Dear Editor,
With a heavy heart, I would like to share this recollection of mine on your prestigious platform. It’s December again. I thank Allah that it is 2015 and I am privileged to recount the December of 2012.
It was Monday 3rd December 2012. I had an appointment to keep. I was to report, for the third time, at the headquarters of the National Intelligence Agency, Banjul. I had spent the weekend with my family, playing indoor games with my wife and daughter just to assure them that everything was going normal.
Deep inside me though, I felt a disturbing fear that prevented me from sleeping soundly, neither eating nor reciprocating my little daughter’s giggles. She would mumble-jumble something between Mandarin and Russian and finish the incomprehensible phrases with sweet giggles in expectation of the usual fatherly hug that tells a child that its father was the best in the whole world.
It was always like that prior to this Sunday preceding my faithful Monday. On this Sunday, my daughter did what she never did. Whenever she had issues with her mother, I was the best sanctuary and protector for her. She would report that her mother had smacked her, denied her the TV remote set, gave her serious sponging at the bathroom, refused her to wear the boots I bought her from Addis Ababa which rewarded her with beeps and multi-colour blips etc. That was normally the first thing for me to settle upon arrival from work. Together, we will set the penalties for her mother, ranging from denying her the fruits I always came home with, to promises of revenging on her behalf.
This kid could be accused of loving me more than she does her mother. She was my best friend in the house. My wife, on her part, would excitedly help translate our daughter’s daily complains and accusations although most of them were levelled against her. On Sunday 2nd December 2012, I jumped from a shallow slumber after getting back to sleep after Fajr. My daughter had woken up a few minutes before but not hearing the usual reveille from my Galaxy tablet which she used to locate from its rings and screen light and on which wallpaper was her innocent face, she had busied herself with her doll.
My snores might have fascinated her because, according to her mother who was watching her quietly from above the blanket, the kid first listened to the heaves from my smoke-ridden chest, put away the Arab doll and went straight for my nostrils. She thrusted her soft little index into one of my nostrils. I can’t remember what I thought it was but all I could recall was sitting upright at the centre of the bed, gnawing hard at my nose. Seeing that I was stupefied, my wife mocked at me from under the blanket. She was bursting of laughter. “Don’t you know that your dad is a coward? You frighten him again and he may hit you before knowing! ”
I turned to face my wife and met my daughter’s intrigued eyes, triumphant but bewildered at my sudden jump. I never knew what actually transpired until it was all explained to me by my wife later that afternoon, but only one thing was certain: there was no longer any chance of getting back to sleep that morning again. Neneh was up and so must everyone else.
I staggered to the ante-room where I boiled water for the morning bath. Usually, my daughter would be musing with my Galaxy tablet while I am at the bathroom but today, upon entering the dressing room, she was standing patiently at the mirror waiting for me. “Neneh, may I boil water for you too to take a bath? I will not use the sponge”, I persuaded.
She didn’t seem to hear me for she didn’t even look my way. “Or do you want us to go and buy chips and wonjo from the shop?” I ventured again. This time, to my horror, she turned to me with a grimace. With that wail of a terrified child, she cried till I thought she must have been stung by an insect or something for I inspected her all round to see any sign of pain but saw nothing on her body. Her mother came in a rush and enquired. Nothing.
The next minute, our neighbour knocked and greeted at the door. “Ami, what is going on here, hope it is not boiling water or the still hot gas stove?” She too had recognized the terror in the kid’s shrill wails. No one, except God, knew what caused this kid to cry so uncontrollably that early Sunday morning. What was wrong? How come I was unable to calm her, not even by my usual tricks: kneeling before her and telling her that she was now taller than me, or clapping my palms noisily together to say I have beaten her adversary, or giving her an all-five gesture and saying ‘take five’ which she normally cherished by surrendering her hands into mine?
None of these hitherto successful tricks worked out that Sunday morning. After watching us speechless and almost motionless, her mother took her from my arms and offered her a motherly hug that, I must admit, transformed my helplessness into tenderness. I could feel their hearts beating in unison and I wondered what a monster a man would have been without that love from a mother.
The cries subsided and presently she swallowed a bile and was soon heard trying to say something amid her sobs. We thought she wanted milk which she was habitual of taking at that time of morning. We agreed she should get her usual. My wife turned to leave the room and as she faced me from the top of her mother’s retreating figure, the little girl mumbled something I never understood till it was too late.
This kid of just nineteen months had sensed what not me, neither her mother nor our parents had sensed. Or so I thought. Was she already in the picture and just didn’t have the words to say it? Or were we insensitive of her moods? She actually sent us signals because my wife confessed that at one occasion, late in the night, she woke up and found her sitting quietly and staring fixedly at my sleeping figure.
On another occasion, she scrambled some Fula sentence which even my wife, who used to be my expert translator couldn’t make out. That was when I kissed them goodbye on my departure to Dakar where I was to catch my flight to Addis Ababa in advance for an AU Summit. Both me and her mother misinterpreted her. We thought she wanted me to buy her something hence the Arab doll and noisy Disney boots that I brought back with me.
I later knew what all these signals were. But it was rather too late. My daughter had sensed that some inevitable danger was looming. She was going to miss her dad. She would have no one to expect in the evenings to listen to her usual reports. No one to play with on the floor of the living room, who would give her access to the T.V., DVD remotes and moreover, a mobile phone to watch her own pictures and identify others she knows but couldn’t name.
There may not be the usual fruits she liked sharing with Musu, her friend. Who would offer her his finger for her to hold and run with to the shop and ask her to point at anything, anything at all, and would buy it for her? Who will call at least once in the afternoon and say “Neneh, what did your mother cook today? Or tell me who shouted at you today?” Who would now promise her to take the nurses to police if they inject her or insist that her mother gives her those not-nice syrups a number of times a day?
