Gambia De Sunu Rew (The Gambia: Our Country)

Gambia De Sunu Rew

My parents moved from Guinea Bissau at a time when the country was ravaged by war and poverty. Dakar, Senegal was the first place of relocation. After many years, the war intensified in Guinea Bissau and hundreds of people were killed and many fled to neighboring countries on a daily basis. Due to this fact, my parents finally decided to give up the hope of returning to their country of birth, and decided to move to The Gambia where my siblings and I were born. As expected, life was difficult for a family that found themselves in a strange land with no jobs and limited understanding of the language.  My father was a house painter whose monthly check never made it home. He owned neither a house nor a car. A bicycle five years older than me, was his means of transportation but like many African men, he was able to afford three wives and produce multiple children. 

 “Da ma uth legay” (am looking for a job) was my mother’s only Wollof catchphrase. “Su ma mbendan bi” (my maid) became her new name.  She washed plates and bowls. She cleans kitchens and toilets. She even washed undies and ironed female bras.  She ploughed hard lands until blisters begin to form on her hands. She was always the first to arrive and the last to leave the market selling “netettu ak kani bu shew’.”

Affording rent means living in clay, leaky, raggedy, house, where the roof creaks like the voice of a hundred tortured souls and the shadows demolish even with the brightest light: one candle for the entire house, one bed for four children, and one uniform for the entire school year.  Plain, cooked, white rice with slices of onions and   Maggie jumbo, splashed with palm kernel oil and “cobo bu laka “ (smoked fish) at the center that look like it is thanking you for eating it, because nobody would wish to eat such a fish.   But, we managed to survive not because of our strength, but because Gambia was a country that invites and accepts every stranger; citizens and non-citizens alike. And the term first class, second or third class citizen was never an issue.

The story of my parents is not unique. However, I tell this story in regard to the concept of citizenship.  What are the views held concerning it? It seems that either one holds the view that citizenship is the right to have rights by virtue of being human, or one holds the view that citizenship is not a right but a sense of belonging to a particular society or group in a specific  region,  recognized by particular countries, as an independent, sovereign state. One might also hold the view that there should be no such thing as a country. That Mother Nature was made for all her creatures to enjoy freely without borders. And that institutions—governments and non-governments alike, have no right to draw a line and limit others the right given to them by their creator according to the mind set of devoted fundamentalists. On the other hand, skeptics and sacrilegious nationalists will argue that, “the source of government was the people of a particular territory, not individually but collectively. That the people’s sovereignty was proclaimed in the name of Man (not God), so it was, in theory, reducible to man’s individual sovereignty. However, it became clear that the so-called inalienable rights of men could only find their guarantee in the collective rights of the people to sovereign government, and a government is effective only with a well-defined territory.”

Often, when I tell people my father is from Guinea Bissau, my mother is from Senegal, and I was born in Gambia. Comments such as   “you are not a first class citizen then. You are a second class, or a third class citizen,” are what I will usually get in return. But, who is a true citizen today, and what actually make them one? Is it the “unquestioning support of their government, or a love for a country’s founding principles of freedom, dignity, justice, equality, and the rule of law for all?” Which of these three classes of citizens do we hold to be superior and why?  Where does the line stop between these three classes of citizens? Can one be better than the other? Should the superior one just be limited to those whose forbearers were among the first settlers? Or should it be awarded based on merits and determination to people with patriotic mindsets? Can one be a patriot and not be a citizen?  Should these two be separated?

There remains to be examined what should be the methods, procedures, and duty of a citizen dealing with his/her country and government. However, knowing that many may disagree about this, I am mindful that by writing about it, I could be judged as condescending and presumptuous, since it is in discrepancy with the beliefs of the so-called “patriots ”. That said, my intention is to write about citizenship, although many under the category that I dub as “so called patriotic citizens” have their governments mislead them believe that their exists no disparity between a first class, and second or third class citizen. The reality is simply not that.

