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. 

WHAT DOES THE FUTURE HOLD FOR YOUNG GAMBIANS

I grew up in one of the many dusty red roads of the suburban town of Kombo .  It’s not really a town, it is a village called Sanchaba Sulay Jobe; just from the main town of Serre Kunda, and meters away from Banjul, The Gambia, West Africa.   A dirty narrow road was the only way to  my  house, which was a shabby haven with a crooked front porch decorated with palm kernel  tress that smell  like butterscotch when you scratch their barks, and hide  the remnants of bathroom waste serving as a ghetto for  anopheles mosquitos  waiting to reproduce and assault when the sun goes down. 
People were poor; they are still poor,  however it is their rich spirit that kept them going; their selflessness that kept them smiling.  It was always an uncommonness not to meet someone that you hadn’t already heard about or seen before:  Ndey Mbye would come beg for salt at our house. My mother would send me to Jallow kunda  to borrow pepper pounder.  Bintou will credit rice at tunkara kunda, and Kumba would go to Ceesay kunda to dry her clothes.  Pa Jallow would beat me,and my father would be supplying him with more canes.  Samba, Alieu, and Dodou would uninvitedly  join Camara  kunda  during lunch, and  Nyima would invite Ellen  and Fatou for dinner. Phoday would sleep at  John’s room, and Mariama would help the  ill mam Alagie with his domestic work.  Soffie would dress modestly, completely, afraid Ba-karamo couldn’t see her, and Imam Ba Sherriffo would  have a moral session every Friday at the community meeting place. So was my home town. What’s happening to it now is tear-jerking.

 It was a small place of unity. You saw people you knew everywhere that you went, which when I was younger used to comfort me good-naturedly. It was nice to know I  grew up  together with most of the kids, and went to the same school,  community events, all with the same values. It was nice that Pa Mendy could go to Pa Sanyang’s house and discipline the children with Pa Sayang saying nothing, but  “thank you.” It was nice that Bintou Drammeh could enter and rat on Isatou Conteh’s garden, and funnily confess to  later. “Sacha kat bi ley” was the only thing Isatou would say and laugh.  Yet still, in Sanchaba now, people rarely  laugh. 

  It was fun for me, and it was fun for the others.  It was easy for anybody to express themselves or tell stories because everybody has each other’s back.  We knew about every naming ceremony, wedding, and new comer. If Sarr Kunda is grieving, the whole community shares the pain. If Sowe Kunda are happy, the whole community rejoices. All will help praise Haddy Corr for her achievement in the WASCE exams.  And insults and mockery would rain on Sang Mendy for having all  D’s AND F’s .  Yet still, they encourage him to work hard next time.  Be aware, however, touching one person “was” suicidal if you are not a resident of Sanchaba.

After High school graduation, few make it to the University.   I.T studies became a huge business, with little hope for its alumni. Facebook and iPhone replaced the social life with individualistic personality.   Palma Rima beach became famous as young children swim without the watchful eye of their sentinels. Boys play soccer. Girls beautifully attired, walk around with high heels. Yes; High heels!! because, it is the efficient route to come from the beach to entering  th Teranga  club without having to pay double transportation; going home and coming back. Or maybe, some are just new with high heels and are ignorant of its use.

  Speaking of clubs; my heart broke when I met   Haddy, a 15 year old –of whom I still recall the day she was blessed with that name--doing a dirty wine dance promoted by Pisces and the One Tribe Family. And regarding   Pisces and the One Tribe Family, it’s not his fault that minors grace his club.   For heaven sake, the man is a business man. It’s the role of the parents to nurture their children when the lobby breaks with moral behavior milk. Additionally, what’s the role of the government? Na, scrunch that side. Nothing makes them happy than seeing other children fail and their children succeed to continue their legacy of reign.   

