ESSAY

By: Cherno Baba Jallow

By the window, I sit inside the Tim Hortons coffee shop, trying to play catch-up with my last week’s Sunday copy of The New York Times and also chatting with friends online. I am unable to do neither. My concentration, if you factor in my repeated coffee-sips, wheat-bread-munches and the chorus of voices within my vicinity, is neither here nor there. It is adrift, a net cast wide into sea.

But how do you create your own self-contained world in a public place like a coffee shop? You have to contend with a lot of distractions: the frequent comings and goings of customers, the whirring of the coffee machines, the bells of the cash registers, the buzz of music from the ceiling and the jabbering of colleagues behind the counter. The coffee shop is no sanctuary of perfect harmony. If anything, it only reinforces the fecklessness of my concentrative abilities when I am out of the house. In public settings, I tend to harbor a migratory mind, possessed of the inquisitiveness of a rambunctious teenager.

It’s possible that my wandering looks inside the shop may have caught the attention of this man – of an indecipherable age – sitting close to me. Or maybe he had detected my accent during my phone conversations – something told him there was a certain foreign-ness to me: an African? Maybe. Did I come across as somebody familiar, approachable? Out of the blue, he beckoned me over to his table and pulled out a letter from an insurance company. He pointed to a name written on the top left corner of the letter. I took it as an unspoken request for me to read it out to him. “Baide Ba,” I announced. He nodded approvingly, pointing his index figure towards himself as though he were speech-impaired. But I concluded that he simply couldn’t read. He just wanted to be sure if the letter was for him. I asked him in the Pulaar language: “Are you Senegalese?” He looked taken aback. He wasn’t expecting that. ‘’Yes,’’ he replied. He said he came from the Matam area in northeastern Senegal. “From Gambia,” I declared before he asked. We both laughed. “We are all the same people,” he replied in Pulaar.

Our occasionally high-pitched conversation on subjects ranging from Fulani history to marriage to religion attracted the attention of a young man sitting in the far eastern corner. He had been reading, a laptop and a stack of books purposelessly sitting at a jaunty angle of his table. I saw him get up and walk leisurely over to us. “How are you?” he said to us in Pulaar. We looked up, our faces aglow. He announced his name: Ebrima Diallo, an engineering student at the Lawrence Technological University in Southfield, Michigan, and from Timbi Medina, Pita, Guinea.

There is nothing special about three West African Fulani men meeting up, and by chance, inside a coffee shop in a foreign land. Yet somehow, I found it captivating. The coincidence of our meeting, or rather how we met – there, appealed to something imaginative in me. Maybe it was the quirk of fate. Or maybe it was the beauty of our companionship that it didn’t take long before we warmed up to each other and before we settled into the groove of things.

I don’t know about the other two, but I came away reflective of the symbolism of three strangers huddling around one table and sharing in the collective experience of their immigrant lives, and in the larger context of humanity. This unanticipated experience and the sheer immensity of its allure, stayed with me long after my new buddies and I had parted company, each going a different direction, and each perhaps hoping for a promising future for our new-found acquaintanceship.

On this bright, sunny Sunday morning, I came for a cup of coffee, to muse on an old newspaper copy and to surf the Internet in between. Yet somehow, I ended up doing other things – I went off-script. I found myself helping a stranger, building new human connections and pondering the infinite possibilities of life.

As part of the Sickle cell awareness program, the Sickle Cell Association visited Kiang Tankularr LRR over the weekend.

It’s believed that the highest number of sickle cell patients are registered in this part of the country, prompting the association to visit the village.

Speaking to the people of Tankularr, Mr Alieu Sambou the president of the Association said they are delighted to visit the village and share relevant things with them regarding the disease.

He first started informing the gathering that he is shocked that there is no health facility nearby apart from MRC which is all the way in Keneba. He said considering how serious the disease can be, especially when you have an attack, it needs an immediate check-up from a doctor. He said what will happen if you have to travel Kilometers to a health facility. He said after their visit he will convey the message to the Government through the Health Ministry to inform them about how important it is for Tankularr to have a health facility.

Mr Sambou informed the residents that June is always sickle cell awareness month, but they could not do it this June because some of their prominent members passed away. He informed the gathering that sickle cell disease is not only in Tankularr but a disease affecting millions of people worldwide.

“Every month over a hundred thousand kids are born with Sickle cell and almost half a million people die of the disease every year”.

He told them there is no need to panic and advised them to be visiting the health centre frequently and taking their medications as advised by a doctor.

Turn by turn many sickle cell experts mainly from MRC and RVTH took time to speak to the people of Tankularr and discuss the symptoms of the disease.

Modou Bella Jallow and Dr Masering Njie took to the podium and told the audience that they should see a doctor for advice before getting married. They said it’s important for one to do a test to see if your partner is compatible for marriage. They said most sickle cell disease is because of intermarriage among very close family members.

By: Cherno Baba Jallow

After getting off work on Wednesday evening in the US state of Virginia, Sulayman Jallow began the drive home.

It would be his last commute.

Sulayman died in a car crash involving an 18-wheeler truck and another car, according to his family. He never got the chance to say a few parting words to his family. Tragedy struck unexpectedly, a flourishing life cut short, and a family left to pick up the pieces of their devastated lives.

Sulayman was born in a big family in Basse. He attended the area’s St. George’s Primary School, once a paragon of academic excellence in colonial Gambia and several years after Independence.

We were childhood friends. Our late fathers were also good friends, from childhood to the very end. They died several years apart. Dad was the last one to go.

Our dads were avid farmers, growing rice and peanuts and corn. They made us work hard, planting the seeds and pulling the weeds and harvesting the crops.

On one afternoon in the summer of 1984, we —- Sulayman, me, our dads and some siblings —- were busy clearing the weeds from around the infant plants in our neighboring farms at the Basse rice fields. It was immediately past midday. The sun was nearing its acme of intensity. Hunger, the strength of breakfast long decimated, was making a comeback.

But the work had to go on. Respite was still several hours away. Unless our dads called for a halt to activity and a rest under the shades of the trees, we knew, as usual, this was going to be a long toil.

Sulayman and I and the rest of the kids would often grumble, ear-to-ear, of course, about our dads keeping us busy for a long stretch of hours.

But on this humid summer day, we had our lucky break. Sulayman’s little brother, Amadou Jallow, came from town with some good news. Hence a jubilation. Hence a lull in our farming activity.

“Both of you have passed the Common Entrance,’’ Amadou announced, referring to Sulayman and me, and barely able to hold his breath. We had seen him from a distance, hurtling towards us, tip-toeing over the muddy waters and speeding up on the embankments.

“They are talking about you guys in town,’’ he said. We didn’t believe him, at first. But we knew we had been waiting for the results and the timing of their arrival was about right.

‘’You two need to go,’’ Amadou stressed, revealing that crowds had already teemed up in the center of town. They were talking about the results.

Our dads told us we could go. And we dashed off, Amadou in tow. Our legs were dirty and muddied. And we were hungry and tired. We didn’t care. We arrived in the center of town, meeting with other successful students, and congratulated by friends and schoolmates.

I scored 265. Sulayman, 257. He went to St Augustine’s High in Banjul. I went to Nasir High in Basse.

Sulayman had a good heart. He was generous to philanthropic causes. He recently donated $100 to a fundraiser to help a Basse resident finish up a house whose construction had stalled due to financial difficulties.

Full of excitement, Sulayman was never short on exuberance. He was constantly animated, effortlessly witty and comprehensively friendly. He harbored and deployed a plethora of jokes and teasers —— laughter came easily and prodigiously to those at the receiving end of his quips. When you were in his company, you got the full worth of his warmth and charm and passion. His buoyancy had no limits to it, and it easily drew you in —- and towards him. A vibrant soul has suddenly left us.

Sulayman leaves behind a wife and two kids, his mum and several siblings. He will be buried in Virginia on Sunday.

By: Cherno Baba Jallow

Every 9/11 Remembrance Day, my mind hearkens back to the very moment I heard the news.

It was over my car radio. I was driving on the JC Lodge Freeway in Detroit, in the US state of Michigan, running late for morning lectures at my old school, Wayne State University. I had tuned into the flagship BBC Newshour program like I would every morning on my way to class.

I heard the news presenter Alex Brodie announce that a plane had struck one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center building in downtown Manhattan. At first, I didn’t know what to make of it. I struggled processing it. Then Brodie interrupted his interview and announced that another plane had struck the other tower. He seemed jolted by what was unfolding before his own eyes, and on his TV screen, of course. He gave that ‘oh-no-mouth-agape’ kind of reaction to the earth-shaking events. This was big stuff, big enough to compel a reporter to inject his own emotions into the story.

Brodie has since retired from the BBC. His former colleagues Owen Bennett-Jones, Claire Bolderson and Robin Lustig have also left the news outlet. Julian Marshall, perhaps the only holdover from the 9/11 era of BBC reporting, is still on the Newshour show.

On that fateful morning of September 11, 2001, Brodie kept me company, or to do justice to the day’s suspense, tantalized me, until I parked my car on the side street near campus. Inside the school I saw my fellow students huddled up in the main yard, talking about the day’s events. Others sat in the student lounge, glued to the giant TV. It was an endless loop of news reporting and analysis and interviews.

It was overwhelming.

Cataclysmic events like 9/11 pulverize your mental tranquility, even if momentarily. They stretch incredulity to vanishing lengths. They make you ponderous, imaginings and flashbacks commingling in their oceanic plenitude.

Three years before 9/11, I had done a research paper for my last undergraduate English class. It was titled: “Target: America.’’ My interest was global terrorism. Flying planes into buildings would be the new tool of international terrorism, my research paper explained. My professor took notice, and he read out my paper in class. He said he would retain a copy for future reference in his upcoming classes.

I was surprised to find out that my classmates had no familiarity with what I was talking about. Some of them thought my research interest was strange — why would anybody write about stuff like that?

When 9/11 happened, I didn’t see my research paper as having foretold it. This issue of planes and buildings and mass murder had been previously talked about in The Economist magazine, Foreign Affairs and other journals. I just latched onto it and did my own wide reading and reporting. In the process, I learned several new things about global affairs. And I am sure, my former classmates, wherever they may be now, would remember my paper as having given them an idea or two about what 9/11 was all about.

A week before 9/11, a former colleague, an African-American, told me at work that I had made the wrong decision coming to America. “Why would you come to America, of all places?,’’ she asked as we sat in the dining room. “You should have gone to Europe or Australia.’’ I told her I didn’t see anything wrong with my coming to America.. She retorted: “crazy things happen in America, gun violence, serial killers…” I was getting an earful and I just didn’t feel like continuing the conversation any further, certainly not when I had a meal to finish before rushing back to work.

A few days after 9/11, I ran into my old colleague near the company’s cafeteria. “You see what I was telling you about,’’ she said, using the tragic event as a confirmation of what she had told me about her country a few days earlier. Her facial deportment gave it away: ‘I told you so.’ And: ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

I took a blank stare at her. She stared back. And then we went our separate ways.

By: Cherno Baba Jallow

Almost five years ago this month, the author met with President Adama Barrow in a downtown New York City hotel. And he wrote all about it.

I hadn’t planned on the visit. Two of my childhood friends residing in Michigan, and who were also executive members of the Gambian Association of Michigan, had already scheduled a meet-and-chat with President Adama Barrow and they had wanted me to come along. I was reluctant at first. By nature, and for professional reasons, I try to keep away from informal, social gatherings with politicians and the influential. Hobnobbing with them is not my thing.

“No, you have to join us,’’ my friends from Michigan, dithering between encouragement and persuasion, told me. It is always a privilege meeting with any president, they seemed to reason. I was sold.

So off we went, meeting with President Barrow in his Manhattan (New York City) hotel suite.

The encounter began on a pleasant note. Barrow was folksy and jocular. He showered me with unadulterated attention. “Wow, Cherno Baba,’’ he said in a demeanor I thought could only reside between astonishment and euphoria, the kind you feel when you chance upon a long-lost cousin.

Barrow was humble and hearty and conversational. He and I chatted, going way back into the maudlin past. We had crossed paths before. We had exchanged pleasantries and teasers before. We knew each other way back. Time and distance had cannibalized whatever relations had existed between us. But our Manhattan meeting seemed to thaw out our long-lost acquaintanceship.

I was both embarrassed and thrilled to meet with Barrow in 2017. Embarrassed, because I sat there watching and talking to him knowing fully well that even though I had supported him during the elections campaign against former President Yahya Jammeh, I had given him zero chances against his rival. It was not even about his losing to Jammeh’s political skullduggery — not at all. I just thought that Jammeh was a better candidate in terms of poise, confidence, capacity, charisma, eloquence, and just about anything viscerally convincing about a person’s state of preparedness for an expectant errand.

I was also thrilled to be in the company of Barrow — the history man. Going toe to toe against Jammeh, a dangerous, buccaneering fellow, and defeating him, one of the last hold-outs of Africa’s big-man autocrats, has guaranteed Barrow a permanent etch in the sands of world history.

Defeating Jammeh in 2016 was an inflection point in the history of democracy in West Africa. The earth-shattering moment was felt across the entire region. The regional euphoria was almost akin to the one that greeted the defeat, in early 1991, of Mathieu Kerekou, the former military-turned-civilian leader of Benin, the first electorally-deposed incumbent in West Africa and perhaps the second in post-colonial mainland Africa after Somalia’s Adelle Abdullah Osman Daar in 1967.

Throughout my time with Barrow on that evening, I remained in awe of him and his place in history. But there was something about him that didn’t register well with me. In studied silence, and in closely watching and listening to him make a point or two, there was a certain unsophistication to him that didn’t inspire confidence in me that our new president had an inkling of the enormity of the challenges of running the state, the boldness and the imagination required of leaders who take over states just coming out of long spells of authoritarianism and institutional paralysis.

Barrow is a man of history, but he is nowhere ready for these far-reaching times. The Gambia has got the wrong man for the job.

By: Jankey Touray

Marriage, also called matrimony or union, is a culturally and often lawfully identified union between people called spouses. It solidifies bonds and commitments between them, as well as between them and their children, and in-laws.

Being away from your partner can feel strange and confusing, hence marriage is a commitment of sincerity to be together, the long distance can question that commitment and strain your relationship.

Lack of physical intimacy in a long-distance marriage can leave you feeling sexually frustrated and prompt you to look for the company of someone else or adopt a sickness that will forever infuriate you. As the chaos of distant marriage remains unfolded, people’s lives are being affected.

“Marriage is every woman’s dream come true, we are optimistic and anxious to get married, but we fail sometimes because we don’t learn to own each other,” Said Ramou Janha

Mrs Janha said she has been married for over 25 years and her husband left for abroad when she was just pregnant with her son who is now 19 years and has since not had sex with any man for nearly 20 years on.

“I was forced into marriage at a young age, my husband left for the United States when we were just 4 years into marriage and since then he has never come to visit because he is not having papers. I tried to break the marriage on several occasions, but my parents and family members always threatened to disown me if I ever break that marriage. I and my husband have two children, and they have all finished school and still waiting and hoping to see their father one day,” Mrs Janha expressed.

Mrs. Jonha lamented that she developed a sickness due to her not having sex for a while and that whenever she feels like having sex, she masturbates herself. Adding she is old now and has no choice but stay in the marriage for the sake of her children and leave the rest to God.

Abou Sey explained how his marriage broke after his wife travels abroad. He affirmed that he and his family were having good times until when his wife’s sister proposed to his wife to go work abroad hence his business was down and things were difficult at that time having to raise three children and renting was tough.