The true modern definition of citizenship challenges every individual’s definition of a citizen. It has gone beyond an individual’s place of birth. It emphasizes the core values that are necessary in the growth and advancement of a nation and reminds us of the duty of every individual. Citizenship also highlights responsible stewardship, shared sacrifice on the time and resources spent on national development and puts country above. But today, many who live by these principles are not granted the first class ticket if they embrace the sheer principle of disagreeing with their government. These are the ones vilified as unpatriotic individuals. However, a broader view of citizenship challenges the rather myopic view of citizenship by self-proclaimed “ patriotic citizens”. It has been co-opted by corrupted, sacrilegious, and selfish few as a chest-thumping means to justify selfishness, aggression, injustice, and to condemn the very convention and norm that every citizen should be proud of.  But how can you blame them? What else do they have to offer? Their only means of staying relevant is to create an atmosphere of “US vs. them.” Unless I start to sound like them, I will help them understand what it means to be a first class citizen and a patriot at the same time. And again, it ought to be read without prejudice.

The true citizen reframes the concept of patriotism and turns a country to what it should be: a public virtue and responsibility that every individual hold as just and beneficial to the greater majority, and is based on a progressive moral code, hard work, and paying allegiance to a country and not an individual, or a few group of “Cabudos” with selfish intentions. In other words, a citizen, a true inhabitant, is reasonable, honest and truthful in the way he deals, communicates, and behave with his fellow countrymen; acting with humility but also with a sheer set of principles. Saying it is white because in truth, it is white and everybody will agree to it. Saying it is wrong, because, in truth, it is not in line with the law and would fight to make those wrong to be held accountable without fear or favor. This is the gap between how one life as a citizen and how one ought to live as a patriot. That anyone who abandons it is leaning towards the devastation of his country rather than its preservation, and neither does he deserve a first class nor a second or third class citizenship.

A first class citizen should be judged by some of the following qualities: One should be considered a first class patriotic citizen if he is a giver and not a greedy rapacious person.  One is a first class citizen if he is merciful and not cruel to his fellow human beings; faithful and not treacherous. Bold and courageous in sets of principles, and not effeminate in cowardly lies and deceptions.  Human in his approach to others and not haughty, arrogant escape beast. Chaste not lascivious, trustworthy not cunning, lenient not harsh, frivolous not serious. These are some of the qualities worthy of a first class citizen. These are the qualities necessary to move a nation forward. These are the qualities everyone will admit, are praiseworthy and necessary for a first class citizen.  But since it is neither possible to have them nor to observe them all completely, because human nature does not permit it, a citizen must be prudent enough to know how to escape the bad reputation of those vices that are detrimental not only for him, but for the well-being of the nation he/she pays allegiance to. And the more an individual  starts to loose these qualities, the more their level of citizenship falls to second or third or fourth class citizenship.

The Politic They Play

The Politic They Play

The new world order is begging to show promising signs. 2011 prove this point: Gbagbo of Ivory Coast is gone, Ben Ali of Tunisia followed suit, Mubarak is in a cage, Abdoulie wada no longer in power, The Qaddafi regime is over, and the idea that change could only come through fighting and bloodshed has been buried with him. Something is happening in our world. The way things have been is not the way they are now.  Technology is putting power into the hands of the people giving them a clear view of what their government-- for far too long-- is keeping them from seeing.  The humiliating grip of corruption and tyranny is being pried open. Dictators are on notice; forcing the people in delivering a powerful rebuke to their oppressive and tyrannical rule, and rejecting the propagandas some heads of states who do not desire democracy will tell them. The promise recognized universally that “all human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights” , is closer at hand.

Nelson Mandela once said, "To be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." Around the globe, people are making their voices heard, insisting on their innate dignity and the right to determine their future and destiny without been told what to do. Around the world, citizens are recognizing the period of slavery is over and each and every one of them has a say in the way they should be govern.

