By Muhammed Korta
It’s on a Monday morning in the street of the capital city, which everyone knows is an epic day to have when you are inside the city.
The chirping of the birds colliding with the speeding of the “gele geles”, taxis and sprinters with private cars during rush hours.
“Wow, behold this generational structure! I guess its construction might worth millions of dollars”, guessed Abdoulie (referring to the capitol.)
I watched him while I reluctantly admired the beautiful structure, which is serving very different purpose.
Abdoulie is a younger brother of mine. We woke up that early morning and left Farato for Banjul to visit our sick aunty who was admitted at the Edward Francis Small Teaching Hospital.
Doubtfully, I can’t decipher clearly where the bills and other expenses after been allocated and approved in this assembly disappeared to, or why they rejected some necessary projects that are laid before them for approval.
Everyone was left in awe and admiring the structure as it’s indeed magnificently built. Abdoulie whose mouth was left wide agape came to another surprising structure which was the arch built by the second government of the country, the Jammeh’s government.
The two legged structure, which has a lifter that is used to take people up to its apex is giantly built with wonder, I guess by the most professional constructors but not from my country, lol. The government rarely give projects to its own citizens.
“Have you ever climbed up there?”.
A woman sitting next to me asked, who was later introduced as Jainaba.
I hope grandma once took me there but that’s if she has ever sighted the structure itself.
Everyone laughed as the vehicle became noisy and interesting.
At a few metres to the museum, a truck passed by loaded with prisoners, some of who have committed murder, theft, while others were convicted for things they have not committed.
Look, Abdoulie pointed to a young boy who was approaching our vehicle sitting on a wheelchair holding a little cup containing some few coins and banknotes.
Only few people were paying attention to him and the rest never cared.
A siren of vehicles suddenly took our attention again as the presidential convoy was moving with so many limousines that they took the other path of the two-sided road and only one side was use by both vehicles prying in and out of the city. It was an unpleasant moment and people began cursing the convoy, except Abdoulie, who was busy admiring the different types of vehicles never spotted at our province like Kombo (Farato).
Finally, as we patiently waited, we reached the hospital and I found my cousin, the son of my aunty crying immensely that he couldn’t talk when I asked his reason of pouring a rain of tears. Is it that I have traveled all the way without seeing or sharing few words with someone who has been giving me fare throughout my senior secondary school from Farato to Bundung, Nusrat.I was not so sure and a simmer of temperature hit me wetting me with sweat.
Which ward is aunty admitted?”
asked Abdoulie.
I took a deep breath and tap him on the shoulder.
Perhaps, it’s a wrong time we visited but he is too wise and a bit old enough to describe the signs showing her passing on our sad faces and began to cry uncontrollably.
I was later told she passed just few minutes before we reached the hospital.
I gnawed my teeth.
Damn, there should be more roads, at least this convoy wouldn’t have wasted a lot of our time and I would have met my aunty smiling before she waves a goodbye.
I know many were also very late for work or other businesses.
Is this not a dilemma?