“It takes us two years arguing about the issue of my wife travelling abroad, as a result, she left to live with her parents. I followed her there because I love her. She and her sister in support of her brother were preparing her papers underground and I didn’t know anything. I just woke up one Wednesday and my wife said I’ll be travelling this evening. I was startled that I cried my heart out, only to see my wife’s family preparing a farewell for her.”

Mr Sey said he was so devastated that if he was not strong enough, he would have gone insane by now. Explaining that their marriage was okay at the beginning when the wife just left and was also struggling to provide for his family until 3 years later when his wife asked for a divorce only for him to find out that his wife was pregnant for a white man.

“I will never marry a woman who is away and even if I travel, I will never marry someone who is far from me because I experienced real hardship and I don’t have faith in distance marriage or relationship,” said Mr Sey.

Haddy Kujabi confessed that her marriage was broken because she travelled and left her kids and husband behind.

“When I was travelling, my son was one year that day and that was the same day I stopped breastfeeding him. I was tempted by the money being paid, thinking that if I go for two years my life with my family will change and we will have a house of our own,” said Ms Kujabi.

She complained that her husband left her thereafter she travelled because people were telling him that she was into prostitution but that was not true.

“I tried to explain to my husband that his instincts were wrong and that I only go to hustle and come back for us to have a better life, but he refused, and he was so angry at me. My in-laws, friends, and family all blame me for breaking my marriage and accused me of things I never do all because I travel and there was a distant relationship between me and my family.” Kujabi expressed.

She said if she had known that his travel would have caused her to lose her marriage, she would not have gone hence every day she prays that her ex-husband learns the truth and hardship she faced leaving her family behind.

Oustaz Gai said Islamic marriages are broken after 3 years if the husband has not been calling nor involved in intimacy or providing for the wife.

“You cannot marry a woman and leave her without giving her the needs in marriage. Some people are married for years, yet they don’t know that they are not into marriage but adultery. Marriage is a bond that connected two people, not one. Allah forbids forcing people into marriage not to talk of forcing them to commit for years to “un-halal” intimacy and ‘wallahi’ this is haram,” Gai stressed.

He said he is not saying distance marriage is haram, but everyone has their due and every marital vow demands to be fulfilled, adding people follow society and culture more than what Allah said and put lots of people into the discomfort of life.

Appreciation

George Sarr: A Man. A Plan.

By: Cherno Baba Jallow

We never met, but from a distance, and from our few email correspondences, I had the inkling that George Sarr was the consummate gentleman, a gracious and sagacious person.

Sarr died yesterday in Atlanta.

His is one of those deaths that gnaw at your inner being. This one hits hard. Really hard.  But this feeling of dejection over a death has a certain peculiarity to it: it is over someone you never met, but had a certain affinity for — for who he was and what he did for his people and country.

Back in the 1990s, Sarr and colleagues had the foresight to launch The Gambia Post, an online medium to enable Gambians freely express themselves about the tyranny in their country.

The Post’s arrival was highly propitious. The independent press inside The Gambia was barely existing. Freedom of speech was under siege. The people were too scared to speak up against their president (Yahya Jammeh). And newspapers were too scared to publish stories or editorials critical of the president. So:

There was a hunger for information. The Gambia Post provided it in Cyberspace but the information cascaded down from the keyboards to the steers in The Gambia. Many Gambians went to The Gambia Post to read about the happenings in their country. And many of them wrote stuff there. Some of it was outlandish, but most of it was informatory about the Gambian situation.

I wrote several articles on The Gambia Post, and they were all critical of the former dictator Jammeh. Sarr gave me and several other Gambians an opportunity to write and to inform, to vent out our feelings about the political crisis in our country.

For providing Gambians an outlet to express themselves, and at a time when dictatorship was holding many of them captive, Sarr was rendering an arduous but honorable service to his country. He was a patriot, an unwavering participant in the protracted struggle to bring an end to tyranny in The Gambia.

In 2016, the ramparts of the Jammeh dictatorship finally came crumbling down. Democracy had triumphed. Sarr must and should have, patted himself on the back for finally seeing the fruits of his labor. He is owed some plaudits.

Sarr will remain embalmed in our memories.

By: Muhammed Lamin Drammeh

When IG was going to elementary school, her dream was to become a fearless lawyer who would revolt against inequality and injustices; to balance the oft-unbalance scale of justice in the most honourable way. All she wanted as a young girl, was to make a difference in the justice system.

But, while some might credit fate, what is clear is that it was IG’s incandescent creative talent that veered her off the law route; smoothly landing her in the creative world of words and colours with a sprinkle of photography. She would go on to break through the glass ceiling and smash the traditional gender stereotypes in The Gambia by making waves in the country’s creative industry as a poet, painter and photographer who is set to do her maiden solo photo exhibition in The Gambia.

“I wanted to be a lawyer. Growing up, I saw and witnessed a lot of injustices. I wanted to be a reason to make a difference in the life of many as a lawyer. However, I am in a different area now,” she explained.

Christened as Aji Ndumbeh Jobe but goes by her sobriquet, IG (Aji) Jobe. Aji is in her early twenties demonstrating a variety of skills in the art that is changing narratives. A trained teacher, prolific poet, and award-winning painter, IG is now making waves in photo-ing.

