By Alagie Saidy-Barrow
I woke up early in the morning. It was way before Fajr. I had nowhere in particular to go, but I needed to be out of the house. I had to sneak out because I didn’t want my mother, sleeping next door, to hear me leave. It had been a tough couple of weeks for us. We had not had a proper meal in almost a month and looking my mother in the eye had become quite embarrassing and painful. She wasn’t feeling well but she still woke up every morning to buy fish at Tanji and sell it at the market. We needed every butut we could get. I have four sisters. All of them are married with families. I have one younger brother. He took the Backway to Europe and it’s been two years since we last heard from him.
I went to the mosque but the doors were locked. Our community mosque used to stay open all day and night but thieves had broken into it a few times stealing whatever they could. The fans, the carpets and the deposit box were all stolen in one of the robberies. I sat by the tap at the entrance of the mosque and performed ablution. I prayed under the veranda and sat there waiting for the imam and other congregants. I can’t even remember what verses the imam recited. I was starving.
After Fajr prayers, I went to a hotel by beach hoping to find some decent food in the dumpster. It wasn’t my first time going there. I preferred doing that to eating at other people’s homes. As soon as I opened the lid of the dumpster, a security guard materialised out of nowhere startling me.
“What are you doing?”
“I am sorry sir; I just wanted to forage for some food. I am hungry.”
“My friend, get out of here. You are a thief. If I see you here again, you will be in serious trouble.”
“Alright sir. I am sorry.”
I started to walk away when another security guard stopped me.
“Abu, let him find whatever he can find. The man said he’s hungry.”
“This man looks like a thief to me! What’s your name?”
“Gambia, sir.”
“Okay Gambia, go see what you can find in the dumpster.
“Thank you,” I muttered.
“Do you want a job? I can ask my boss to hire you. We need security guards for our night shift.”
“Yes please. I have a high school diploma and I have been looking for a job for two years now. I am only able to find temporary employment. I will even accept to be a cleaner.”
“Alright, my boss will be here soon.”
I will wait. And thank you so much…”
“Talibeh, my name is Talibeh”
“May Allah reward you Talibeh.”
That’s how I landed a job as a security guard working the graveyard shift. The pay wasn’t much but it felt good to go to a steady job. It felt good to give my mother money for medicines. It felt good to be able to buy her phone credit. Afternoon naps stopped being shameful for me. I had a purpose.
Then one day, my boss called and asked if I could come in earlier because they were short-staffed. I agreed. I was posted at a hotel and my job was to watch the tourists and ensure the Bumsters and hawkers do not disturb them.
There were many tourists bathing in the merciless Gambian sun. Security officers were posted around the perimeter of our beach area to ensure no one disturbs the tourists. Out of nowhere, she collapsed. I rushed over, elevated her head and started helping her according to the instructions from my first aid class. She recovered, and my supervisor asked me to accompany her to the hospital to make sure all was well. That’s how we became friends. I was twenty-four years old and she was fifty-three.
After the doctors checked her and ran several tests, she was discharged. I called a taxi driver friend of mine to take us back to the hotel. We agreed on a price, but when he arrived and saw the white woman, he doubled the price. I refused. He insisted I was being wicked because the money is not coming from my pocket. I still refused. He said he’d give me a cut. I refused. Fuming, he agreed to the original price, and we headed back to the hotel. No one said anything throughout the journey. My mind was on my sick mother. She was told she needed an operation. I contacted my sisters to see if they could chip in. They tried, but we didn’t have enough to cover even half of the costs for the surgery.
“What were you and the driver arguing about?” The lady asked me?
“Nothing,” I murmured.
My supervisor got curious.
“Why were you arguing with the driver?” He asked.
“He wanted to increase the fare. We had agreed on 500 dalasis, but he insisted on 1000 dalasis when he saw our guest, and I refused. It turned into an argument,” I said in Wolof.
My supervisor turned to the woman and repeated what I said in English. She smiled.
“Everyone here tries to squeeze money out of me. This one has not even asked my name and has never asked me for anything.”
“Yes, Gambia is one of our best employees. Very honest and hardworking,” my supervisor said, smiling.
The woman extended her right hand. “My name is Lolly, Lolly England.” I shook her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Ma.” “Do you have a number?”
“Yes, I do.” I took my phone out to look for my phone number. I had acquired a new number the day before. My phone was a “simple phone.” “Is this number on WhatsApp?”
“No ma, not yet.” “Alright, I’ll send you a regular text.”
Her test results came back. She asked that I accompany her to the hospital. I wasn’t at work. They tried to get someone else to go with her. She refused. I was asleep when I was startled by the shrieking sound of my phone.
I hurriedly got dressed and met her at the hotel gate. We took a taxi to the hospital. She insisted I sit with her as the doctors read her test results. I barely heard anything they said. My mom was on my mind. The day before, one of my sisters came home with two of her kids. Her husband divorced and threw her out of his house. She had nowhere to go. My security guard salary, barely enough to sustain one person, would now have to be stretched to sustain five.
After we left the hospital, I took her back to the hotel. Silence hung in the air throughout the rides. When we got to the hotel, she thanked me and asked if I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten
