Returning Home #3.1: The Mouse [A Fiction]

"His cousin! I have met his cousin. The cheek of the little rodent! He lives IN THE HOUSE. The comfort and the warmth of the exterior will not suit his calm and small exterior. He is the mouse."

- Latirr Carr, "Red-Black Nonsense - The Closer End"

de Clerambault's syndrome .noun
Psychiatry a delusion in which a person (typically a woman) believes that another person (typically of higher social status) is in love with them.

- Oxford English Dictionary


Once there lived a man, who fell in love with a woman. He loved her in the hardest way possible: from a distance, for many years. And he never told anyone - he nursed the feeling within his breast, next to his heart, and daily it grew, so that every time he passed her on the street his heart beat faster, and his face became warm. Why did he not tell her? It was not that he was afraid - no, he was a brave man, who had done many courageous things in his life. Why did he hesitate then? Perhaps if he had not, if he had told her right then, things might have ended differently.

But instead he created a world in which there was a promise, and the promise was that one day, when he was ready, he would meet her, and speak with her, and the silence that had lain between them over the years would prove to have been only a curtain which hid the true love that secretly resided in their hearts for each other. And she would submit to him, and become his wife, and he her husband and master. This world he had created came to replace the real world for him - though she lived her life, and went about her business, and had suitors, still he believed her to be an innocent girl who had never fallen in love, had never even been kissed. He would be the one to take her hand and guide her through this new world of sensations she had never experienced, with great tenderness, and she would be grateful to him, and love him dearly in return. And it gave him comfort, this belief.

So imagine his surprise when he woke up one day to find out that she was going to get married. At first he could not believe it. How could this have happened so fast - in only a few more years he would have saved enough money to go to her father and declare his intentions. Surely there was a mistake - perhaps a man had approached her parents, and she had been forced into it. But then he found out that this was not true either: the person who broke the news to him told him that she had been with her fiance for almost six years. He felt blind and ashamed - how could he have missed such an obvious thing? And he felt self-pity too - it was only that he was not enough, had never been enough for her - he fell short in all departments: he did not have enough money, he was not good-looking enough, he did not wield power over anyone. He had been a fool to think that true love existed, and would trump all these other qualities, would make them not matter.

And so the girl was married off that summer, and the man spent the rest of his days alone and bitter, friendless and childless, all his dreams gone to dust, all his aspirations crumbled before his eyes.

That is not my story.

I fell in love, yes. You would have, too: her voice was the sound of a breeze after a thunderstorm, her skin soft as coos coos, her smile and teeth warm and white as basmati rice, straight from the cooking pot; she was black, but with a fire within her that rivaled that of the Sun, whose light illuminated her and shone through her skin, so it was a golden-brown. When she walked she walked with the grace of the birds when they are in flight, thoughtless of the world below, soaring far, far over our heads, us cursed bipods. No one in the world truly deserved her - only I could love her as she ought to be loved.

And so I wooed her - I was a man, after all, not a mouse. Though the words got stuck in my throat when I began to address her, though I developed cold chills and fits of trembling, and my voice sometimes came out sounding like a squeak, still I pursued her. And though always she said no to me with a brisk shake of the head, over time the violence of her head shake began to decrease. Until finally she stopped shaking it all together, merely walking past me in silence.

Then one day she sent me the message. It was subtle, almost too-subtle, and a less alert man would undoubtedly have missed it. Which is testament to how much my love trusted in me and my abilities as a man. She was walking past on her way to the market, I standing at my usual spot to intercept her. Normally she would have merely sidestepped me and kept walking, her head in the air. But this day she stopped in front of me. She looked me deep in the eyes - ah and what love she must have seen there, at her disposal, to do with as she pleased. Then she rolled her eyes, one slow motion, pupils moving to the top, then to the bottom, with a wiggle side to side in the middle. Then a long drawn out cheepu. Then she walked past me. A word was not uttered - a word was not needed. Looking deep into my eyes could have only one meaning: it had been the test, the attempt to measure whether I truly loved her, or wanted her only as a prize to show off. And what she had seen there she had liked, liked so much that enraptured with it she had for a moment slipped into an enthusiastic ecstasy, the depth of which had caused her to roll her eyes, barely in control of herself. And the cheepu at the end was directed at anyone who laughed at me, and pointed, and said "what a fool she must be - to be able to have anyone yet choose this fool, who has no money and no prospects".

And so that night I left my house, and made my way to hers. Surely my love, after the display of that day, would be ready to consummate our relationship. In fact I was certain that right at this moment she sat, her insides burning with the agony of anticipation, as mine did. Into her house - without opening the door - running through dark, forbidding corridors, without meeting anyone. And when I reached my love's room I knew it immediately, for I felt her behind the door almost fainted with desire, and only I could revive her; and I entered her room, and I did not use the door. And she was sitting up in the bed, and she was naked, her soft breasts hanging like ripe fruit, the fruit that the snake tempted Adam with at the beginning of time; and I was pure passion, I was raw emotion, and I ran toward her, and her eyes grew wide as she saw me approach, and her mouth opened and she screamed. And then my love hopped up onto the bed and hiding her breasts behind her left hand grabbed with her right a thick brick which had been lying on it (why did my love have a brick on her bed? was she perhaps a master in ancient arts of sexual intimacy which required something hard as concrete? The thought excited me even more). And yet - what was my love doing? She had lifted it and brought back her arm to throw… before me as a welcome?… no - ON me.. I moved to dodge out of the boulder's path, too late, too late, the thing's shadow fell over me in a rush of air; and then total blackness. Yet even before I surrendered to unconsciousness I heard her scream one word. "MOUSE!".

I came to outside, the sun not yet risen, but its return being announced by some brisk breezes. Needless to say I was shocked - shocked to the core that something like this could happen. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I realized how there could be only one possible explanation. A curse had been put on my love! An enemy of mine had visited the right marabout - perhaps seeing my success with her (perhaps even hiding by the side of the road the fateful day she gave me her message) - and the marabout had placed a veil over her eyes. So when she saw me she thought me a mouse (oh most insulting of curses: I - a man - reduced to a mouse, to smelly vermin who everyone reviled!). Oh what injustice!

I am not a mouse. I have never been a mouse. Yes, sometimes when I am not beside my love (for I go to sit with her only every night, when she is asleep and cannot be alarmed, watching her pretty features slack with slumber, her lower lip fluttering as snores blow past it) I find myself in a small hole under the floorboards, smelling of dank hair and chuyi yaapa, but this is only a dream - I awaken from it as soon as I am with my love again.

I am patient - I will wait. The curse will be lifted - I will wait. Though it take three decades, though it take five. My love and I will be re-united. I will neither cheat on her nor pursue any other objective in my life. I will wait for her, living on the streets and eating out of garbage dumps. I will hide from people when they see me. I will bide my time.

For I am a man.

