Mention after mention unfolded, each one serving as a stark reality check. The truth of her situation hit her hard—birthed in the mess of life, she was continually reminded that she did not belong there. Throughout her life, she has tirelessly searched for a home, a place where she could feel seen, understood, and unconditionally supported. In the face of evident snobbery, the realization dawned upon her that she had indeed never found her home. Home was something other people had. And that was okay. It was painful to bear, but ultimately, it was acceptable.
How it all began…
“Matou, who has smeared this on your body?” Borogi exclaimed in dismay, her face reflecting both concern and bewilderment. Her five-year-old daughter had just returned from the secluded spaces of the bush, where she had gone to relieve herself surrounded by nature. Matou kept quiet initially, her distress evident, before finally bursting into tears as she revealed her arms and thighs to her mother.
In a mixture of shock and empathy, Borogi gasped, “Oh my God, it’s smeared all over your body.” With a maternal instinct kicking in, she gently grasped Matou’s arm and hurriedly guided her towards the outdoor enclave specifically designated for cleansing. Positioned nearby was a gourd filled with water, ready for washing away the unexpected ordeal.
As they reached the enclave, Borogi wasted no time. She grabbed a cloth and dipped it into the water-filled gourd, the liquid cool against her fingers. With a tender touch, she began the process of cleaning Matou, ensuring that every trace of the unpleasant encounter with nature was meticulously washed away.
Matou, still sniffling, sought solace in the warmth of Borogi’s reassuring presence. “Teleyel smeared poo all over my body after wanting to fight with me, and I refused to engage in a fight with her,” she said quietly.
“Shuu. Don’t talk,” Borogi gestured, to prevent wastewater from entering her mouth as she gently washed Matou’s face. The outdoor enclave, crafted humbly yet purposefully with sticks and thatch, served as a sanctuary for moments like these—offering privacy, comfort, and space for essential rituals. The rhythmic sound of water being poured from the gourd onto Matou’s limbs echoed a cleansing that transcended the physical body, symbolically renewing purity and well-being.
Lately, Borogi has observed a shift in Matou, the calmest among her three daughters, as she frequently becomed the target of teasing from her peers. Despite Matou’s reluctance to retaliate, much to Borogi’s dismay, her playmates had grown more aggressive. Although Borogi typically refrained from meddling in children’s affairs, she sensed the need to have a conversation with Teleyel’s mother later on.
Once the washing was completed, Borogi took her upper lapper and gently wrapped it around Matou before lifting her light body into her arms and guiding her inside the house. In the background, nature and tradition converged, nestled in an enchanting hamlet called Kandio, in the Casamance region of Senegal. Kandio embodied the serene beauty and cultural richness of West Africa.
The outdoor enclave, a silent witness to the final rite of her juvenile skirmishing, would be the last thing Matou would remember of her childhood in Kandio—a picturesque tableau of lush greenery and rolling hills adorned with swaying palm trees and vibrant tropical flora. The memory, though unkind, became a haven where the nurturing essence of motherhood unfolded amid the challenges of daily life.
On the very next day, the Firdu family, consisting of a father, his two wives, and four children, embarked on a transformative journey from Casamance to The Gambia. This captivating odyssey unfolded along the picturesque banks of the Casamance River, leading them to the expansive flat terrain that would eventually become their cherished final abode, although they remained unaware of it at the time.
Their journey through the landscape of the 1960s was marked by numerous challenges, with the echoes of political changes and the winds of independence shaping the social dynamics of the regions they traversed. Witnessing the palpable transformation, alongside the myriad emotions of joy, fears, and hopeful aspirations expressed by the people along the route, left an indelible mark on the children.
As the journey unfolded, the landscapes transitioned, reflecting the diverse mosaic of people. From arid savannas to vibrant riverbanks, the family found the culmination of their quest—a place that resonated with the whispers of their souls. The Gambia, with its welcoming embrace, became the haven they sought, a dwelling where the echoes of their journey reverberated through the sands of time.
Their lives underwent a major upheaval as they assimilated into the new land, inevitably losing some of their culture and traditions along the way. Of the three girls, only one would marry into her tribe, much to the parents’ dismay. As the years unfolded, a lingering sense of otherness persisted, casting a shadow over the family and their descendants. Despite their best efforts, they found themselves perennially treated as strangers in the land they had chosen to call home. This enduring struggle bore witness to the indelible impact of their transformative journey and illuminated the intricate complexities of settling in a new place, where the yearning to belong remained a persistent, elusive challenge. Their souls, it seemed, had chosen not to rest, forever caught in the delicate dance between adaptation and a yearning for a sense of true belonging.