"True democracy demands that citizens cannot be thrown in jail because of what they believe, and that businesses can be open without paying a bribe. It depends on the freedom of citizens to speak their minds and assemble without fear, and on the rule of law and due process that guarantees the rights of all people. "

In other words, true democracy--real freedom-- is hard work. Those in power have to resist the temptation to crackdown on dissidents. In hard economic times, countries must be tempted -- may be tempted-- to rally the people around perceived enemies at home and abroad, rather than focusing on the painstaking work of reform.’

 Freedom and self-determination are not unique to one culture. These are not simply Western values; they are universal values. Government of the people, by the people, and for the people is more likely to bring about the stability, prosperity, and individual opportunity that serve as a basis for peace in our world.

It is important to understand that peace is more than just the absence of war. It is important to understand that peace is more than just the absence of crime. We have got to make—not merely peace—but a peace that will last. A lasting peace, for both government and its people, depends on a sense of justice.  A lasting peace depends on the absence of terror and anxiety from the government to its people. A lasting peace depends on opportunity, of dignity, and of equal distribution of wealth.  It depends on struggle and sacrifice, on compromise and tolerance,  on  humility and a sense of common humanity.

In other words, peace—real harmony requires that government cannot create a gang of villains that snitch on its citizens at dark hours, beat Fathers’ to death, and take mothers away from their children for weeks or months in solitary confinement without due process. A government that kidnaps its citizens lost all the legitimate right to rule. For it only criminalizes its citizens and instill anger in them. Unless we forget, unvented anger causes pain; pain causes rage, and rage releases violent and threatens peace.

Dictators who cling into power using tribe and religion to fan the flames of hate and division among people and justifying its action of evil to stay in power, will soon realize that, even if they escape this world, their children would live to pay for their actions.

“It is time to marginalize those who, even when not directly resorting to violence, use tribe and religion and the west as the central organizing principle of politics, for that only gives cover and sometimes makes an excuse their evil actions to silent the saints.” That brand of politics-- one that pits Fula against Mandinka, jola against  Manjago, Wollof against akus,  Muslims against Christians, the west against Africa,  can't deliver on the promise of freedom.

To the youths, it offers only false hope.  Being an anti-west does nothing to provide a child an education. Smashing on gays and lesbians does not fill an empty stomach. Withdrawing from commonwealth won't create a single job.  That brand of politics only calls for violence and makes it harder to achieve what we must do together: educating  children and creating the opportunities that they deserve, protecting human rights and extending democracy's promise, helping the poor and curing the sick.  No government or company, no school or NGO, no person or group will be confident working in a country where its people are endangered, arrested and tortured without the due process of the law.

“It is time to leave the call of violence and the politics of division behind.  On so many issues, we face a choice between the promise of the future, or the prisons of the past, and we cannot afford to get it wrong.  The future is bright if the present is set clear. We must seize this moment to work a brighter future.

The future must not belong to those corrupt few who steal a country's resources.  It must be won by the students and entrepreneurs, the workers and business owners who seek a broader prosperity for all people.  Those are the women and men that America stands with.”

The future must not belong to a dictator who massacres his people.  If there's a cause that cries out for protests in the world today, peaceful protest, it is a regime that tortures children and arrest its citizens at night without due process

Many a times when I write, some see me as unpatriotic. I stand guilty as charged the same way Martin Luther King stang guilty, the same way Mahatma Gandhi stand guilty, the same way Madiba Nelson Mandela stand guilty. If I am unpatriotic, there is no way these men can be patriotic. If standing for injustice and demanding the respect of the inalienable right of all human is what unpatriotic means, and then these men lived in vain, fought in vain, and died in vain.

It’s time to marginalize those that even not directly on the spotlight, support dictators just to gain regconition and rat their way to economic stability. It is time to recognize them and help them understand that hugging a porcupine only harms the hugger and add pleasure on the porcupine.

