelling testament to the profound influence of genetics within families.
After what felt like an eternity, our van finally left Sanchaba. The process of boarding passengers at the garage took its time. However, in what seemed like mere moments of our journey, the van screeched to an abrupt halt, sending a universal jolt through the occupants. I snapped awake at a loud sound, the conductor explaining that one of the tires had burst, and it might take a while before we could resume our journey.
As dusk settled in, with the driver and apprentice still changing the flat tire, my mind raced with concern. I couldn’t help but fret about my impulsive decision, fully aware of what awaited me at the Brikama garage—an extensive and solitary walk in the pitch darkness along the Gunjur road to reach my mom’s place. In 1996, mobile phones were not part of our reality to summon assistance.
When I alighted from the van that night, it was around 9 or 10 p.m., and a small group of vendors were in the process of closing their stalls at the main junction leading to Gunjur Road. With the sun completely vanished and the moon obscured behind menacing dark cumulonimbus clouds, I found myself walking in the middle of the road, trying to avoid the gutters shrouded in the darkness at the edges of the road.
The darkness enveloped me so intensely that extending my hand in front of me failed to reveal its shape. While standing still, attempting to adjust the pleats on my skirt, I momentarily regretted my decision to wear a tight camisole and a long shirt for travel. Clutching the plastic bag containing my clothes, a passing car with full headlights briefly illuminated a figure that seemed to materialize out of nowhere.
The man I encountered was impossible to ignore, capturing attention not just due to his uniquely short stature but also the warmth in his eyes. Undoubtedly a gnome affected by dwarfism, he emerged from the darkness beneath the nymph tree with a sheepish smile that resembled the Joker’s in the fading light of the passing vehicle. My initial repulsion gave way to a wave of fear as the thought crossed my mind that this dwarf, appearing under the nymph tree in the dead of night, might be a jinn.
The dwarf or jinn (I still can’t decipher what it truly was) engaged in conversation with me, but the specifics of our dialogue elude my memory. What persists vividly in my recollection is my fervent recital of Ayatul Kursi under my breath, the heart-wrenching fear that gripped me, and my feeble attempts at small talk amid overwhelming anxiety.
During that time in my life, I possessed enough awareness to recognize my vulnerability. As I gauged the profound darkness and suspected that screaming might not elicit timely help, an overwhelming sense of helplessness and powerlessness consumed me. In fact, I have never felt so powerless in my life.
The headlights of an approaching car sliced through the dark, desolate road near my mother’s house, casting shadows that outlined the contours of the night. A shrill voice wailed and raced towards the oncoming vehicle, which screeched to an abrupt halt. It was only then that the realization hit me: the scream had come from me. Three older teenage boys, aged 16-18, emerged from the vehicle, bathed in the glow of the headlights. Among them, Omar Jawara, who inquired about my distress.
I turned to point at the dwarf, only to find him nowhere in sight—he had vanished into thin air. The eerie silence among the older boys as I recounted what I had witnessed amplified my fears. Despite my mother’s house being a stone’s throw away from where they found me and the disappeared gnome, I pleaded with them to drive me to my mum’s, and they obliged.
In the years that followed, I encountered numerous young and older Gambian men who went out of their way to make me feel safe and seen. The exceptional qualities they exhibit stand out in a manner unparalleled to anything I have witnessed elsewhere. Their kindness transcends norms, and their levels of emotional intelligence and brilliance are truly extraordinary.
However, amidst these shining examples of Gambian men, a shadow lingers over our society in the form of gender bias. The arduous struggle to validate a woman’s worth in the professional arena requires resilience and fortitude. Women often find themselves exerting twice the effort, working 16 to 24 months to achieve what their male counterparts effortlessly earn in a year.
Even for the courageous women who break through the glass ceiling through a potent blend of grit and self-actualization, the narrative remains unaltered. Ambition knows no gender, and women possess egos too. Yet, the pursuit of basic rights—such as respect, equal opportunities, and promotions—feels like a journey fraught with obstacles. This is the scary gnome along a dark and lonely pathway to success for many women.
Within the workplace, the glaring disparity becomes evident. For instance, while male counterparts embark on three official trips in a year, women at the same level might undertake only one, underscoring a stark imbalance.
As 2024 unfurls its pages, my fervent prayer echoes in the chambers of hope—it is a prayer for a year of equal opportunities. A year when those who rise before the sun, attend to household needs, prepare meals for their children, and step into the workplace yearning not just for sustenance on the family table but also for respect, dignity, and equity. May this be the year when their tireless efforts are truly recognized and rewarded in every workplace—a year when the dark pathways are illuminated, and the gnomes are banished by the sheer efforts of male champions of gender equality, who strive to keep women safe and seen.
