Gambia-l,
      Here is another of my excerpts. This one is rather long, and about six
pages. Your criticisms or critical reviews are very, very, welcome as they
would undoubtedly help in improving these writings.

                                                 *

      The morning air laden with dew was moist. The sand soaked like a wet
sponge, and tingled coldly the bare feet as it trod softly on the ground. The
short and tall grasses covered the whole compound, and bowed gracefully under
the weight of the dew as if in prayer, like a praying mantis.

      The chirp, chirping of the birds high up in the trees , disturbed the
uncanny silence; and the dense foliage of the trees, the many trees in the
compound, dripped silently like a gushing fountain and drenched the ground
below. The fallen leaves, turned yellow with the intense rays of the
scorching sun, strewed around in a circle as they chased madly the furious
wind. A faint streak of light appeared in the distant horizon, and the
heavens opened unhurriedly the windows of brightness, as the sun arose
leisurely to burst open the beams of daylight.

      Samba left the compound that very early in the morning. There was the
drumming sound of a pestle pounding inside a mortar, tam, tam, tam, tam-tam,
as a dutiful wife in the adjacent compound, grounded dried peanuts and rice
to prepare groundnut porridge for the children. Samba could distinctly hear
the woman heaving, her breathing laborious, as the pestle rose and fell into
the mortar with astonishing rapidity and dexterity.

     "Co-ca-li-cooh, co-ca-li-cooh," the cock crowed.

     "Co-ca-li-cooh, co-ca-li-cooh," another cock crowed.

     "Mbeea, mbeea," a sheep bleated.

     "Wow, wow," a dog barked.

      The hen cluck, cluck, as she called her chicks.

     At that very moment, as all these animals heralded the dawn of daylight,
Samba knew that in most compounds around the village, the womenfolk
skillfully pounded corn, sorghum or coos to prepare the morning breakfast for
their families.

    At that very moment, also, many women made the short trek to the village
well, back and forth, and filled the numerous clay pots with water. The clay
pots, of varying sizes, placed strategically in the kitchens, in the middle
of the compounds under the shade of a tree, and in the bedrooms inside the
houses, catered to the drinking needs of the family members and visitors.

   The clay pots, placed under a mound of wet dirt or red earth, usually
inside an old iron bowl or small bucket, kept the water cold like a cooler.
In some households, they submerged certain plant stems, cut into small, long
horizontal pieces inside the water, to give it a good taste.

     Samba first went to his father's house, located on the other side of the
compound. The house was a modest three-bedroom cement structure, Pa Gorgi had
started to build about ten years ago. He started building the house before
Samba entered into high school, and was barely completed after he finished.
Every year during the rainy season, tall grasses proudly sprouted inside all
the rooms, and the stray goats and sheep found sanctuary within its decaying
walls. But, for some strange reason, Pa Gorgi always marveled at his naked
building; and indeed, boasted to anyone who cared to listen about the cement
house he was building.

     When he started to build his house, many in the village raised their
eyebrows, wondering how an indigent public works carpenter could build a
cement house. But, unlike some who took public works materials to build their
houses, Pa Gorgi never took, neither kept what did not belong to him. He
lived on his meager income, and vowed to die like a pauper instead of living
on ill-gotten means. Material wealth, to him, was as inconsequential as the
rag clothes that draped his small body frame daily. The worn out rubber
slippers that covered his corn feet, had seen many a brisk journey on foot.
He found no pride in poverty, but no virtue in wealth either. He just yearned
to live; and beholden that he was in good health each waking day of his life.

      Samba always pondered why his father never had any lofty aspirations.
Was it a cursed? Why did he contend with his abased and beggared life?
Nonetheless, he wore a haughty feather in his self-sustaining cap. What
happened to the young man educated in the best mission schools in Ndarr and
elsewhere, but then later ended up in Banjul as an apprentice carpenter? Why
did he never accepted any promotions, even as a foreman, in the carpentry
workshop at the Public Works? And, for the forty-something odd years he had
worked at the Public Works, he had never owned a single compound. The
compound he had started to build his house on, for the last ten years, indeed
belonged to Samba's mother. The very compound she had obtained from Diatta's
father, many, many years ago.

     Tap! Tap! Tap! Samba knocked very gently the door of his father's room.
He whispered:

     "Papa! papa! I am ready to leave."

      When his father heard the faint knocking, he abruptly woke up.

     "Who is that?" Pa Gorgi demanded to know in a raucous voice.

     "It is me, papa," Samba replied.

     Pa Gorgi opened the door, and Samba walked into the dank room.