My Life as a Kabaa Eater (tentative title. Other tentative titles: "How I learnt to Stop Worrying and Eat Some Kabaa.", "In America they call it candy

My preferred way of eating kabaa is with my fingers, while pacing frenetically in the backyard and thinking random thoughts (such as the ones that I'm writing now). The kabaa - along with the solom-solom, the gurun-soup, the flocks, the mborkha-bu-laka, etc. - are our version of candy/the American snack ("our version of" here not used in the sense of having a derivative product, since kabaa definitely is not a copied and changed version of candy, but rather used in the sense of two products used in the same fashion in different cultures, neither of which take precedence or claim originality over the other). Sucking on a kabaa seed it struck me how different our "candy" is from the ones in the West (and again we see the factory-ization that is a theme I have been visiting again and again lately): over there candy (and by candy here I mean all dispensed products, from bottles of coke to Pringles to those little groundnut bags) is created in factories, where programmed mechanical arms put them in bags and label them with, among other things, their caloric content and what ingredients went into their making. These are then sealed into boxes and transported in their thousands to giant warehouses, from whence they move to supermarkets and vending machines. In contrast, our "candy" grows on trees and is harvested and bought by old women, who sit outside school gates and at street junctions haggling over their price with customers. There are no laws (health of otherwise) which the producers of this "candy" have to follow (and here again I take a detour to talk about the issue of consumer trust: all over the Gambia there are men and women selling all kinds of food - from the narr selling yaapa-bu-laka ("forokh chaaya" to some of you) to the peul selling taapa-laapa - though there is a health department that is in charge of regulating all these food-selling places, it rarely does anything, except in the most egregious cases - instead we have an implicit trust in all these people to stay healthy and not, for example, cut open our bread right after they finish wiping their noses. Despite the occasional horror story about razors being found in taapa-laapa, e.g., the system works surprisingly well - there is rarely a case of food poisoning (whether because we have developed stronger immune systems a more qualified person will have to tell us) and everything goes along relatively smoothly). And while over there the end of the line is a food dispenser, programmed to work without human intervention (and, the melodramatic novelist in me wants to add: cold, distant, austere), here it is the aforementioned old woman, experimentally cutting open your kabaa for you to see if it is bad, or turning your mborkha on the charcoal fire to prevent it getting burnt (interesting-but-useless-fact-about-the-author: I actually prefer some of my mborkha to be burnt in this way - there is to me something satisfying about scraping off this black burnt crisp and chewing on it - this makes me understand at an instinctual level why people suffer from pica, eating ash, or chalk, or clay).

The kabaa's preparation is as important as its consumption. Novice (or just lazy) kabaa buyers will leave the details of the mixing (aside to the uninitiated: kabaa in its virgin form is usually a sour, almost-juiceless fruit - a mixture of sugar, salt, etc. are needed to flavor the kabaa and bring out its juices, and allow one to eat it without the mouth-tightening which is the visible result of sourness) to the kabaa seller (who usually has a mixture of sugar, pepper and salt in a plastic container ready for just such events), who adds a smidgen of this mixture to the kabaa with his knife and stabs again and again into the kabaa, introducing along with the stabs a swirling motion meant to imitate the motion of a mixing finger (one of the disadvantages of having the kabaa seller do it for you: a knife just can't reach into the inner recesses of the kabaa like a well-aimed finger can. Plus you can't lick and suck on a sugar-covered knife). And so the better way to do it is to take the kabaa home, and cut it open, and carry out the mixing ritual, yourself. The downside to this of course is that if the kabaa is a bad one (in my experience about one in every forty or so kabaas turns out irrecoverably bad (recoverably bad is when the badness is limited to just the top of the kabaa, so you can cut it out with a knife and enjoy the rest; irrecoverably bad is when the badness has spread throughout the kabaa like a disease, so all you can do is throw it away)) you have to either take it back to the kabaa seller to have it replaced, or, if they're located too far away, throw it in the bin and curse the waste of money (speaking of which, the price of kabaa has gone up quite a bit in the last two years - whereas two years ago it cost a dalasi for a small one, and five dalasis for a big one, now the starting price of big ones is ten dee and the smaller ones cost pound (hip nongo slang for currency: pound = five dalasi; sugu-fem = twenty-five; arch = hundred (geddit? arch as in the Arch which adorns the hundred dalasi note. Don't ask me what sugu-fem means)). Anyways so once the kabaa is opened (with a knife - as in when cutting open an orange you must make the lower part larger, and the upper part smaller, giving a cover and a main part - this is just one of those things everyone does automatically, which just seems to be the right thing, and does not need rationalizing), one then has a selection of condiments to add. Sugar is the most common, with a dash of salt on the side to add a hint of, well, saltiness. It is by no means the only possible combination however: I have seen people who prefer just salt; or just sugar; or sugar and salt and pepper; or salt and pepper; or any of the above but with jumbo added as well (I myself am not a big fan of jumbo in kabaa, which is funny because I liberally apply maggi sauce to every rice dish I eat, yet adding even a little jumbo to my kabaa leaves me feeling faintly nauseous). Instead of working within the confines of the kabaa shell there are some who prefer instead to offload the whole thing to a cup (including the skin, of which more later), which gives them more space to maneuver but abstracts a little from the mother-naturey feel of the whole exercise - these are also the people who will, after they have finished mixing the kabaa this way, put it in the fridge to have it chill a bit before they eat it, a practice frowned upon by kabaa purists but which I have been guilty of on occasion. (I have heard as well that doing this, and freezing the kabaa, is the only way to get it past US customs, as the whole kabaa - pod and all - seems to pose too much of a threat to national health security (not surprising, given that the kabaa - much as I love it - is not exactly the most good-looking of fruits (that award would probably go to the vain apple, or the frivolous banana). I haven't had occasion to test this yet, though I fear I will soon).

Swallowing kabaa seeds does wonders in the, ahem, fibre department, strengthening (and here I ask the more sensitive readers to skip a line or two - or in fact the rest of this paragraph - before they continue reading) what would perhaps be rather watery in nature, or, at best smearful (as in leaving smears during its passage), leading to some very satisfying, ahem, sessions in the bathroom (there is a palpable sense of relief that follows these sessions - after a particularly good one, one finds oneself feeling lighter, as if divested of a great load (which, in fact, is the case) - this relief is built up over the course of the session in increments, each release of matter increasing one's level of satisfaction, until one is finally done. The solidity of the matter being released is directly proportional to the general feeling of satisfaction and relief one feels - which is where the kabaa comes in: the swallowed seeds mix in with whatever is already in there, adding a firmness and a certain well-roundedness which contributes greatly to the final feeling result).

After one has eaten the seeds there is the skin of the kabaa (skin here having faintly cannibalistic connotations (at least to my, admittedly quite dark, imagination), but don't think of human skin, think of the skin of, say, a banana). The kabaa has a hard casing in which the seeds are contained - coating the inside of this hard coating is an edible skin, which can be scraped off and eaten, either with a spoon, or with the edges of the teeth. This is where the sugar/salt/pepper/jumbo mixture proves it second use, in addition to un-souring the kabaa seeds: by the time all the seeds are gone all is left is the kabaa juice created at the beginning of the exercise. This adds a measure of sweetness/saltiness/jumbo-iness to the skin - while one sucked on then spat out/swallowed the seed, the skin is made for chewing on. There is a certain sourness around its edges, which along with the sugar make for an interesting combination, and one which I would urge you to try if you have not already.

Home is not just a place - it is useful instead to think of it as a construction, a collection of things we have experienced enough times that they become a part of our core identity, and we yearn for them every time we are absent from them. One of these things for me in my construction of Gambia as a home is the house-shaking thunderstorms, which send thrills (thunder! lightning!) through you one moment and then gently send you to sleep the next (the gentle waft of a breeze through an open window, as voices drowned by the rain sounds attempt a conversation in the next room…). Another is the kabaa, and the experience that is eating it - silly as it seems this is one of the things I missed most about home, and is one of the reasons I can't wait to come back for good.