YOU.... ASKED.... ME... WHO... I ...AM

I Am A Ghetto  Child

It wasn't the first time you asked me who I am. You assumed it’s my sense of duty to tell you who I am.Well, it’s certainly my great pleasure to tell you who I am. Look at me. Look at me right in the yolks of my eyes. Look at me without sympathy. Your understanding is all I want, not sympathy.  For the day I was born, was the day sympathy died and was buried.    I believe after I tell you who I am, You wouldn’t ask me again.  For all the good I did: Singing and laughing, it didn’t inspire much food in my stomach. But I can’t blame you for not seeing. My smile blurred your vision. But I will tell you what you have been missing. I will tell you now, for am no longer ashamed to tell you. My soul is sealed with discarded putrefied food my mum got from the can. It is the can in the garbage dump outside that rich neighbor’s corner —through which the left overs were kept for dogs to feed from? Food only covered with fly specks and cockroaches and rats’ waste. And if you don’t see me outside playing, know that the can is empty  that day , and my mum could not find another can, and I was resting  in my  old, dry,  infectious mattress, pampering  my growling, rumbling stomach and begging God to put me to sleep. But I never slept.  My sister would not stop crying. She cried and cried, till she could not cry any more, for my mother’s breast was also dry.  How come I never got sick? Well, the day I was born, was the day sickness was death and buried. Surely, you cannot know who I am. I am a curse. It was understandable that you couldn’t notice.

Because a curse is spiritual, and only spirits see spirits. Yes, I am a curse. It is the inherited gift

that was given to me by my mum through her mum –out of resentment –for stripping her of her pride with the greatest abomination of getting pregnant with me, by my dad, without fulfilling the traditional duties of holy matrimony. It is the curse that made my grand mum deny my mum. The curse that made my mother be in the delivery room at a stranger’s hours for three days. The curse that made my dad takes me away from my mum for 17 years. It is the curse that denied me those privileges of a mother’s warm cuddle. It is the curse that only has a beginning, but has no end. The curse I was left to carry throughout these years without compassion. For the day I was burn was the day compassion was dead and buried

I am pain. It was obvious that dad couldn’t notice because he was on a horny moon with his new wife. And perhaps he could not feel the loneliness in my  eyes when I cried. Or, conceivably, the sun had dried my tears, and their  flakes were devoured by flies in the heavenly skies. If only his wife knew she also is a mother.  And on the subject of fair, was it fair that people misjudged her smile when they gather around? Was it fair everyone thought my life and the life of my step-siblings were the same because we displayed the same clothes on Christmas? No, my life was far from fair. But it’s hard to tell, because I still manage to smile. Yes, that’s all that  I was left with. Just a smile.  Sometimes in order to heal, you  have to  carry the cross and  ignore the pain. Pain was what I felt till the lashes on my flesh and scars on my body were dead and buried. 

Am glad you asked me who I am. I will tell you who I am, for it’s the only way to prevent you from judging what I am and why I am what I am. Come, come let’s take a stroll at my palace. It’s not like yours, but it’s full of life and you will like it.  I must warn you, though, we have a guest. She is like us. She came to live with us uninvited on top of the ceiling. The only difference is that while we work at day time, she works at night sharing the food my mum kept for us for breakfast.  I know it is a she. Because, in her race, only mothers stay with babies and I hear her babies squeaking, scratching and scrabbling around in cavity walls and under floorboards every night. I also know there is a he, too.  Sometimes they chase each other coming from the ceiling and falling violently, petrifying me to death and worrying me to sleep again.  My mother never asked her to leave. She felt they share the same fate of motherhood. They seem to be friends, but they never met. Deep in her heart, I know she wanted to shake her hand for being a good mother, but trust kept them apart forever.

No, you need not take off your shoes. Be careful, do not lean on the walls. There are cracks on the walls and it can   fall anytime. Also, be careful of that thin hollow-eye dog. It has not eaten for days and can turn anything to meat in one single bite.  Wait her, and take a moment to enjoy those sparkling lights coming from the roof. Once upon a time, I love and adore them, now penetrated by rain. When it splashes, the beds sunk. If only   the plastic bags on top of those rusty, corroded corrugates could stand the wind.

