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.