AFRICAN WOMAN [Seedy Fatty]

AFRICAN WOMAN

Seedy Fatty

The sun and its heat

The dew and its coldness

The night and its darkness

The forest and its thickness

The rain and its thunderstorm

The well and its depth

Ma, the survivor of all condition

Ma, straps a baby to her back

In the kitchen with pestle and mortar

In the farm with a hoe

From the forest with bundle of firewood

From the well with a bucket of water

Up and down the dusty path

Day and night along the dusty road

See her how versatile she is

Educating children and motivating adults

Like a blacksmith bent over the furnace

Forging ore to the desires of his imagination

Ma, queen of the house of Papa

A jewel or treasure of knowledge

You glitter in your sweat under the sun

Like a diamond under the spot light

Ma, your children cherish your love

You can not be denied the fruit of your labour

The labour of your sweat

Ma, if praise is to be given to human

You are the one to be praised

You an African souvenir

The backbone of human civilization

Ma, the black woman, woman of Africa

Operation creating readers: A Quest to Reclaim the Lost Art of Reading - Part II

he feed back to our first article on the above subject has been overwhelming. From questions on how to select relevant reading material to suggestions on how to motivate kids to read, the reactions came in torrents. In a bid to respond to these and also to broaden the coverage of this thesis we re-engage you in this dialogue.

The challenges to developing the habit of reading are increasing with the development of new media. Television continues to be a distraction for many kids and the proliferation of movies has worsened this problem. The cell phone has introduced yet another source of distraction. The majority of young people seem to be addicted to the phenomenon of text messaging. This situation of text addiction could not be better depicted than the message once flowing around town “do you promise to be ma textmate, in poor signal and low battery, till lack of credit do us part”; and now even lack of credit may not pose a limit to texting since some of the promotional packages include free texting. And please do not get us wrong, we are no luddites. We believe in the power of technology to advance the cause of humanity, but emphasis must be put on responsible use of these new gadgets especially with young people.

In spite of the many advantages of TV and other new technological devices, reading stands out far superior in its power to develop young people. As Marie Winn succinctly put it in her book The Plug-in Drug, “reading trains the mind in concentration skills, develops the powers of imagination and inner visualization, lends itself to a better comprehension of the material being communicated.” It is also true that “reading waters the flower of new ideas and these ideas are catalytic to change.” The foregoing could not have been better exemplified than what we gleaned from the impact of reading on the success of America’s leading CEOs as narrated in the New York Times article “C.E.O. Libraries Reveal Keys to Success”. The afore-mentioned premises and one feedback we got from a leading world expert on education triggered our memory about this Times article. This expert’s reaction to part I of our article hinted at “investment in early childhood development as key for successful learning outcomes and a productive human capital for wealth creation.” Hence, the following references to the Times piece on the reading habits of America’s leading C.E.Os.

In this well-researched article, the author, Harriet Rubin, traces the success of many of America’s legendary C.E.Os to reading. The highlight of this thesis sums thus: “Michael Moritz, the venture capitalist who built a personal $1.5 billion fortune discovering the likes of Google, YouTube, Yahoo and PayPal . . . may seem preternaturally in tune with new media. But it is the imprint of old media - books by the thousands sprawling through his Bay Area house – that occupies mind.” Mr. Moritz’s love of books could not have been better demonstrated than his resolve to guarantee every book that enters his home a permanent place. Speaking about his books, he says “I have never been able to part with even one; they have gradually accumulated like sediment.” In sum, new media does not have to kill our love for reading. The types of books read by these C.E.O.’s range from novels, to science to poetry including ancient titles like the Persian poet, Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat.

The Times article further traces the success of Phil Knight, founder of Nike, to his love of books, alluding to the fact that his insatiable desire for reading led him to attain the “mojo to see a future global entertainment company in something as modest as a sneaker.” Further analyzing the impact of reading on the successes of these C.E.Os, Harriet Rubin marvels at the fortune spent by these gurus in building their personal libraries. We do agree with her that in analyzing the success secrets of the C.E.O of Apple, Steve Jobs, “perhaps future historians will track down Mr. Job’s Blake library to trace the inspiration for Pixar and the grail-like appeal of the iPhone.”

And now to answer some of the questions we received about strategies to motivate young people to read, we start by re-emphasizing the importance of using the library as the quintessential resource to develop the habit of reading especially in our part of the world where most people cannot afford to buy books for their children due the daunting pressures of trying to provide the basic necessities of food, shelter and clothing for their families. Take your children to the library and also try to develop a relationship with the librarian; they can be an invaluable guide as to which books may interest your children since they know which books are borrowed more often and which ones are on the bestseller lists. If you have children who are not interested in reading the material you give them, try to find out what interests them. A colleague (who happens to be a librarian) explained to us how she motivated her nephew to start reading by finding out his passion for football and buying him football magazines. With time the nephew himself started bringing her magazines to buy for him, and thereby developing the interest to read. Now do not be too judgmental (within the limits of age-appropriateness) about the subject even if you may not find the subject that interests your child useful, remember the words of Maya Angelou “any book that helps a child to form a habit of reading, to make reading one of his deep and continuing needs, is good for him.”

Another way to spur children’s interest in reading is to develop the habit of giving them reading material as gifts. Whatever fancy present you may have in mind for your dear child’s next birthday, an additional book in the package won’t hurt at all. It will give a great signal to them of the value you attach to reading. Also, do not worry too much about whether the child would be able to read and understand the whole book. Encountering new and difficult words are part of the learning process. The habit of reading cannot be developed overnight but with time persistence will lead to success in this most worthwhile of ventures.

By now, we can agree that the case for reading has been overwhelmingly made. In parting we would like to humbly extend a challenge to everyone – teachers, parents, government institutions, the private sector and others - to take ownership of Operation Creating Readers in their various capacities, as a productive investment in our “human capital for wealth creation” and sustainable development.

By Momodou Sabally and Jainaba Teeda Sarr

Jainaba Teeda Sarr is a banker and initiator of the “Creating Readers Project” and her husband Momodou Sabally is an Economist and author of two books: Jangi Jollof and Instant Success.

The authors can be reached at jaisabs@yahoo.com

TO MY LATE FRIEND DR. LENRIE PETERS: The Gambian Vessel Emptied of its Poetry [Tijan M. Sallah]

TO MY LATE FRIEND DR. LENRIE PETERS: The Gambian Vessel Emptied of its Poetry

In Appreciation

By Dr. Tijan M. Sallah¹

Dr. Lenrie Leopold Wilfrid Peters, the Gambia’s renowned surgeon, poet and novelist, has left us for eternity. I will borrow from what W.H. Auden said of W.B. Yeats, “Earth has received an honored guest,” and the Gambia has lost a great son. According to news reports, Lenrie departed from us on May 27, 2009 at Hopital Denitec in Dakar, Senegal, after health struggles which resulted in his initial admission at the Kanifing-based Westfield Clinic, one of Gambia’s first private clinics, which he founded with Dr. S.J. Palmer, and then the Royal Victoria Teaching Hospital Intensive Care Unit, where, because of inability to arrest his deteriorating condition, he was subsequently rushed to the Dakar hospital. He died of heart failure. He was close to 77.

Earth has received an honored guest, Lenrie Peters is laid to rest. Let the Gambian vessel lie, emptied of its poetry.

Lenrie is the first son of Pa Lenrie and Auntie Kezia Peters. His two older siblings are Bijou Peters Bidwell (who was married to the late Ernest Bidwell and was trained as a nurse) and Dr. Florence Peters Mahoney, one of the Gambia’s most eminent historians and teachers who wrote the locally famous national history book, Stories of the Gambia. Florence’s husband was Sir John Mahoney, whom the British historian, Harry Gailey, refers to as: “one of the leaders of the Bathurst (now Banjul) community in the second quarter of the 20^th century. …the recognized leader of the Mahoney family which counted some of the most educated and influential people in Bathurst.” Augusta Mahoney, Sir John’s sister, became the first wife of then Prime Minister Sir D.K. Jawara and therefore the premier first lady of the Gambia.

In family sequence, Lenrie was first son but third child. He was followed by a sister Ruby Peters who worked for UNDP for many years in an administrative and a program management capacity (and who ironically passed away about the same time last year) and Dennis Alaba Peters (the last sibling) who had a career as an actor and who died several years ago in the United States. By all accounts, the Peters’ family were a distinguished lot and have left their mark indelibly on the intellectual firmament of the Gambia.

I recalled a day, almost a decade or so ago, during one of my visits to the Gambia, being given a lift by Mr. M.I. Secka, the ex-Auditor General of the Gambia, from Banjul to Serre Kunda. M.I. Secka was a family friend, whom I had the pleasure of working under as my boss during my brief stint out of high school as an audit clerk. That day, on Independence Drive was walking Dr. Florence Mahoney wearing a Mexican style raffia hat, waving to catch a taxi. Florence had been M.I. Secka’s teacher and, as it was the courtesy and respect with which teachers were held in the old days, M.I. Secka stopped to give his old teacher a ride. I had not known Florence but had been familiar with her enormous contributions to Gambian history. On the ride from Banjul to Serre Kunda, at the fork in the road, near Jeswang or more precisely Sting Corner, Secka diverged to Bakau/Fajara to drop her old teacher close to her house. I kept quiet most of the time, but enjoyed the conversation. What I recalled most memorably was Mr. M.I. Secka, asking her who was older, Lenrie or her, and Florence remarking, “Lenrie is the baby. He is the baby” In a conversation of elders, the “reference” to a “baby” can be tricky. Knowing Lenrie had received his medical degree in 1959, one year after I was born, I could only silently chuckle from the humor about the “baby” reference. Sadly, this “baby,” this Lenrie, who was my good friend, has been snatched forever from us by the cruel hands of fate.

Lenrie Peters family has much hidden distinguished history behind them. The Peters have direct blood relation with the Maxwells, who were the first African graduates of Oxford University. The Maxwells were, by all tests, Afro-Victorians and therefore among Africa’s early westernized elites. The elder Maxwell was a Sierra Leonean of Yoruba ancestry who had attended Merton College, Oxford, and graduated with honors in Jurisprudence and served both in the Gold Coast and later rose to be the Chief Magistrate of the Gambia in 1887. His son, Joseph Renner Maxwell, was famous for his book titled, The Negro Question, which, in the prevailing racial despair of those days, recognized the equivalence of the Negro’s genius and moral qualities with that of Europeans but advocated “miscenegation” as a way of improving the Negro’s physical aesthetics. Perhaps it is such predispositions, predicated not on truth and fact but on psychological shortcomings, which has resulted today in that abominable practice of “skin bleaching” locally known as “hesal.” Joseph Renner-Maxwell was only more clever; he tried to conform to the inadequacies of his times by suggesting to Africans to get rid of their God-given melanin by marrying the lighter races. Lenrie Peters, of course, was a much more enlightened than his Maxwell ancestors, and he was also a passionate advocate of black and pan-African courses. He was too proud and enlightened to subscribe to the shortcomings of 19^th and early 20^th century pigmentational sociobiology for social uplift.

Lenrie Peters’s family history straddles between Sierra Leone and the Gambia. His family were “liberated Africans” or “aku” or “krio” with some Yoruba ancestry. However, the cultural synchretism of “liberated Africans” made it not that simple to trace tribal lineage to some singular source. Peters, all his life, was aware of this. At the Berlin First Festival of World Cultures held from June 22-July 15 in 1979, the theme was exclusively devoted to African culture. At that festival, Lenrie admitted, “I don’t belong to a tribe, you see. My family has been detribalized for nearly four generations. So really, I am like Alex Haley. I am looking for my roots.” This search for roots has made Peters overwhelmingly pre-occupied with the theme of homecoming in his stylistically perfected and brilliant poetry.

On a personal level, Lenrie was my good friend. I therefore deeply mourn his loss. Apart from being a world class medical doctor, Lenrie was the Gambia's most renowned writer and indeed the founding father of modern Gambian literature in English. Gambia has lost two big literary giants-- Ebou Dibba a few years ago-- at a relatively young age; and now that marvellous partriarch, Lenrie Peters. I got to know Lenrie in my high school years in the early seventies and he was both a friend and a mentor, and I usually visited him at Westfield Clinic in Kanifing, where on the margins of his busy medical practice, he will take time off and sit in the yard and review my creative writings and offer advice and encouragement. We became friends ever since. And virtually, every time I visit the Gambia, I will visit Lenrie at his house at Cape Point and spend some time chatting with him. He will be greatly missed as a mentor and friend.

Lenrie’s writings as a novelist and poet were world class. His first novel, The Second Round, although not so immediately culturally relevant to the Gambia was described by critics like Charles Larson as a “West African gothic,” a novel of homecoming, a novel which attempts first to be a work of art and only secondarily “faithful to an African way of life,”—to quote Larson. Yet, apart from the Sierra Leone-based William Conton’s, The African, Lenrie’s novel could very well be the first novel written by a Gambian. Lenrie, however, was best as a poet—and his three poetry collections—Satellites, Katchikali, and Selected Poetry (which included some of his new poems) are among the most intellectual of Africa’s contemporary poetry, compared with the poetry of Wole Soyinka. The poems span themes of homecoming, political satire of African dictators—whom Lenrie thought had ruined our continent, celebration of cultural relics like the sacred crocodiles of Katchikali, personal and universal themes. All these is done, utilizing sometimes natural sciences or medical imagery, but always sincere to a Pan-African vision. The Nigerian Romanus Egudu, a Peters scholar, has noted that, “Of all modern African poets of English expression, he is the least concerned about his own country and most concerned about the fate of the continent as a whole. He considers himself first an African, and secondly a Gambian.” This sums it all: Lenrie was a pan-Africanist in his thoughts, writings and convictions. He dreamed, all his life, of a vibrant and revitalized Africa that uses its vast resources to develop its citizenry and that stands proud and dignified against the rest of the world. He was a man of substance and hated empty flamboyance. He will be missed.

What has always impressed me about Lenrie was his entrepreneurial qualities. He was not just a writer. He was a polyvalent, renaissance man. He was one of the first Gambian doctors to get into private practice, after a brief stint working for the government medical service in places as remote as Bansang Hospital. He was also owner of a pharmacy, a real estate owner (owned Lenrie’s House in Banjul, before he sold it), a former broadcaster over BBC, Chairman of the West Africa Examination Council (WAEC) and the owner of a farm in Yundum/Brikama area. During one of my visits to the Gambia, he one day took me to his farm which had bore holes and some irrigation equipment. If I am not mistaken, he was then growing mangoes for the export market. I always used to joke with him by telling him that, “Gambia needed more Lenrie Peters. And that if we had more Lenrie Peters, we would be a developed country soon.” He would smile or chuckle with that characteristic sneaky, belly-laugh, as if he was suppressing a rich African humanity under some Anglo-Saxon reserve.

Lenrie spoke perfect Cambridge University English; in fact, one could not find an African or a British (for that matter) with an English more polished. I used to say to myself, if one were to hear Lenrie speaking behind a wall without ever having seen him in person, one would think it was the voice of a high class English gentleman. His voice was distinctive and silently authoritative; and he read his poetry with a powerful, melodic anglo-saxon cadence. In fact, given the privilege and elevated status, with which the English language was held in our part of the world, people found Lenrie’s English amusing, if not downright intimidating. Locally, some people used to say in Wolof, “Lenrie kaing, toubab la,” a derogatory reference that Lenrie was a “whiteman” because he spoke perfect Cambridge English and kept himself aloof from local idle chit-chat and casual, social circles. For me, this accusation was mere trivia, for if one truy knew Lenrie, it was never the English sound of his accent, but the deep African humanity and commitment to African culture.

Lenrie knew both of my parents and was also my parent’s doctor, especially when they needed critical surgeries. He had performed surgery on both of my parents on a few occasions. The last one was on my father, after dad, at age ninety three, had fallen and suffered a hip fracture. Lenrie did the surgery and, for a while, my dad did well, but later, not atypical of his age, my dad developed clots, and finally his condition worsened and he succumbed to eternity. I was still in the US, but I was told that Lenrie would come every day to our compound to check on my dad’s progress. But my dad was battling overwhelming odds, age was not in his favor; finally he succumbed to the odds. What always struck me about Lenrie was his self-effacing kindness. He was not one given to self-promotion in the repertoire of praise-singers. In much of the medical services he offered to my parents, he would always ask for less or no fees, but my parents, being self-responsible and independent characters, would always insist on payingin full and finally Lenrie would accept payment. However, that gesture of willingness to help at all costs is the real marker of this great Peters.

Some of my other personal recollections of Lenrie were letters he wrote to me in his own long hand, always encouraging, always like a paternal brother. Upon hearing his passing away, I searched through the clutter of my library and found three. I know he has written to me many letters over the years, and I will be searching more for all, and may have perhaps lost some through my many apartment moves. I would like to publish them some day as a testimony to our long, enduring friendship.

One of the earlier letters I could find from him was dated July 22, 1982. It may perhaps be the longest letter he has ever written to me, and it was a time when I was just completing my undergraduate work at Berea College in Kentucky. We had met, several months earlier, at an African Literature Association (ALA) Conference held at the Claremont Colleges in California, which was attended by several major African writers: the late Mongo Beti of Cameroon, the late Florent Nwapa and-- Buchi Emecheta of Nigeria, Aminata Sow Fall of Senegal, Dennis Brutus, Cecile Abrahams (brother to Peter Abrahams) and Fatima Dike of South Africa, George Lamming, Maryse Conde and Paule Marshall from the Caribbean, Miriam Were of Kenya, Peter Nazareth of Uganda, Kofi Anyidoho from Ghana, and many more. Lenrie, Professor Mbye Cham of Howard University, and I were the only representatives, who were Gambian, and Lenrie was the only one who flew then from the Gambia. He had not known Mbye Cham and asked me privately whether he was Senegalese, which I quickly corrected. There were the usual suspect critics of African literature attending the ALA at Claremont, the popular names being Professors Bernth Lindfors, the late Robert M. Wren, Emile Snyder, Stephen Arnold, Kenneth Harrow, Aliko Songolo, Jonathan Peters, Chinelo Okonjo- Ogunyemi, Donald Burness, Donald and Margaret Herdeck (publishers of Three Continents Press), Lee Nichols from the BBC, and Daniel Kunene. Following the Claremont event, Lenrie wrote to me the following letter:

“Dear Tijan, Your letter arrived a few days ago and I felt I must just reply before I leave for Europe in a few days; so do forgive shortcomings. I am going to Vienna and Saltzburg./Some weeks ago, I met your rather inconsolate father outside the Post Office (ie., in Banjul, emphasis mine), largely on your mother’s behalf, because they had not heard from you. I consoled them with the probability of exams, etc. A week later, he was smiling again and told me of your successes. /The only lone joy is self-fulfillment and I am proud that you’re taking all that comes your way and turning silver into gold. I can only say as Henry James said to a talented young person, “Your have fashioned yourself a magic carpet, stand on it!” I endorse the precious letter, which you so kindly sent me. /No, I decided not to attend the ALA this year and read comments in West Africa magazine. I have had reservations about the trends within. It is becoming too much of a political forum for some uses, and also too much of a high school performance. I think the format ought to be looked at again. After my very first visit, I felt certain that to give it meaning, even occasional meetings should be held on African soil. The suggestion didn’t go down well when I made it. And the attitude was typical, “Alright! Find the money!”/ I offered a report to Hugh Quashie with all downtrodden and acquiescing authors in mind. Reviewing and criticism used to be an art form once, when the critic expanded and contributed to the creative work. Alas, cutting corners as we have to do in almost every aspect of African life, anybody with a few letters attached consider themselves competent to lash into critical print. I feel also that editors have a responsibility towards authors as to whom they invite to review their work and also as whether acceptance of such reviews are automatic./We have had a busy year setting up a museum at the Old British Council Library building— opposite Sam Jack Terrace. This will soon be completed and opened. Then after 18 months of closure of the Gambia College, we’re opening in October at the new campus in Brikama. We have an experienced Ghanaian to help set it up for 2 years with a view to a Gambian taking over at that time. There is a dearth of commitment or sense of vocation to the community. Everybody is plucking at the next big job; so that there is little continuity. Reminds me of the weyus throwing stones at mangoes and scrambling after the fallen fruit. Here we have a new college, a new principal, and a new permanent secretary. It means that one is forever starting again from the beginning./ I can’t talk about poetry this time, except to say that I like and admire your work./ Keep the flag flying./Sincerely, Lenrie P.”

The last letter I could find from Lenrie was dated July 11, 1993 and was on a West African Examinations Council (WAEC) letterhead with a Westfield Clinic address and had Lenrie’s name as Chairman of WAEC. Lenrie’s long association with WAEC demonstrated his devoted commitment to the development of young minds in West Africa. I had just them returned to the US from a visit to the Gambia. His letter read:

“Dear Tijan, That you came and went without my spending another hour with you has grieved me. Frankly, that was a sad week for me. An estate agent, whom I had asked to handle my property, had swindled me of D65,000. He is going to be prosecuted, if he doesn’t pay up. There were also problems in the farm./Not being a reviewer, I did not feel obliged to gobble up “Dreams of Dusty Roads” (Tijan’s book of poems, italics mine). Now, I’ve been through sipping it like good wine, with great pleasure. I can hear your own authentic voice in (the poem), say, “Shadows of Banjul” and so many other gems./But how does one escape the… with ideas? Beyond, it seems to me, lies the pure distillation of experience, or whatever you like to call it./I enjoyed your articles in the Observer—a refreshing change from the everyday. Though we should not complain. The Observer has introduced a new trend and mental discipline into Banjul Society. What one never missed before has taken a central place in the life of the community. At last, one no longer have to learn of the local news through the BBC./Best wishes to your wife and self. Sincerely, Lenrie.”