     "Sit down," he commanded.

     His father pointed to a wooden, cushion-less armchair, one of three
chairs in the room. At a corner, all kinds of empty glass bottle sizes neatly
arranged caught one's immediate attention. Pa Gorgi earnestly collected the
empty bottles, and once in a while a certain dealer, with an empty rice sack
hung on his shoulder, came to pick them up. The dealer went from compound to
compound collecting the empty bottles for a token price. The drapes on the
two only windows in his room looked worn out and dusty. The room seemed
damped and a little bit chilly, as the windows hardly opened to usher in the
fresh morning air.

    Pa Gorgi was almost eighy-something years old. He was the second
surviving brother in a family of eleven brothers and two sisters. He had a
small, but firm body frame. Still very strong, he did most of the mending
around the compound. He had continued to walk very long distances to go to
places, and hadn't taken ill for a very long time. His skin was as light as a
polished mahogany wood. One of his great, great grandparents descended from
some obscure place within the moribund civilization of ancient Egypt. His
great grandfather was the product of a liaison between his great, great
grandmother and a white slave dealer. The village of Kabujang, that his great
grandfather founded, indeed was land that belonged to this white slave
dealer. He appeared strikingly handsome despite his age. He had problems
seeing properly as he had a catarrh with his right eye.

    "You are now ready to leave," his father stated.

    "Yes papa," Samba replied.

    "I know you would be going away for a long time, but I am not sure if you
would meet me here upon your return," his father said.

     The anguished in his gazed, buried behind the elegant, but wrinkled and
paled face, was not lost to Samba. He had tried desperately to reconcile with
his children, now that they had all grown up, after the many, many years of
neglect. It was always Samba's mother who had provided and cared for them,
her hands as white as cassava pulp from years, and years of washing clothes
with her bare hands, earning a meager income as a housemaid.

     Pa Gorgi began the conversation he knew he would one day tell his
children. The small metal bed creaked, and croaked like a frog as he shifted
from one position to another. The irritating noise that the bed made,
reminded Samba that he had long since thought about replacing the bed for him.

     "Papa! please don't talk like that. I am sure I will meet you here upon
my return," Samba replied.

   "Anyway, I am old and my health is not the same. I hope to see you again;
but may be I wouldn't," he mused.

    "Well...," Samba sighed.

    "There is no time now," Pa Gorgi looked at his son meditatively. "But
whenever you should return, you should visit Kabujang, my birthplace."

     "But, why do I have to go there?" Samba inquired. "I have never visited
your birthplace before."

    "I know that son, and it is partly my fault. But, you have to visit at
some point in your life," Pa Gorgi said.

     His eyes became misty with tears. All his wretched life, he had
impotently battled the spirits that turmoil inside him, and made his life as
desolated and wasted as the dried and cracked soil of the swampy rice fields.
All his wretched life, as if he had made a secret covenant with his forsaken
ancestral god, he was ruthlessly condemned to a life of sworn poverty and
accursed self-degradation. He had on many occasions in the past, abandoned
the comfort of his bed in the middle of the night, and lying on the dry, hard
sand under the glaring stars, reached out to the gods. He had scornfully
defied the evil spirits that haunted the night. But, had it been that death
was a wrestler, an encounter with the diabolical forces that wandered into
the night, he would have ungraciously been flung to the ground.

   Once, he had a strange animal that accompanied him to his doorsteps, as he
waded through the darkness in the depth of the thick forest, going back to
Christekunda. He became very ill that night. But, for just that night.

   "In the middle of the village in Kabujang stood a huge Baobab tree," he
said slowly. "In the foot of that tree lies the god of your ancestors. When
my great grandfather founded the village, there were many evil spirits that
abound. The children born in the village, and afflicted with kinds of
illnesses were dying at an alarming rate. My great grandfather consulted many
oracles from far and wide, to ascertain the numerous deaths in his village.
In almost all the places he visited he was told of the evil spirits that
inhabited the village. In one of the oracles he visited, deep into the thick
forest of Carburuse land, he was given Giboto to take back to the village.
    In an elaborate ceremony, cattle and pigs slaughtered for sacrifice,
Giboto became part of the village. They made his shrine at the foot of the
Baobab tree. They offered to the god for protection all the children born in
the village after that. They placed the children seven days after being born,
at the foot of the Baobab tree, followed by dancing, the pouring of libation
and a drinks galore.
    When I was born, my parents entrusted me to the protection of the god.
From there on all my children, consequently, had been placed at the refuge of
the god. From one generation to the next, a caretaker selected within the
family became the custodian of the god. All the children born into my family
and your families should visit the shrine once every so often. They should
offer sacrifice and pour libation. If not appeased, the god's wrath would
descend upon your families like a raging fire."