Can a strange land, ever be home?
Coming back to the present, Sira looked on. As the day played out like a nerve-racking movie, she maintained an air of supreme unconcern. She braced herself in the suffocating presence of snub, which enveloped her, stealing the very air from her lungs. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over, while her nose released a torrent of watery mucous—a physical manifestation of the emotional onslaught. Only her memory remained sharp, stuck like a needle in the straw mattress of her grandmother Borogi’s old metal bed. She found herself unable to move ahead to normalcy. When ignored by people whose attention means a lot, the brain’s reaction mirrors physical pain. As such, her face burned intensely, a searing reminder etched across her features. She never belonged, and perhaps, she never will. Yet this realization was far from okay.
It seemed as though she had been stripped of years of emotional investment, love, care, and affection. The time and effort she had dedicated to nurturing connections since childhood felt squandered, marking the greatest loss she had experienced since the death of her innocence and her initiation into adulthood following the end of high school. This tragedy weighed heavily in her heart, while the lingering question persisted: Can love be an investment in vain? In her contemplative state, the answer was uncertain.
In the midst of all the drama, she grappled with a choice: to walk away and confront the stigma of breaking ties forevermore or endure the humiliation of being an afterthought, wearing the scars of unspoken words. The path she would choose demanded a strength she was unsure she possessed…
When asked later how the day went, she found herself unresponsive. Paralyzed by the simple question, she struggled to articulate her feelings as her husband stared quizzically at her red-shot eyes. She fumbled for words, as if the answer was pressing and difficult. Eventually, she chose silence. Some emotions are best left unspoken, and not everything needs to be verbalized. In that moment, she sensed the importance of honoring and appreciating the tireless efforts made on her behalf over the years. Acknowledging the daunting nature of raising someone else’s child—a thankless job often overlooked—she understood the necessity of expressing gratitude for the unspoken contributions. Despite the pain she felt therefore, she remained mindful of the countless efforts invested in her, shaping her path to current success.
Moreover, being a better writer than a speaker, she felt her thoughts come out the wrong way when she spoke. It could be confusing, and on innumerable occasions, she found herself compelled to lie because she felt too lazy to analyze her complex thoughts. She knew she could muster a smile, pretend, and understand that her journey, though inexplicable to her at the moment, is guided by a divine plan beyond her comprehension. Acknowledging this truth is a bitter pill to swallow—an acceptance of a fate thrust upon her. For, sometimes, survival entails enduring the unbearable with a resilience that defies the odds. Walking away because one feels slighted or overlooked means carrying the brand of anger, a label louder than any name one could throw at her. She had witnessed anger in people like Marie Soufouz, whose pure hatred for her own people is palpable and without secrecy. Unlike Marie, however, she didn’t know how to hate. Wearing the cloak of unconcern is the closest thing to hatred for her.
As she embarked on fulfilling her calling through the act of writing, channeling away her disappointment, she discovered a newfound appreciation for the abundant blessings in her life. She reflected on the arduous journey her ancestors undertook to arrive at the land she now considered her own. The struggles they faced to assimilate and gain acceptance echoed in her thoughts. Ultimately, in the face of external challenges, they turned inward, seeking to understand and embrace themselves, even when acceptance from others proved elusive. She decided to do the same.
In this awakening, she slowly released her fixation on what she lacked and the perceived slights committed against her. It dawned on her that what she took as a snub in front of everybody might not have been intentional exclusions; after all, human beings are prone to forget. Above all, she held a firm belief that life functions like a mirror, reflecting back to the observer what they project into it. With this understanding, she continued to peer into the unfolding chapters of her life, guided by the evolving realization that life’s reflection mirrored her own thoughts…
In the hushed moments of the night, with only the rhythmic cadence of her own heartbeat, she wrapped herself in the solitude of her thoughts. She pondered the strangeness of how seemingly small things can trigger recollections that echo through the corridors of adulthood. A chuckle escaped her as she recognized the truth that everything, fundamentally, holds no significance until we attribute meaning to it. The mind, it seems, becomes most vocal when wrapped in the silence of the night. Yet, it is within these tranquil pauses that we can discern the essential from the trivial, should we delve inward with depth.