In another letter, he wrote to me from Dakar on May 2, 1987, on Novotel letterhead, it read:

“My dear Tijan, I am in Dakar and brought your letter and publications with me in the hope of having the time to write you a long letter. This is the 27^th Annual Meeting of the West African College of Surgeons, and our Senegalese brothers are giving us taste of their usual arrogance and indifference. The meetings are held in FIDAC, near the Airport (ie., Aeroport Yoff and now Aeroport Leopold Sedar Senghor, italics mine) where the Social Fairs take place. No cars are provided, so that when we get there in the morning, we have to stay until evening, whether we are participating or not./Thank you very much for your good works, even more for letting me share your successes in literature. I will try to write a long letter another time; but for now—well done and keep it going./Best wishes, Sincerely, Lenrie P.”

Well, friend, we will try to keep “it” going, but I’m not sure whether it will ever be the same without you. You meant so much to us, and your departure has taken so much from us.

In my view, Lenrie was one of the Gambia's best and great personalities. In our short lives, we will be remembered not for how much pain and suffering we have imposed on humanity, but for what good deeds we performed and great thoughts we left behind to advance specifically the welfare of other people, especially our fellow Gambians, and for acts of kindness and positive creativity. Undoubtedly, Lenrie has left us jewels on all these fronts. He was hardworking, creative, and committed (he spent his entire life in private medical practice, serving the enormous medical needs of the Gambia population). Lenrie was highly educated for his times and, unlike us the selfish ones abroad, he could have chosen an easier and more lucrative life and worked abroad. But he chose to spend his entire lifetime serving the people of the Gambia. He was a true patriot and truly deserves our honor.

In many great societies around the world, Lenrie’s house at Cape point, works/manuscripts, photos, correspondences, and personal effects; e.g., his pipe, love of embroidered tie-dye clothes, etc., would have been bought by the government or some private foundation and converted into a PETERS’ MUSEUM or PETERS’ WRITERS CENTER for future generations and visiting tourists to emulate and learn from about the pearl that was in our midst. I would recommend the Gambian government or some enlightened Gambian social entrepreneur to pursue such an idea. I would be glad to contribute to such an endeavor. One of my positive impressions of countries with rich cultures and civilizations like the UK, Phillipines and Iran was the preservation of the personal effects of their great artists, thinkers and poets, such as Shakespeare museum in UK’s Stratford upon Avon, Jose Risale’s museum in Manilla and the poet, Hafiz’s tomb in Shiraz, Iran, respectively, which are all popular attractions for tourists, researchers, and other visitors. Does Gambia have anything of these equivalents? Or are our authorities on culture too dormant to notice?

Lenrie was one of those few and necessary Gambian men who will be
forever remembered for putting the Gambia on the literary map of the world. I will truly miss him. May his great soul, which has touched me personally and many the world over, rest in peace.

Operation Creating Readers [by Modou L Sabally]

Operation Creating Readers: A Quest to Reclaim the Lost Art of Reading

“But what I would suggest is that our idea of reading is incomplete, impoverished, unless we are also taking the time to read aloud,” - Verlyn Klynkenborg, in her recent New York Times article on The Lost Art Of Reading Aloud.

But in a country where even the art of reading silently is almost obsolete, we felt the need to commence a dialogue with parents and children about the need to revive the habit of reading in our families. We had earlier sparred over the tough question (in our recent T.V appearance on The Gentleman show) of how to get young people, especially those who have given up on educational pursuit, to read. We are not promising any definite answers but hope to provoke a national dialogue here that would provide some novel ideas and strategies towards a fresh approach to self improvement, particularly in our youth, using reading as a vital tool.

First, assuming the role of a team of lawyers, we ask ourselves: what's the case for reading? In our bid to answer this in-exhaustive question, we have agreed that reading is the single most important component in the process of modern education. Historically, particularly in sub-Saharan Africa, oral tradition was used as the predominant mode of transmitting and receiving information. It goes without saying that this method is almost extinct and not sustainable in these times. All the information crucial to our advancement as individuals and as a nation is manifested in some form of text be it on paper, on the computer or in cyber space. Therefore, there is no way around reading in our quest for knowledge today.

When we take a look at history, which in itself can only be done thoroughly by reading, we can see that beneath every great civilization, nation or religion of the world lies a rich literary foundation. Examples include the works of Plato and Aristotle of Ancient Greek civilization. These writings were widely read and remain so to this day as references that helped shape some of the world’s earliest political systems. Another example would be the works of the founding fathers of America, from the correspondences of Thomas Jefferson and John Adams to the Federalist Papers, the world’s leading nation continues to preserve its civilization through the constant study and contemplation of these tomes.

Yet another example of a well-read, literary society even closer to home can today be seen in the well preserved remnants of the great Egyptian civilization. This history speaks of great scholars who studied and theorized over different aspects of their society. They then put their works in writings which their citizens used as guidelines by which they lived successful lives and thrived as a nation. As we now know from the great literature on Ancient Egypt, theirs was a civilization unrivaled in its glory.

Now let’s take a step forward into the present and examine reading from a sociological angle. Fostering a culture of reading in children can be life-altering in every sense of the word. Reading enriches the imagination, particularly of children, develops their personalities, values, aspirations and much more. This is because the reader is exposed to a vast wealth of experiences and environments from which they can choose the ideals they identify with and those they don’t. “Our greatest natural resource,” says the legendary Walt Disney, “is the minds of our children, and there is no better way to develop and enrich this quintessential resource than through reading.”

A most inspiring anecdote speaks to us in the story of Justice Sotomayor, President Obama’s newly appointed Supreme Court Judge; According to CNN, “as a child, she aspired to be like Nancy Drew, the detective in the popular children’s mystery series. But at the age of 8, she was diagnosed with diabetes and told she would not be able to pursue that line of work.” Sotomayor said it was another fictional character, Perry Mason, a Lawyer with similar traits that she had been fascinated with reading Nancy Drew, that inspired her to be a lawyer. In a 2000 interview, she said, “Once I focused on becoming a lawyer, I never deviated from that goal”.

And in this age of trials and tribulations, the art of reading, well-developed and nurtured over time is a worthy investment for a happy life. “To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from all the miseries of life” says Somerset Maugham. Think of it, there is no problem that you can encounter in this world that has not been met and tackled by someone else, and these stories are written and preserved in tomes around the world. Surely it was no accident that the very first verse revealed in the Holy Quran was “read”. “A capacity and taste for reading gives access to whatever has already been discovered by others” says former US President Abraham Lincoln, who rose from poverty to become one of the greatest sons of his country by reading. No wonder he tells us that “the things I want to know are in books; my best friend is the man who’ll get me a book I ain’t read.”

Now that we have explored some of the invaluable benefits of reading, let us look at the various ways we can help develop a culture of reading in our children as well as ourselves.

The fact is that the easiest way to get our children to read is to start it early, even before they start school by reading to them aloud. As a sage once said, “children are made readers on the laps of their parents.” Or better still, experts have concluded that it is possible to read to your kids even before they are born by reading to them during pregnancy, they do hear you - and in a skeptical society, you might as well do that behind closed doors lest you be taken to the Campama psychiatric unit (laughs). Moreover, given the fact that the culture of story telling is dying, parents can start by reading books of folk tales to their children, and in the process they would be killing two birds with one stone: preserving our culture while inculcating the habit of reading at the same time. Read to your child as often as you can “just 20 minutes a day is a great start” recommends the website www.teenreads.com.