IG’s passion for art was stimulated in her formative years and partly through her brilliance in Literature in English and Arts and Crafts as a student. While going to elementary school, IG would write quotations from influential people and engage in debates. This laid the foundation of her drive to venture into poetry. Having a very arduous childhood, she began putting thoughts on paper, a process that birthed her storytelling adventure.

“I started this journey by writing quotes. I have a very tough childhood, so I would draft out something when I get hurt by someone or something or when I am happy about something. So that’s how it started and later own discovered that I can do poetry,” she narrated.

IG has written close to seventy poems, including spoken-word poems. When she was leaving senior school, she left as the ‘best’ Literature-in-English student, honouring her brilliance in poetry. On the 2020 International Youth Day, Aji was awarded Youth of the Year by the Young Writers Association of The Gambia.

“After senior school, one thing that lingers in my mind was what do I need to do to prove that I deserved to be the best literature student in my school.  So, I pushed forward in competing nationally and internationally,” she recounted while explaining her poetry journey.

Being a very brilliant Arts and Crafts student in her elementary school, she was advised to major in Arts and Crafts at The Gambia College in 2017, when she got enrolled as a student at the teacher’s training school.

IG’s devotion to arts started long ago as a child. She would sketch and draw with pencils even at that tender age; foretelling, somewhat, her innate creative potential.

“For me, I think, the art in me is natural. I have been an artist ever since. I have been doing drawings and depicting things since childhood. I grew up doing all these; tell stories through painting and decorating,” she explained.

The young painter has won awards both nationally and internationally through her magnificent creativity in portraying stories through painting. In 2019, IG’s creativity was honoured in Eqypt in the Creative African Oscar awards. She was also the winner of the 75 painting contests on the Gambia We Want in 2045 held in The Gambia in the same year.

In 2021, IG would go on to win the best female storyteller in an award ceremony in Sudan.

Last year, she became the 2nd runner-up in the Black History Exhibition in Ethiopia.

This creative genius, with her precocious talent, would not limit her creativity to poetry and painting but has now gone on to add another letter P to her PP talents: Poetry, painting and photography.

With the nature of evolution and the emergence of pictorial storytelling, IG believes that she can tell stories through photography as well.

“So many people try to discourage me when I started photographing. What they will say is that it is a male-dominated area, but my passion is what is driving me,” she passionately said, with a glint of hope in her eyes.

Still teaching and painting, IG now has her studio and is so immersed in photography. She owns a camera and tells stories through pictures.

She is set to do a massive photo exhibition in the country in November this year, where she intends to capture pictures of iconic voices in Africa.

By: Muhammed Lamin Drammeh

One day, Uncle Musa closed from work very early and was eager to break the news he affectionately called “charming” to his proud niece, Siboo. The news was about the release of the West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE) results. There was excitement on his face as he sanguinely anticipated a brilliant result from his niece.

Contrary to Uncle Musa’s excitement, the charming news was not charming to Siboo. Her mood changed immediately. To Uncle Musa, it was time to shame their neighbours and rebut back critics. “By Monday, they’ll understand that Siboo is not who they think she was. They will know that she deserves all those awards she received on graduation day which will always be no match to their backward children,” Uncle Musa proudly uttered with optimism.

Such was the presumption of Uncle Musa whose joy was rallying rather too uncontrollably. Siboo won three awards on her graduation day which left their neighbour’s tongues wagging. Within the school, there was a strong rumour that she didn’t deserve any of those awards. To them, Siboo’s awards were because of her relationship with some teachers in the school. Interestingly, this raised heaps of debates within the neighbourhood. Her internal examination results were always awesome in those three subjects. She always scores distinction in them and was always top of her class to the amazement of many. To Uncle Musa, the talks going on are baseless, and they are coming from a place of jealousy and hatred.

It was on this particular Thursday that the news was broken to her.  From that moment, she developed into a new breed. Despite her uncle speaking in a supercilious accent towards their neighbours, Siboo stationed herself in her room without any idea of what lies ahead.

Expectations were high on her as a result of her “performance” in the internal examinations.  In her room, she was like a fish out of water. She glued her hands to her head and opened her eyes on the surface.  “What would happen on Monday?” She would say this to herself in

her room. Despite her uncle’s high hope and supercilious behaviour, Siboo knew that her result would not correspond the expectations on her.

Monday won’t be like other Fridays at school when Mr Dem, Bax and Barry would give her A1. Whilst doing that introspection in her room, outside was the reverse. Uncle Musa started to calculate things that will be bought for Siboo. Indeed, he was like a dog with two tails while Siboo was kaleidoscopically turning her head like a fish out of water.

In the neighbourhood, there was a battle for supremacy. Their immediate neighbour’s daughter, Aisha, was also expecting her result.  It was a contest of who would come out with the best result between these two girls. The supercilious voice of Uncle Musa was everywhere.  He would proudly boast that his niece did what none of their neighbours’ children had ever done in the internal examinations, and she will do more than what she did during her internal examination.

Aisha, Siboo’s classmate, is a cool girl with a fine demeanour. They were in the same class but their relationship was not as close as it was supposed to be due to the fierce competition that their parents have developed.

Days were going so fast for Siboo. Less than 24hrs before she collects her result, she remained stationed in her room, arguing with her mind.  “At least, I will have four credits… or, no, maybe… five, or six … but Maths…” This was what she was constantly doing on Sunday evening.  Despite being so pessimistic, she was so intelligent to hide that from Uncle Musa.