    Pa Gorgi did not mean to scare his son, but thought that it was important
for him to know now that he was nearing the end of his life. As civilization
caught up and overran most of these traditional beliefs and practices, most
educated people born into these traditions had shied away from them. Some
parents understandably had given them the option to either be part of the
legacy or not. If they chose not to be part of this legacy, ceremonies
condcuted would absolve them from whatever commitments their parents had made
with these gods. Their had been families withered, like dead leaves soaked in
a puddle of mud, and sometimes even obliterated for woefully failing to
follow their obligations to appease these gods. In most cases the parents
died without informing the children of the promises they had made when they
entrusted them to the gods. Pa Gorgi wanted to guard against this eventuality.

     Kabujang, a small island, beautiful, tidy, mass of dry silvery sand, and
crowded with its abundant coconut trees, appeared as serene as the pure blue
waters that rock its lonely shores. Surrounded by a navigable river that
meandered like a serpentine through the tributaries of the Cassamance
coastline, the village nestled superbly between the thick mangroove swamps
and the deep open blue sea. The many huts that stood proudly sprouted like
mushrooms around its circular sandy area. There were few solid buildings made
of cement and sand, among which stood grotesquely the village church built in
the nineteenth century. There was a small hotel built recently by the parish.

     Mostly populated by elderly folks, the younger generation had deserted
the ghost village, and had scattered to embrace the glittering spectacle of
the modern world, either far or near. They came once in a while, to rekindle
their lost innocence, in the beauty of this majestic tapestry of coconut
trees, Baobab trees, Silk-cotton trees, and in the fine sand of the long
stretched attractive beach. They came once in a while, to savor the open
fields where the monkeys and squirrels, the lizards and snakes, the birds and
bush fowls, and all those other small animals grace their presence doting in
the warmth of the sun. They came once in a while, to reconcile with their
gods.

     "Whenever you go to visit offer a pig or a goat for a sacrifice. Pour
libation. You should also bathe in the sea. The water is your charm. You
should take your children along and let them bathe in the sea also. If not,
take back some of the water from the sea and let your children wash their
whole bodies with it," Pa Gorgi said.

    "Papa! I don't really understand," Samba said, hysterical. "What do I
have to do with what happens in your native land years ago? I don't want to
be any part of this."

     He became visibly perturbed.

     "You are part of this my son," his father intoned silently. "This may
sound incomprehensible to you, and it is, but it goes deeper than you could
fathom. We invoked the spirits of our departed ancestors to guide and protect
us, and Giboto epitomize their presence in our lives."

     Until few years ago, Pa Gorgi had absolutely distanced himself from this
family heritage, and refused to visit or have anything to do with his native
birthplace. He buried the village deep in his subconscious mind once he left
it, with all its traditions and beliefs. He had embraced the religious values
that shaped his outlook, growing up as a mission boy in Kabujang. When the
missionaries arrived in Kabujang, his father had given him to the care of the
parish priest. Although, his father had grudgingly accepted the new faith, he
had not forsaken Giboto and continued to administer the rites and sacrifices
associated with the god.

     When Pa Gorgi left the village, he went on to continue his education in
the best mission schools in Ndarr and elsewhere, as a seminarian. He later
realized that he had no vocation for the priesthood and left. As a penniless
young man he arrived in Banjul, the place he had spent his life for the last
six decades of more. During all this time, he had sincerely believed in the
irrelevance of the god in Kabujang, and never discussed it with his children.
He had, however, thought differently when the wrath of the god that haunted
him became strikingly evident.

      Samba had never entertained the notion of being part and parcel of his
father's remote culture, and didn't allow any of it to influence his life.
What happened in his native land many, many years ago, absolutely had no
bearing on him; or so he thought.

     He handed over to his father the bag he carried. It contained clothing
he had used already and wanted him to have. His father always felt proud
whenever he wore clothing that he gave him.

      "Papa! I am sorry that I have to go, but I will try and continue to be
of help to the family," Samba said contritely.

      "Take care of your future and your life, son," Pa Gorgi said. "Your
mother was grateful to you. I am grateful to you too. My heart is full of
gratitude for all you have done. Go in peace."

      His father held back his tears, which well up, in his eyes. Samba
hugged him warmly and left the room, his heart as heavy as a metal....


   Rene


NB: This is rather very long. Please excuse me for the errors.

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