To what I later fathomed of her strange behavior, she might have had these questions but did not know how or what to do or say. Weakened by these big worries too heavy for an infant, she had resorted to the only available option to her….crying her heart out. I should have known this earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to avert predestined but I would have died trying. At least I would have attempted to flee before going to bed that Sunday night.
We had spent the day under the mango tree brewing attaya, smoking cigarettes and playing crazy eight with almost all the girls at home that Sunday. I had not left the compound the whole day, not even for the mosque or the shop till eleven in the evening when I had lulled my daughter to sleep and could take a walk before retiring to bed.
It took me almost half an hour before I decided it was best not to go far in that cool night. I wish I had. I wish I had just kept on going till I find myself in another country on that night. Little did I know that to be out in the open night sky decorated with brightly sparkling stars and a gracious moonlight was something I will miss! And for a long time. I remembered I had an appointment to keep so I retreated and headed home.
I went to bed but could hardly sleep. I tossed around from one side to the other almost all night, caressing my daughter’s hair whenever I faced her. My wife too was awake because she used her left foot to search for mine under the blanket. When she found it, she groaned emotionally. “Why are you awake still?” She whispered. I expected the question but did not brace up well for it for it took me unawares. Not certain what to say, I returned her the question.
Whether she was reading my mind or me reading hers I can’t tell but she answered exactly as I thought was my best bet. “You see”, she began, “for some reason I don’t understand, I am very worried. Be honest, I know you have always been but this has nothing to do with what you regard as confidential. Are you sure you are not in any danger? I have lately been feeling awfully afraid and having sleepless nights since you came back from NIA. I don’t actually know what I am feeling. It is between paranoia and frightening feeling. Sometimes I get the feeling that something terrible has either happened or about to. Is there anything you don’t want to tell me?” She was right. I couldn’t just tell her so. The situation will only worsen if I confessed what I too was feeling.
So I went on the defensive. I was feeling the same awful thing in me but could not decipher what it was. I shifted my left hand which, from the time my wife’s foot found mine, I noticed, had stopped caressing my daughter’s hair and was laying heavily on her forehead. I searched and found my wife’s arm. I held it tightly and cleared my coarse throat. “You know I would never hide anything from you, right? You know I would confide in you where my life is kept if I can. I am not aware of any danger at all”, I lied. “I think you are just into those hysterics again. Don’t you think we plan you a visit to the village?”
I wanted to change the subject but she brought me straight back. “No. This has nothing to do with nausea. Yes, you have been smart and attentive enough this time to know I am expecting. It is not about that. It is about your job and your report to NIA tomorrow. If things are OK as you put it, then why going to that place again?” She was right again. “I think you are just imagining things but to be honest with you, I have done nothing to warrant me to worry. I am very innocent of what they say I did. The NIA have even confirmed that to me. They know the wrong person was arrested. If it was thought that I was The Soldier and I am arrested and yet The Soldier is still writing, I cannot imagine a better vindication. What else should I fear? I am innocent my dear, you know I cannot be a criminal even if I want to”.
I waited for that to sink in. None of us spoke again till dawn when she woke me up and said the bathroom was all mine. My daughter was still asleep when I was leaving for Banjul but when she woke up, she cried till she went back to sleep.
I got to Banjul at around 08:30 am. The NIA front gate was full of terror as usual. I booked in for Invest Unit and the usual protocol was carried out. Phones, wallets, bags etc were registered and left behind. “OC good morning”, I greeted Mr. Sukuta Jammeh, head of the Investigations unit. “Good morning Mr. Sowe, how is the family? I hope you rested well with the family”.
Minutes later I was escorted to the Office of the Director of Operations, Mr. Louis Gomez who beckoned me to a seat opposite his expansive desk. “Just give these boys a few minutes” he politely said after dismissing my escort. I waited with much confusion. Which boys and for what? I hoped to get some clue from his solid face but he avoided mine throughout my brief encounter with him. I was deep in thought about what next.
A sharp knock at the door brought me back into the present. Two gentleman-looking guys walked in and announced that they were ready. My heart wanted to jump out but I managed to swallow it back. “Mr. Sowe, you may go with these boys”, Mr. Gomez said from behind the desktop monitor which prevented me from seeing his face. “OK then thanks and have a good day”, I managed to compose.
We descended down the narrow and steep staircase leading to the facade of the complex. There was a Mitsubishi Pajero revving idly just outside the foot of the stairs. “Did you leave anything at the main gate, Mr. Sowe?” “Umm yes, my phones and wallet”, I answered as we headed for the security room where my phones and wallet were handed back to me. “This way please”, Mr. Suso ushered me towards the waiting darkly tainted Pajero. I complied and soon we were out of the GPMB gates signalling a right turn.
I wondered what importance I had amassed overnight to be driven in the Director’s official car and most horrifyingly, where. We passed the cemeteries at a steady speed and all of a sudden, Mr. Suso, who was seated at the front passenger seat, turned to face me. “Mr. Sowe, we are being directed to transfer you to Mile Two for detention. I am sorry about that”. The words came like spikes into my heart. At a certain degree of fear, there is a zone of bravery. I feared no longer.
I was certain that death could be inflicted from man to man but Heaven or hell was entirely God’s discretion. “It’s alright, you don’t need to be sorry for that. You are merely doing your job. It’s okay with me “, I relieved him from fixing his eyes on me. We entered the gates of Mile Two on this 3rd December and never went out through them again till twenty six months later.