Uncle Musa failed to observe Siboo’s behaviour and read between the lines. For him, Monday will be a day to celebrate Siboo’s indivisible academic hegemony in a divided and competitive society.

At about 5 PM on Sunday, he drove to the market and bought stuff to celebrate the looming achievements of Siboo.

If Uncle Musa could read Siboo’s composure between the lines and drop his ego, he wouldn’t have wasted his money on the celebration.

Siboo’s hands were under her cheek pondering and knowing that failing or scoring a result below the expectations of Uncle Musa, would be calamitous.

“If I had known, I wouldn’t have dated my teachers. I was fooled. Look, none of them calls me these days. Should in case things went on the other way, what am I going to do or say? Is it possible to forge the result? No, this is not an internal examination,” she murmured to herself with a lack of self-confidence. At this point, she was crying in her mind.  At some point, to tell Uncle Musa that she won’t make it as expected but telling him would also be a bombshell after all the noise in the vicinity.

Well, on Monday morning, Siboo woke up very early. Uncle Musa, before going to work, told her that he would be closing early for the celebration to shame their neighbours because their daughter will fail all her subjects. He proudly handed Siboo a two hundred Dalasi note to go and collect her result.

Aisha, their immediate neighbour’s daughter, went to school as early as 8:30 a.m. As a tradition, good students’ go first to collect their results and are followed by underperforming students because they will not want to be asked.

As usual, Siboo put on her swanky clothes and majestically walked to the school. A lot of things on her mind… knowing that she might be called, she switched off her mobile phone. In the school, good students were going in and out with smiles. For Siboo, she stationed herself outside like a divorced woman with seven children to take care of.

There was no Mr Dem, Bax and co.  While standing outside, Aisha’s name was heard. She got nine credits. Incredible was her result. A lot of good remarks were showered on her by classmates and some teaching staff.

With that result, she rushed home and left Siboo wallowing in her thoughts. Even before going into the IT lab to collect hers, she started dropping tears.

At home, Aisha’s result was aired over the media and her parents were very happy.

Siboo was not visible in society. After hearing Aisha’s brilliant performance, all eyes and ears were waiting for Siboo’s result while tongues continued to wag.

By 2 p.m., when Uncle Musa closed from work, before asking for Siboo, Buba, his 5-year-old boy told him that Aisha came out with 4A’s 3 B’s and 2C’s. Nonplussed. “How about Siboo?”, he asked, and his son told him that siboo wasn’t around yet. It was at that time that he called Siboo and a friend received his call. “Siboo, where are you?  How is your result?” He impatiently quizzed. An unfamiliar voice responded. “Sorry, it is not Siboo. I am her friend. Siboo is actually in the IT lap to collect her result”.  Then Uncle Musa took a deep breath, hung up the call and hiked to his room.

Moments later, Siboo came out from the IT lap walking unhurriedly with her eyes on the floor to avoid eye contact. Uncle Musa will be disappointed. Siboo couldn’t even get 50+ Mark. She has three passes: D7 in PE, E8 in Islamic Studies and E8 in History. The rest of the subjects were line-ups of F9s.

She knew that Uncle Musa would not take it lightly. If Siboo should go home with that result, the situation would have been a tragicomedy, a type of play that begins in happiness and ends in sadness. Siboo would have been the tragic heroine.

However, knowing the gravity of what awaits her at home and disappointment, she decided to switch off her phone and go to Mandinaba, her father’s house. There, she will escape the humiliation and jeers in the society that await her and her uncle.

Uncle Musa, who couldn’t endure the gratifying words raining on Aisha for producing a terrific result, called Siboo several times but could not reach her. It was at this time that he drove to the school. An arrogant type, Uncle Musa rushed to the office of the school’s Vice Principal to inquire about his niece. The soft-spoken VP checked out the copies of results he was having and eventually laid his hand on Siboo’s result.  Without uttering anything, he handed over the paper to Uncle Musa.  Musa stood there motionless for over a minute. “No, this can’t be real. Siboo cannot have this”, he murmured disappointedly and shook his head in disagreement.

While leaving the school, he overheard two female students talking about Siboo’s result.

“I told you that girl will not hide who she is. Her friend told me everything. Siboo is dating Mr Dem. That is why she used to score good grades in PHE and she never goes to college for studies. Anytime she leaves home for studies, she would go to Mr Dem’s house. Now, you will

agree with me that Siboo didn’t deserve all those awards and those teachers are nothing but a bad and selfish bunch of teachers who are only bent on satisfying their sexual lust to the detriment of this girl. Siboo was not this bad in our grade 10,” the gossiping student expressed.

“Excuse me,” Uncle Musa uttered behind these students. “Do you mean Siboo Jankey Njie?” He asked. The student responded in the affirmative.

This reply broke Uncle Musa’s heart. “Do you know where she is right now?” He asked, but the reply was negative.

He was stupefied and ashamed after all the cacophony regarding the results. Like wildfire, news of Siboo’s awful result painted the vicinity. The rumours were correct. She didn’t deserve those awards. Uncle Musa had no choice but to take the bullet of his supercilious behaviour and shamefully became tight-lipped while Siboo vowed never to go back to the house.

Siboo could not withstand the pain. Information was everywhere in society. Mister Dem, however, left the country and went for his master’s programme in the United States.

End!