 I know you are not acquainted to dark rooms. That is because your eyes are accustomed to a world where darkness is swept aside at the snap of a switch. Thus that is the modern signs awareness; the feeble glow of this kerosene handmade lamp will bargain the balance of power.  Forgive the fact that there are no chairs to seat on, no tv to watch and no refrigerator for refreshment. No need to take off your shoes at the door. There is no difference between outside and inside. And excuse the smell. Am sure it is coming from that big vessel I urinate from.  I forget to take it out this morning. I admire your patience. It is a virtue that can greatly be rewarded. Yes, my mother is patient.

I am the one you think I am. I am that little boy whose parents could not send to school. I am that young man who out of frustration has given up all hopes in life and became a drug addict and arm rubber. I am that little teenage girl standing at the red light . I am that young promising girl who is a victim of rape. I am that little girl with no knowledge of how to take care of her baby, and   I am that hungry child that is laying there at the basing. The one you passed on the street and never took the time to say a greeting. The one you pretended not to noticed. The one you looked with anger and disgust and sadness. The one you thought has no dreams, no family and no friends.  Maybe if you took the time to ask them who they are, you will be safe from being call judgmental.

The Sun Also Rise in the West (From Gambia To America

Sang w. Mendy

In June, 2011, it was excruciatingly humid as raining season can often be in the suburban country side of Banjul. The sun burned like fire, and the smell of fresh, green, farm crops graced the nostrils and gave a sense of satisfaction for helping one’s parents on the farm as required by every male child. It was the day for my interview with the American embassy and I was running late.  I rushed to the bath room and took a quick shower; dried myself, and put on my suit and tie. “Americans love suits and ties.” was the concept that most Africans has towards Westerners. So, my mom went and bought me a second hand-suit at one of the local stores. She had already washed and ironed them while commanding that I cut my hair two days ago.  For the first time, I was in a suit. I took a look at myself on the huge mirror that hung in my mother’s room, and noticed how oversized the suit was on me. But, I was not bothered; it looked perfectly fine on my tiny body. I took my leather bag containing my documents and headed to my father’s room. It was dark and gloomy, with little light penetrating from the small window, just beneath the ceiling, above his bed. I knew he was not asleep because he had just turned the radio on to listen to the 6.a.m news. 

“Baba” I said, in a carefully soft tone that illustrated some respect and as well exonerate my guilty conscience about waking him from his peaceful sleep.

“Mmmhh” He replied.

“I am about to go to the embassy for my interview” I said, walking closer to him. He sat up on his bed and stretched out his hands for blessing. I went on and knelt before him. Warmly, I felt his hands: One on my head and the other on my shoulder. He whispered and whispered as if afraid for me to hear what he was saying.  “Go in peace … May the god’s be with you” He finally said in a composed, compassionate and confident tune. I stood up, kissed his hands, and walked out. 

My mom was waiting at the entry door. I walked to her, held both of her hands and rubbed them on my face then kissed them good bye.  I went out to take a public transport. Usually, the buses come every 30 minutes, but for some reasons, it came earlier than that. I thanked the heavens and jumped right in and sat in the back seat.

Sang w. Mendy

 The bus, thus new on the outside, has a different picture in the inside: Old and rusty with cords hanging out from different angles. Coughing and gagging as it shifted gears now and then on the graveled, narrow road pockmarked with rainwater. There seemed to be nothing that would protect the driver if he entered into slumber and the car missing its route other than old, encroaching houses that erected some few meters away from the main road. I looked at my watch; it was 6:27a.m. I will probably be there before 8:30 a.m. which is my actual interview time.  I searched my bag and brought out the theoretical question and answer papers that are said to be commonly asked by the embassy. These were written by people who have or said to have had some experience about how the interview normally takes place. I have been readying them for about a week now, likewise memories most of the response questions. A little brain refreshment was what I needed. 

The car came to a stop. I got down and headed to the direction of the American embassy; some few meters away from the main road. I arrived at the Embassy at around 7:18a.m and it was already packed with people.  I looked at the long queue of other anxious Gambians, and wondered, how many of us would be lucky to get what we came for. How many of us will take it in good faith if issued a rejection letter.