In my hometown today, 4 year Amba Jobe knows all the lyrics of Vybz  Kartel,  Movado  Rihana and Beyonce better than she knows the national pledge or the national anthem.  Hamza Barry  can tell you the latest news about Messi and Cristiano and Etoo but nothing about  the minister of education or secretary general of the UN, or the latest science discovery,

Today, in my town, it’s common for little girls to become pregnant. It became so boring and hopeless that the only engaging thing is for babies to have babies. Young ‘Jainaba ‘ no longer hides being pregnant. Young “Sulayman” brags about becoming a father.  My Mother no longer whispers that her friends daughter , “Neneh Njie” is  expecting a baby. My father no long cares to bless the baby with a name. I’ve been to more naming ceremonies than anyone know. I have helped in slaughtering the goat, the duck, the pig, the chicken, and the fish for the ritual. No, I didn’t slaughter any fish; I just helped in carrying and scaling them. I hate contributing money to help buying some recipes for the “Bennachen.”However,   the thing I like about this type of naming ceremony is the fact that there is hardly an adult watching you.  You discipline the “benachen” however it suits you. Eat ebbed, and cool it with some loppy juice or watery Foster Clark.  I love my friends, but I hate the fact that they recognized their natural skills of reproduction at an early age.  “Ndogali yalla” or rather “Gods will.” became the norm.  Yet still, nobody can tell you what the future holds for that baby other than for him also to start having babies.

 I am not opposed to having babies.   I think babies are cute, and I can’t be bothered even if they come in millions every hour.  It  hurts my feeling to know that, my friend “Lamin Keita”—a smart, young promising boy,  with aspirations to be a novelist; fully dependent on his parents for his daily utilities, dropped out of school with no skills or whatsoever,  because he met up with  “Nyima Jammeh,” also a young  beautiful girl whose school report always flashed with A’s and  B’s  and dreamed of becoming a teacher , shattered each other’s dreams through the light of day  due to their  curiosity to know what practical chemistry feels like. It hurt my feeling to know that this new baby would be born in a house with a single parent. It saddens me to know this new baby will be an added burden to an already struggling family.  It hurt me to know this new baby have no college account plan.  These feeling really pains and scare me at the same time. 

What happened to the use of condom or other contraception? Oh,wait.That’s a sin!! Cry me a river.  You want to know what else a sin is:  Pounding each other at that dark room without been pronounced husband and wife, bringing that little boy into the world knowing that you can’t even buy him a diaper, not to talk of his education, clothing and feeding.   What else is a sin? I wish I could tell you, but am not that well versed in Holy Books.

In my hometown today, Dawda hit the gym all day to catch the fancy of old ladies from Europe and America. Elizabeth hang around bars and clubs, or even ask to be hookup with an old disgusting westerner for economic expediency.  Many young men stocked or die  trying to enter Europe. Many young girls can’t tell their mulatto kids who their fathers are. Yet, they are proud to have a mulatto kid. Sometimes I think we are preparing for the second coming of Jesus Christ!!! 

Of course, with development comes change.  People change with their environment of which they live in changes. My hometown is now qualified to be called a city…Maybe not a city…but its more than a village. I guess. It used to have dusty narrow roads that turns you red during the dry season, and greasy rainwater mixed with the   graveled soil that force you to put  only dirty raggedy cloths;  Any splash of that water would transform the best outfit to the very worst. Today, that is history. My hometown no longer uses candles in the dark, or car batteries to watch tv. Instead, they use electricity to fan the mosquitos and refrigerators to make icy water for refreshment.  They no longer drink from the well at Fatty Kunda.   Instead, there are taps in every corner of the streets. And they no longer carry tables and chairs to school, or travel 30km to hospitals, or walk 20km to sell farm crops at the market or fish from the sea, for they possessed and enjoy all these things now thanks to “Omar Touray” who mobilized the whole community to vote for   his highness King ‘Phaburama de Africanus’ who  made it very clear  “no vote, no development” yet still, citizens of my hometown  pay tax.

Unless you mistook me with “The Gambian Pen” I do not sugar coat the administration in my hometown. I do not wish to blindfold the masses just to have an opportunity to shake hand with the king. I refuse to walk that route of slavery.  I reject as false the choice between my righteousness to my God, and the pleasing of a fellow man. Saying its white when I know it is black, tantamount me to that rapist  in prison, if not even worse.   Of course, my hometown is moving to becoming a Silicon Valley very soon; maybe by 2020 INSHALLA (Gods willing), We are climbing the ladder every day and have no time to look back.   We are indeed  better off now than we were thirty one  years before when my granddad refused to share the community cake.