About the Author: ML Drammeh is a journalist working for The Fatu Network and a final year student at the University of The Gambia.

Editing by: Hadram Hydara

His time in office has indeed brought about many significant changes in the country but his legacy will surely go down in history as the worst. Yahya A.J.J Jammeh, former president of the Gambia seized power through a military takeover, and was able to stay in power for 22 years tormenting Gambians ruling with an iron fist.

He was young and very ambitious, a self-proclaimed Pan Africanist who was ready to sacrifice his life for both his country and Africa. Dressed in his all white African attire and a sword which he always carries. Yahya Jammeh represented the epitome of evil and pretense.

He will appear so religious in public but a deeper look into his private life says the opposite. During the peak of his reign, he was feared and worshipped because of the power and influence he had with him at the time. The military apparatus, state secret services, police were at his beck and call. He was the law and no one dares question his authority. Detention centers and secret death squads was all he needed to further consolidate himself in power.

These people who carried out his orders tortured and murdered, political opponents on behalf of the dictator. They destroyed families, brought fear and anarchy in the very fabric of the Gambian society.

At the latter part of his time in office, Yahya Jammeh became isolated and very paranoid. He has betrayed all the people he seized power with, and surrounded himself with sycophant’s who misled him even more and made him think that he will never lose power.

After the announcement of the December 2^nd, 2016 election which declared him defeated, the kanalai born dictator felt the biggest shock and humiliation of his life. Not only was he forced into exile, but most of his atrocities were uncovered by TRRC, which indicate the former dictator as the mastermind of all the heinous crimes perpetrated under his time in office.

Today, he is being contacted by the international criminal court for crimes committed during his reign. It is indeed a sad end for once a powerful dictator, who now faces a possible life sentence or death penalty if convicted of all his crimes. Now, we all eagerly await his first day of trial at The Hague with great expectation. Finally justice is served, once a divided country will forever live in a more democratic country.

The Gambia’s Pens

By: Sapientia Seeker

It’s almost sunset, and I, standing in this salty lake, toes dipped in the soggy mud of my origin, watching the majestic flow of the meandering River Gambia from a fair distance offshore. The waves ― in their gentle rebellion ― as if to say we’ll fight back ― lave the shore as the evening tide begins to rise. An assembly of gloriously lush mangroves, elegantly arranged like the Chinese military on Independence Day parade, adorn the landscape. A few chirping seabirds scattering around and a colony of magnificently colourful parrots perching on the branches of the mangroves humming in a symphony; the sound is a cover for Celine Dion’s Hallelujah melody. Growing up, this spot used to be my haven from life’s daily abuses. I would always come here for a free therapy session with Mother Nature; to vent, reflect, admire, and bask in the serenity and soothing peace of her warm embrace. It worked. Every time.

I am a country chap. I always have been, even though I cannot seem to unshackle myself from the seductive lure of urban life. I have always loved coming back home to this tiny semi-peninsula village blessed with a sprinkle of rolling hills around the outskirts and an unembellished rugged landscape. This is home. This is Daru Salam; the cradle of my being. The last time I was here my uncle had just died, today my brother is getting married. That is the ambidexterity of fate; adept at serving the dish cold or warm, bitter or saccharine. Equally. Today I am scooping food from the rather warm side of this universal bowl, but as my parents and siblings, including the guests, congregate at the wedding and celebrate the union, I withdrew to come here and reminisce; ambling down the rough route of memory lane I wish I had never trodden upon, but as I grow up, I have learnt that fate, as always, catches up with you. No speedster, however fast, can outpace it.

As hackneyed as it sounds, life literally and figuratively, is not a walk in the park. It is a carousel, a rigmarolic marathon of trials and tribulations. An incessant bout of emotional turmoil and the eternal struggle to find the balance of maintaining sanity. I have been, for the past seven months, battling to find that seemingly elusive balance. I yearn for it. I need it back. On bended knees, in the stillness of darkness, I pray for it.  Sometimes so much so that it awoke the very demon that bereft me of the peace of mind I so much crave and, as it awoke, my muscles would suddenly contract; heart palpitates; chest tightens; breath shortens while I gasp for air; a shooting pain of pins and needles in my limbs; and an overwhelming cloud of fear and impending doom hover over me. It’s happening. It’s another intrusion into the deepest depth of my psyche by the very demon that has left me so broken from the night before. It is yet another episodic attack of reality lying to me. It is my anxiety ― not your typical stage fright type of anxiety, or getting anxious over a job interview type, no ― this is a disorder, an illness. To be more precise, I have battled with anxiety for seven months, which felt like seven years, and in the last couple of months, it has become so familiar, yet so excruciatingly foreign. I am better now, but I still have episodes sometimes. Whew, let’s flip this chapter, shall we? Enough.

I wish we could talk more and exhaust everything pent-up emotion in my bosom, but dusk is creeping in, although in the most magnificently immaculate way of The Divine Artist.

But before I take leave of you, in the immaculate words of Suzy Kassem, “each day is born with a sunrise and ends in a sunset, the same way we open our eyes to see the light and close them to hear the dark. You have no control over how your story begins or ends, but by now you should know that all things have an ending. Every spark returns to darkness. Every sound returns to silence. And every flower returns to sleep with the earth. The journey of the sun and the moon is predictable, but yours is your ultimate art.”