You can be your child’s role model too by not only reading as a parent but actually reading in your children’s presence; after all your children do look up to you. It is good to take your children to the library too and introduce them to the available material, for a start there is no need to be too picky about what your child should read since different persons have different tastes and as bestselling author Maya Angelou said “any book that helps a child to form a habit of reading, to make reading one of his deep and continuing needs, is good for him.” Series books are popular with kids and this brings to mind our childhood memories of the series “Peter and Jane”. In recent times, the hot series “Harry Potter” has ignited the desire for reading in many kids, so introduce your kids to series books to get them engaged in a sustained way. You may also share your favourite childhood story books with your children because they just might like them as well and this would further strengthen your bonds with them. And then, be open to novel ways to boost your kids’ motivation for reading because no strategy can be exhaustive. As the Wolof say “moos bu neka ak tojinni boppi janaham” (Every cat has its own way of breaking a mouse’s head).

The foregoing are just a few ideas to whet your appetite in our desire to provoke a dialogue on a quest to reclaim the lost art of reading. “If you can read this, thank a teacher”!

Momodou Sabally and Jainaba Teeda Sarr

Jainaba Teeda Sarr is a banker and initiator of the “Creating Readers Project” and Momodou Sabally is an Economist an author of two books: Jangi Jollof and Instant Success.

Memoir Excerpt [by Alieu Khan]

Memoir Excerpt [by Alieu Khan]

It was quite hard for me to adapt to Swedish-Finnish culture and traditions. The gap was so huge that bridging it was definitely going to take some time. Tessy had got angry with me, several times for leaving the dining table immediately after I finished eating. In the Gambia, once you finished eating your meal you are supposed to go away and not to stay for a chat. It is seen as very impolite to look at people while they are eating. In Finland it is a different thing. Eating together is seen more as an opportunity for family interaction.

Coming from a country where Islam is the dominant religion, it was also difficult for me to accept the fact that it’s normal to show affection in the open. Although the majority of us in The Gambia are moderate Muslims, we still have high regard for some Islamic values.

Lifted from chapter 1

Already I had been to the hospital with Tessy for an ultrasound test. I was so anxious to know the sex of the baby. After being in that room for over an hour, I felt very disappointed when the doctor told us that he couldn’t find out the sex. It was my first time in an ultra sound room, so I had no idea of how it works. I can remember seeing the baby moving around like crazy in there and the doctor jokingly saying it will be a stubborn child.

At the beginning of the pregnancy, I told Tessy that I wanted a boy. I don’t think I was even sure of what exactly I wanted. I just felt it might be difficult for me to come to terms with my daughter having a boyfriend as young as 12 and sleeping over with him.

What I would like is a daughter who loves herself and cares very much about her future safety and happiness. Many young girls fall prey to teenage pregnancy, abortion and dropping out of school, because they never made an attempt to figure out what they want to do with their life during their tender years.

Lifted from chapter 3

I resumed my job search, sending applications to a few offices. I was quite prepared to take anything that was offered to me. The supervisor of the Viking Line Mariehamn office, Tomas Lyyski replied to my application. Although he had no job for me, his letter was the most pleasing and encouraging one I had ever received on the island since my arrival.

“Welcome to our island - It’s great to have people from the smiling coast of Gambia here on Åland,” he wrote.

That sounded like he had visited my country. Not many people abroad know that The Gambia is sometimes referred to as the Smiling Coast of Africa. My country got that name because of its natural sun, sea and sand endowments and also its friendly people and fascinating lifestyles.

Tomas commended me for my articles in the Ålandstidningen and encouraged me to keep up the good work.

He ended his letter by explaining to me that he cannot offer me any job in his office because of my inability to speak fluent Swedish and Finnish.

“I’m sure you’ll be fluent in Swedish very soon but fluency in Finnish is also important as we give service to a lot of Finnish Viking Line Club members here in Mariehamn,” he added.

Lifted from chapter 6

We would need great co-operation in protecting our son and offering him self-confidence about his racial identity. Because someone doesn’t look particularly black or white is no excuse to be curious about his or her racial makeup. Never will I allow anyone crush his self esteem and pride with derogatory questions and comments. It’s one thing to talk about racial equality, but it’s quite another thing to live it. Prejudice is most of the time part of the life for bi-racial children in predominantly white communities.

During his campaign for the US presidency Barack Obama disclosed that his grandmother who had helped raised him and who had sacrificed a lot for him, once confessed her fear of black men.

“I chose to run for the presidency at this moment in history because I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together - unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction - towards a better future for our children and our grandchildren,” from his speech – A More Perfect Union.

Why Not Black? [By Cherno Omar Barry]

Why not Black?

Like a slippery eel she joins the world

Youth emerging smiling

Crying for the pleasurable pains of the earth

An argument she has just begun

That which is between Good and Evil

Good reigns

On years of culture and rupture

Blooms her to a smashing rosebud

Epoch of joy and youthful age

Savouring the juices

Full of happiness

In pearls of laughter

Years mount fast the ladder of age

New stage develops

Men, both the old and the young

Skim her with fear and consternation

The devils beauty she carries

Her natural gift of beauty?

Preponderant

Pride, audacity

She does aught

Corrodes the skin a shoddy one

Beauty dying

Opprobrium

Joyful world melts

Butterflies avoid the evil smelling flower

Moths avoid the dying flame

Men’s reprisal, reprehensible girl

Evil in her kismet

Pride of natural colour death!

PURSUIT [by Kuna Nyan]

I wandered among the many ways

The twists and turns that took me no where

I drifted about for many days

In and out of places without a care

I searched high and low for calm and grace

For sanity and the courage to dare

I lived in a world of fear and pain

Hoping to make it without a tear in sight

I stayed in a home that left a dark stain

On my inner strength and will to fight

I slept among those who chipped away every grain

Of my hopes and dreams, my guiding light

I wandered among many pillars of stone

Trying to make sense of whirling emotion

I floated about the vacuum, an empty zone

Without an idea of what I needed, not a notion

I was pushed to walk this quest alone

In pursuit of identity and self promotion

A magic moment I remember [Soffie Manneh]

A magic moment I remember:
I raised my eyes and you were

there.
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that's beautiful and rare.
I pray to mute despair and anguish
To vain pursuits the world esteems,
Long did I near your soothing accents,
Long did your features haunt my dreams.
Time passed- A rebel storm-blast scattered
The reveries that once were mine
And I forgot your soothing accents,
Your features gracefully divine.
In dark days of enforced retirement
I gazed upon grey skies above
With no ideals to inspire me,
No one to cry for, live for, love.
Then came a moment of renaissance,
I looked up- you again are there,
A fleeting vision, the quintessence
Of all that`s beautiful and rare.

Reply to Gone for a month

Reply to Gone for a month

Tuesday, 24^th, March, 2009, Mbabane, Swaziland

If I could walk the seas and the oceans

Or fly the many air miles between us

I would be with you every day

Here I am, in this mountain -sugar -candy country

My mind absent from me

Like a soul in a body, it refuses to leave you behind

You are that erotic tingle ever present in my heart

Sweet and comforting like the sea breeze

Massaging my wild thoughts of hope for a future

The sugar-like feeling you evoke

Turn my nights into days

You are the ever present company, yet, so far away, you are...