But, ( Yes, there is always a but in everything, except you think you are second to God) although my granddad refused to share the community cake, he award people with love and the dignity they deserve. He listen to them because he knows he is human and human are not perfect. He recognize power alone does not give him support, no does it allow him to do as he please. He never rides in a car that is worth more than 10,000 dollars,

or has more than 20,000 dollars in his account.  He uses diplomacy to talk to his people and make sure they understand their rights as citizens.  As the community was not progressing in terms of development, families were finding food to feed their young ones. As there were no university or colleges, fewer people were dropping out of school and the report cards of students were much high in terms of achievements.   

The leadership  is really trying. But  I believe my hometown still  has a long way to go. Unless I be called a cynic, I love to give credit where it is due. However, if they want to take credit for everything good, they should be ready to take responsibility for everything bad.  They should be able to understand that unless the fear is removed from the people, they cannot recognize their weaknesses or feel the people gnashing their teeth in resentment behind closed doors.

I must speak in general terms, for my background does not allow me to be biased in any form.  In my hometown today, we are lazier than one could ever envision.  We are no longer in the sheer set of doing things that can benefit us. We all seek pleasure and fame. Every male and female child is waiting to be a DJ, a TV presenter,  an artist or anything that is a faster route to making it to that tabloid that reads “Gambian Celebrities”   But what exactly is a celebrity? Shouldn’t celebrity mean you are celebrated because of your inventive mind and that your invention is benefiting Bakary who is studying to be an engineer?

Or Mary who is studying to be a doctor? Or Musa who is helping his mum make a garden? Shouldn’t it be “Ndey kora” who has all A’s in her grade 12 exams? How about Amat Jaiteh who is an honor student in the university? What of  Tijan Ceesay who is helping struggling families with school fees for their children, or ustas Drammeh  teaching  young ones about God and the way to live a better life? How many of these celebrities do we know or celebrate their efforts?

My hometown, unlike many other surrounding towns, is not blessed with much natural mineral resources. However, the call for ‘Back To The Land” is legitimate

and going to the sea is a noble job. These are the two most God given wealth to us. There never was a prouder and happier family than one  that feeds themselves  from these natural gifts. These have been the quite forces that have sustained many families. Truly, what is required of them is a return.  “Babucarr” should not  be afraid or abashed to do these jobs because “Sainabou” would refuse him for a date because, Sainabou  eats  rice or beans or fish yassa every day. 

It is sad people of other towns recognize and are making good use of our God given resources.  Or maybe, the people of my hometown do recognize it,  but see it as a dishonorable, discreditable, ignominious thing to do; that they—after spending their whole life and money in school— deserve a better job than just farming or going for fishing. That if the administrative care for them so much, they would build a structure that creates employment and help the youths with a better paying  job that would take care of them and execute its their basic needs.  That is a legitimate thinking if you ask me. And, again,  unlike the “Gambian pen”

, I share the same intuition. However, to call a spade a spade, what can be more Ignominious than just being at the ghetto the whole day doing nothing, but sleep, drink Attaya and smoking weed   during the day, and night clubbing during the night? What is more discrediting than watching your parents keep feeding you at the age of 20? What can be more dishonorable than stealing and engaging in prostitution that limit your moral values in the town and threatens your religion?

I cannot stop but believe there is a future for my hometown.  I refuse as false to believe the future is bleak for the younger generation. “Balafong “has hurled me into doubts so great that I can neither ignore nor refute my cynical mind that there is a brighter future ahead when minds are join into common purposes and not act out of sheer animosity. When religion and tribe no long separates and turn our hearts to ill will towards one another, and politics no longer apply to our common good and common interest.   When I read jama jack, I cannot stop but believe the stack of politic would change and government of the people, by the people and for the people will take its route. When I read Satang Naban articles on the rights of women,  I cannot stop but believe our justice system would  one day change, control by its citizens, and rule according to the constitution and not by the will of a few.  There are better days ahead, and like Dr King, we dream for it and it shall come to past. For my hometown, I stay ever true.