 Things have changed. Just a few years back, The embassy could grimly stamp “rejected “in red ink on the front page of your national passport that would stand out whenever you opened it, thus making the passport that could cost about $ 120 and a long waiting –perhaps a month or so—invalid.  This act was not only unfair to the individual, but insulting to that individual’s national pride. It portrayed the powers and privileges America has upon Third World countries.   

Of course, there will be some that will come out with a big smile on their faces, while others –the unlucky ones will have that look of dejected, sheer shock when they are denied.  Their hopes and dreams that they have been longing for are shattered. Worst of all, the $200 they paid to apply is never refunded—not even a quarter of it.  It took some a full year before they could gather that much of money. Others go in to huge debt.  The pain and frustration become unbearable.  

 I know these feelings because I walked the same path 2 years ago before this blissful day.  I remembered the counselor sliding me my documents, topped by a letter that read “denied” through the empty space of the frame glasses that stood between me and him. I could not believe it. My heart spiraled into a deep abysmal trauma that shattered the warmth and confidence within my soul.  The feeling of worthiness diminishes, while shame and worthlessness fills in its absence. My entire life became totally consumed with deleterious thoughts, and blocked all kinds of logical reasoning. It hurt so badly. It hurt so bad that when i walk, it hurts. When i breathe it hurts. The pain was horrible and unbearable; awful and excruciating. I recalled a security man walking up to me from where I was standing staring with detestation at the counselor who sat at a far corner protected by heavy, strong glasses. He must have seen the anger and disappointment in my face and called the security man. The security man, though looking scary, was nice and gentle in his approach and speech. He must have seen such faces many times and was trained on how to handle such matters.  I never sit and contemplate on the why there were so much security personnel until now. They were present everywhere —on the inside as well as outside. They were not only there to stop terrorists attacks. I am sure they were there to level anyone that finds it hard to control their emotions and disappointments.  “Are you ok sir?” he said. Then, came in another one; talking on his radio and on the stand by. He was tall and huge. He seem like he could eat three of my size for breakfast and still yearned for more. Fear won over my anger making me relax my gaze. The man again asked in a tender, caring voice “Are you alright…sir?” I took a deep breathe, and told him I was fine. I looked at the gun strapped on his wrist and  wished that I could borrow it from him for a second. I wished he could just blow my head off for help sake. America: The land of milk and honey, the land of the brave and the free, the land well known for its flexible stand on democracy and, most of all, the land with sympathies and empathies with  the discriminated. Here I was. Denied an American visa because I was not financially strong and I do not come from a family that is financially strong, too. Unless the non-discrimination policy was a slogan, the fact that I was rejected on financial bases, was the greatest and highest discrimination one can ever imaging.

The alarm went on and the entry gate opened. We formed a queue and walked in.   I prayed so hard even before this frightful day.  The butterflies in my stomach jolt and vibrate as I enter the security room. All clean, they issued me a ticket that reads number 056. Then I knew I was number 56. One at a time, our numbers were called and we went and submit our documents at  the interviewing section and got back to our seats and wait . It felt like the longest wait I had ever been to in my life. The whole room was steeped in a vast silence and stillness so profound that the only sound was coming from the TV that stood in front of us; above our heads.  I began to rehash the questions and answers again in my head. A lady sitting next to me finally took my mind away from what I was rehashing. “What are you applying for?” She asked. “Student visa” I replied. “You?” I asked. “K1 visa.” She replied. I nod my head as if I know what K1 visa means. “My husband is in the US, I am planning to join him.” “Oh wow, that’s great, you are a lucky woman to have an American husband “I said. “Do you have a family in America?” she asked. “Nope” I replied in a sympathetic tone.  “What is the name of your school?” Before I could answer, the guy that was first in line came out with his face all pale and looked like he was ready to cry. Without saying a word, packed his stuff and exited. The room went silent again. We were like criminals waiting for our verdicts. Talking to the lady was comforting, but I stayed mute and wished she just live me in peace. “Good luck” she said. I looked at her then quickly turned my head away, afraid that tears might fall from my eyes. It took me a few minutes before I could find the strength to wish her the same.