By: Hadram Hydara

On the island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean ­— far from home and feet upon the rubber tracks of the African Athletic Championship — Gambia’s queen sprinter, Gina Bass, like a cheetah chasing its prey — dashed to gold in the Women’s 100m race before the Gambia could release its united bated breath.

There she was — ‘the poor Olympian’ — at the end of the finish line before her racing heart could skip for the twelfth time. It was epoch-making for both Gina and the tiny country she comes from. It was history — not the watered-down curriculums in your books, no — this is the biblical type, written before our eyes. It is a GOLDEN history written by a STAR!

11.06 was the clock of gold around which Gina’s lightning-speed ticked, breaking her own record — twice at the Championship — and the national record which, again, she previously set. Flip through her record pages, and history would tell you, that on the 9^th of June 2022 Gina Bass graced the podium to scoop her gold medal and became the first athlete ever in the history of the Gambia to win a senior continental title.

From humble beginnings, Gina has risen, however roughly, to the celebrated echelon of Gambian sports and beyond; an inspirational figure to the many children who aspire to pursue athletics. Gina epitomises the inspiring adage that “if you can dream it, you can live it” and despite her seemingly never-ending smile, it has not been easy she would always say, but through hard work anything is possible.

One of the most — if not the most — decorated Gambian athlete, the track sensation has broken records, set them, and broken them again rewriting history in her wake not with a spot of ink, but with her feet leaving a trail of success. Gina deserves her flowers now, and to that, I say, GRACIAS, QUEEN.

By: Muhammed Lamin Drammeh

Prior to June 2020, Bintou Jatta had never considered herself a singer, nor did she believe she possessed the necessary talent to become one. It wasn’t until she married her sweetheart, Baddibunka, an accomplished Gambian afro-manding singer, that she began to explore her own singing abilities.

Today, Bintou Jatta – now known as BinBunka, a clever combination of her own name and her husband’s – is a rising vocal sensation, captivating audiences with her unique talent and undeniable charisma.

For almost ten years, Baddibunka’s presence in the music industry was almost non-existent. Despite being at the pinnacle of his career and known for his unique Afro-manding style of music that left audiences enthralled in his performances, he virtually disappeared from the limelight after releasing his debut album, the sensational ‘Jamb Sang Sang’, in 2011. His fans were left wondering if he had retired from music altogether.

However, since tying the knot with Bintou, Baddibunka’s musical career has undergone a dramatic resurgence. Bintou has not only been a loving and supportive wife, but she is now an integral part of her husband’s musical journey, singing alongside him. The dynamic duo has recorded an impressive 8 tracks, all of which have been made into captivating videos.

Baddibunka’s fans are thrilled to see him back in action and eagerly anticipate what the future holds for this talented musician.

“We have eight songs. From June, we will release all these songs every month with a video”, Binbunka joyfully told The Fatu Network.

Her husband, Baddibunka, named her Binbunka and encouraged her to sing due to her excellent voice.

“First he started by encouraging me. He told me how unique my voice is and then made me feel so comfortable.

“Then he started writing songs for me,” she said on how her musical career was initiated.

According to Bintou, her presence in Baddibunka’s life has changed and shaped Baddibunka’s musical career.

“Badibunka wasn’t heard for so long. I came and made him stand back on his feet gave him a lot of courage because I knew he could do it. I know he can rule the Afro-manding industry and yes! he is back on it.

“When I was doing all this, I wasn’t fully in with the music thing until he felt I could do it too then we hit it straight.

“Another plus is we are the first young couple singers in The Gambia which is another big plus in the music industry side,” BinBunka proudly told TFN.

The couple is bracing up for an album soon.

Since they started singing, they have recorded eight songs. ‘Futuwo’ (marriage) has already been released and ‘Nmansong’ is set to be released on June 3 with a video. The song talks about the relationship between the couple that no one can ruin.

She told The Fatu Network that the Bunkas will soon hit their prime and Baddibunka will be honoured again as the best Afro-Manding Gambian singer.

These are the eight songs that the couple did but only ‘Futuwo’ has been released.

FUTUWO, NGA NYO YAYEH, NTA NOLA, KANO SEEBO, FUTU BANNAALU, NMANSONG, KUNUNG, DIYA.

In the context of governance and justice, a white paper is the feedback or response of government to a report, findings and recommendations of a body set up to investigate the cause(s) of something, what should be done and probably those to be held responsible.

In that light, the Gambian Government White Paper on the Truth, Reconciliation and Reparation Commission (TRRC), which is said to be released today 25^th May 2022, is the response of government to the recommendations of the TRRC.

However, it is important to understand that there are two common patterns of White Papers. Government can either accept some or all of the recommendations. In other words, the government can reject some or most of the recommendations, depending on its position on the said inquiry and its report.

In December 2021, The Gambia government released the TRRC report. The TRRC was set up in 2017 to investigate human rights abuses during the Yahya Jammeh reign from July 1994 to December 2016.

The announcement for the release of the White Paper came after President Adama Barrow presided over a two-day cabinet session where the draft White Paper on recommendations of the Truth Reconciliation and Reparations Commission’s (TRRC) report was reviewed.

Gambia’s Attorney General and Minister of Justice, Dawda Jallow, later disclosed that the White Paper will be issued out on Wednesday 25th May 2022.

Gambians await to know the content of the said White Paper.