Waiting for your call [by Mariama Khan]

Waiting for your call

Sunday, 29^th March, 2009, Mbabane, Swaziland

I am waiting for your call

Eager like the hungry baby for its mother’s breast

I keep waiting, my mind and eyes glued to the clock

I am hungry for your call

Like a starving man for his last meal

My expectation is sky full

I am aching for your voice

Like a singer outlawed on her vocation

A barren field of emptiness churns within me

My mind is restless with the love of you

Like the confused beauty of Swazi mountain ranges

I desire the stream of your being to cool up my worries

Dark Skin [by Ndey Aaly Cham]

Dark Skin

skin smooth and soft like hershy chocolate
am loving my skin
i've been descriminated for being black and coming from africa
I breath my skin like the air
if staring was a crime brothers already commited one
am not fearful of what people say bout me being dark skin
i might be ugly but damn sure my skin is beautiful
i get complimented by my own brothers
Beautiful skin color, pretty skin colour, damn you sexxy
When can i see you
All that makes me love my skin colour even more
They say i look like fudge brownie and they dont mine eating me
Dark is what i am, and loving the colour.
Dark skin is the hershy chocolate you eat ery day
Whether you love my skin or not
you still eating me

CAGING THE LION - by Kuna Nyan

This morning, my mother informed me that my husband and his family would be coming to collect their bride in a week time.

To say I was flabbergasted would be an understatement. The word “husband” reverberated throughout my entire. I screamed in horror, or tried to because when I opened my mouth no sound escaped. Finally through a clammed up throat I somehow managed to croak;

“Husband! Maa, what husband? What husband?!”

“Don’t be silly, yours of course” she promptly replied.

Taking a deep breath I tried to calm myself, I knew that the must be a mistake somewhere. Maybe maa hadn’t performed her morning ablutions yet; she was always disoriented until she had completed her ablutions. Yes, that must be it! She probably thought she was talking to Nyima, my elder sister. Well morning ablutions or not I had to put her straight at once. So taking another deep breath I managed to explain to her that I was Jatoa, her youngest girl who was not married and not even promised in marriage to any man yet. With a look of annoyance she snapped that she knew perfectly well which of her daughters she was addressing and angrily demanded to know if I was trying to insult her intelligence or to imply that she was going senile.

Shaking my head in denial I insisted that she had it all wrong. I was the first girl in the family to go to high school, the one who was getting ready to pass the WAIEC with flying colors, the one who was about to win the scholarship to study Business at the London University Business School! I was the one who would return a world-renowned businesswoman and help turn our small village into a rich and vibrant community! I was the one who was going to achieve more than anyone could ever imagine!

By the time I reached the end of my litany my voice had reached a crescendo and the whole household and more had been drawn to the scene by my screeching. Now they stood, encircling my mother and me, their eyes lit with excitement as they shuffled each other for space, the older ones periodically shushing the younger who wanted to know what was going on. The air was so charged with excitement and expectant dread that anyone who came upon the scene would assume that a boxing match, equal in importance to that of Holyfield and Tyson was about to take place.

As I stared back at the crowd in defiance and I saw pity and sympathetic fear reflected back, it occurred to me that making such a big scene and attracting so much attention might not have been the best way to go about this problem. But by then it was a bit too late as my mother adjusted her stance. Arms and legs akimbo she stared at me steadily, then slowly from head to toe and back again after which she rolled her eyes and gave a long hiss. Simultaneously, the crowd began to murmur as the older women shook their heads, looking at me in disappointment. My heart, which had already been beating quite hard, increased its tempo. I had never before defied my mother but I had been witness to the shameful end of those who had been less than respectful to their elders. Nevertheless I was determined to see my course through, no matter what may come.

As my mother adjusted her lapa, she calmly asked me that, did I really think that after all my husband had done for the family she was going to tell him to hold on because his ungrateful wife wanted to fulfill some little girls’ dream? After helping to put food on our table, buying us the house and even paying for the education that I was preaching to her about! Were we going to repay him by denying him his wife? Then she looked me in the eye and explained.

“From the day he married you almost fifteen years ago he has given us nothing but support. Every time we needed help he gave it to us. All that he has given us, if added together, will even be double your bride price! He should have come for you long ago but because you are our last born gave us more time. Finally it is time for you to go and you dare to stand here and be outraged! You should be more than grateful!”

“So what you are saying is that you sold me! My life for your comfort!” I angrily retorted.

I never saw the slap coming but I heard it, a great swooshing sound that filled my senses even as I felt the pain on my cheek. Looking up I screamed that I hated her. Her response was another slap which almost brought me to my knees. I felt tears gather behind my eyelids but I pushed them back, refusing to show any weakness as I stood my ground. Clenching my fists I spoke through gritted teeth, insisting that I was not going anywhere, was not getting married to anybody until I had completed my studies. And when the time came for me to be married, it will be to some one I love and who loves me, not someone who has bought me.

Without any indication whatsoever my mother burst out laughing, she laughed so hard she had to sit down. Holding her tummy she repeated “for love!” over and over again. Abruptly she fell silent, got up and stood right in my face, poking me in the chest she declared;

“You will do as you are told!”

The dam of frustration burst out of me and I began to scream. As I shrieked that I will not do it, that I will not be treated like a piece of cloth exchanged from one hand to the other, the crowd slowly parted and out came Papa. As the last words left my mouth our eyes met and what I saw caused me more pain than I could have ever imagined. This was the man whom I loved more than any other on earth, he was not only my father, he was my teacher, friend, confidant, my ever present supporter. He was the one who had always looked at me with love and pride but now all I saw reflected in his eyes were disappointment and disgust. I lowered my eyes, not in respect but rather because it hurt so much to see the look of pity mingled with anger on his face. Then I heard him speak with all the authority of his years.

“You will be ready for your husband next week”,

“You will not complain again about this”,

“You will apologise to your mother and also to the rest f the community”,

Looking out into the crowd he concluded;

“And we shall never speak of this again”.

Blood rushed up into my had and I felt like I was drowning, my throat clammed up again and I could hardly breath. I felt laden, like I had been chained from top to bottom. I could not speak, could not move, and could not think. I was removed from this world, thrown into a vacuum filled with silent screams dancing all around me. Then from afar I heard a voice, calm and articulate say,

“Yes Sir, I am sorry Sir”.

I never saw my father walk away, I did not notice the crowd disperse, and I did not even realize the hours had gone by.

Now I lie in bed staring into nothing, I close my eyes and hugging myself tight I whisper into the night what I had been expecting my mother to say when she called me so long ago this morning.

“Happy fifteenth birthday J, Happy birthday”

The tears finally come. They gush out of the deepest part of me, falling fast and furious like a waterfall, pooling on my pillow and forming a halo of despair all around me.

With the owls hooting, the crickets singing, the drunkard talking at the top of his voice and the scent of sweat and firewood smoke drifting in through my window, I feel my world contract and the duty I will have to perform envelops me. And so I mourn for never to be fulfilled aspirations, I mourn for loss of freedom. The freedom to dream dreams, the freedom to think big, the freedom to be big and the freedom to even try to be more and do more. I am caged in by responsibility, locked away by the debt I owe to his family; I am chained with the love and fear I feel for my father. Yet still, I try to keep hope alive but I can feel it slipping away underneath a blanket of pain and disappointment.