 Instead of my number, my name was called by a male voice. It was the voice of a Black American. I walked in and remembered first advice “smile. American people like people that smile.” I smile. I could almost feel the muscles on my cheeks stretching to its core. But, to my surprise, the guy didn’t smile back. In fact, he only looked at me once then stick his eyes on the documents before him; my documents. Still bowing his head, he separated the documents, took the ones he needs and hand me back the rest. He asks me to place my fingers on a machine for my biometric fingerprint, and I did.  “Thank you, you can go back to your seat.” I turned and head to my seat still hanging on to my smiling face.

 I prayed the Our Father once, Holy Mary 10x, then, glory be to God once. I relaxed and promised to take everything by good faith no matter the outcome. I should let Jesus be in control. If he said I was going to be in America, nothing can stop me. Not even the President of the United States of America, Barrack Obama. In fact, if only he knows how much I love him. If only he would allow me to hug Michelle Obama or let me marry Malia or Sasha.  “Stop dreaming boy” a voice in me sad. I giggled and relaxed on my seat. Men have to dream big! 

I heard my name again and slowly, I walked in to the chilly, heavy plain glass room. I try to smile, but felt my lips trembling. I gave up the smile and tried to focus. “The councilor was a blonde young man. He was on a suit and tie which I felt connected to. He did the usual how  are you, I am fine greeting then went straight ahead to the questions. “Why do you choose to study in America?” I start to think. The questions and answers I have been rehashing left me. I could not remember any of the replying questions. I cleared my throat and started answering. “Because of the quality education in America, the diverse culture in America, and the global recognition America has, I could not think of a better place than furthering my studies there.” “How long do you plan on staying in America?” “As long as it take me to finish my degree.” “Are you going to cause trouble there?” I giggled to the question. “no” I said. “What a dump as question”I said to myself. “ I am sure going to bite, kick, and kill all the male students and hold the ladies captive.” I giggled to my thought and he looked and me and smile. “Okay, good luck with your studies then. Come for your visa at the end of this week.”  He finally said. I could not believe my ears. I stood there: voiceless, Motionless.  I wanted to scream, jump, break the glasses and kiss him and hug him and worship him.  Hurriedly, I walked out, to the waiting center. Everybody looked at me. I smiled and thanked the lady. Everybody congratulated me and wish me luck as if I have just won a lottery. I took my stuff and headed outside. I decide not to take a taxi, but walked home which was about 30 km’s away. You sure can predict the celebration at home.

 Three months later, after I got my visa. the day for my flight came. It was a night flight and I could not wait to get on a plane. I had been warned by my father as well as my mother that I should keep my traveling secret, that I shouldn’t announce it to neither of my friends nor my neighbors. They though that  if the news broke out that I was going to America, envious minded people would throw a magic charm of bad luck on me.  That I will either fall sick or die. Either ways, the spell will make sure I never see America. I believe them and long kept it secret.

The hour came for me to go to the air port. The family gathered around by the entry door for traditional prayers. My dad sat in front, and my mum sat on her right hand and was surrounded by my siblings. In front of my father, was placed a calabash of palm wine, a jar of water,  bottles of whisky,  red wine, Coca Cola, and Fanta. A kolanut, a handful of salt, and a pile of garlic. We often have this kind of gathering on special occasions such as: the first day of school, a naming ceremony, a wedding ceremony, a funeral, a visitor, or if any member of the family was about to make a long journey.  It is a symbol of opening the way: To give thanks to the ancestors, to show respect to them, and also, to ask for their blessing and protection. Since my dad is the head of the house and the eldest, he was the one to perform the libation. He asked me to come forward and kneel before him. He held the cow’s horn, while my mum poured him all the different types of liquor one at a time.  He started by calling all his forefathers and dripping the mixed liquor at the small rounded hole excavated in front of the entrance door and began to talk.

“ You, our grandfathers, and our fathers. You, our grandmothers, and our mothers. You, that went before us. You, that we look upon to.  You, that  protect us tirelessly from the kingdom of the Blessed Dead. You, that comprehend, embrace, and take in all with great affection and allow us a place within your shrine.  We greet you. We acknowledged and honor your present.  “Your children are gathered today again, asking for your consecrations as they are about to make this journey. Should you choose to allow them take this journey, you cannot let evil join them. You always stood with people that do well and wish for good.  You never affiliate with people with evil intentions, nor have you ever patronized the spirits of evil doers. For such is tantamount to inviting a stranger off the street to take your kingship. Our offering to you is a duty that shows our strong commitment to you. So, you may wish to honor yourself by fulfilling your duty of protecting us. We recommend you to protect this boy as he is about to enter a strange land. Guide his mind, his heart, his eyes and his legs. That he will only think good, talk good, see well, and walk well; that you will be with him throughout his educational journey.” He concluded.  I did the sign of the cross and stood up.

Raul Mendy (Sang's father)

 My father thus often tells to people he is a Christian, he is not a practicing one. He is more on to traditional practice than going to church.  The only time I see my father at church is on festival days like Easter or Christmas or when there is a funeral. However, he is much more a practicing Christian than my mother. I remembered seeing my mother only once in church, and that was the day I was taking my holy communion. Maybe she was too occupied with house work.

The taxi finally came and I loaded my bag at the trunk. All of my 7 siblings came and give me a hug and wish me a safe journey. My mum was the last to wished me farewell. She walked up to me, and  Looked me in the eyes for few seconds without a word. Then, she hugged me. She hugged me so tight that I could feel her heartbeat. It was warm and comforting that it made my throat tighten, my heart ache, my lips purse, and my eyes sting with tears.  I bend and cried on her shoulders. Indeed, there is nothing greater than a motherly love.

I got to the airport at about 45 minutes before my departure time. I showed my documents to the immigration officer and they were all intact. I went and sat in the waiting room for my flight. The waiting seemed endless. Nonetheless, the flight came. And, finally, I was inside a plane for the first time. It was thrilling mix with great feeling. As the engines start, I held tight to my seat. The air roared and popped my ears, but I still love it. My heart was boundidn faster than its normal beat, but the feeling was great. Soon, the plane was on top of the skys and  I watched the clouds float by like cotton balls. I was very lucky to be able to travel by plane. Many of my friends’ travel by boat to Europe on the Atlantic Ocean. Many also travel by land. Some made it, while some die, and their bodies were never found. How horrific the thought of them used to be. How painful it was for their families to digest the pain. Africa is indeed hard. Very hard that it left its people with no choice but to get out by any means necessary.  

illegal migrants

After few hours, I became bored and wished the plane reach its destination. Every time I fell asleep and woke up and realized we are still in the air made me gnash my teeth with resentment. When the plane finally landed and I took a look at the landscape, it was beautiful. Everything was bright and clean. Yeah, they need not tell me where I was. I was in America; New York City. It all felt like a dream to me. Although the climate was a little chilly, it was wonderful. The people were so kind that they smiled at you whenever you made eye contact. All the things said to be in heaven are right here in America: Fanciful houses and cars, nice parks and soccer pitches and, most of all, sexy women. I raised my head up and thanked the heavens for sending me in this part of the world. I spent the rest of the night that day staring at my apartment window, down to the streets glittering with lights and moving cars.  However, I came to realize I was on my honeymoon stage.

Months past and the excitement eventually change into anxiety and unpleasant feelings of frustration and anger. I start to experience inauspicious events that were shocking and strange. My cultural back ground could not let me digest these grim feelings. I felt lonely and isolated at my neighborhood. My heart melts when I saw many drug addicts and homeless people.  I cried the whole day when 9 children where gun down. I start to realize America is not many of my African brothers and sisters think it was. I miss home. I miss home really bad that I can’t wait to finish college and go back. I miss the social life of people. I miss the noise of my young siblings that normally deny the freedom of early morning sleep. I miss my mother’s smile and her noble food. I miss the humble laugh of my friends.  I love America and her people, but there is no place like home.