BROTHER RENE:

Before critiquing your excerpt, I must first of all commend you for a job
very well done. I don't know what kind of book you are putting together, but
reading just this excerpt, I may be wrong, I have rediscovered my self as
someone who comes from a very RICH BACK GROUND, traditionally, and more
fundamentally, reading your short excerpt has further reminded me that there
is no place like home, sweet home. This is the KIND of excerpt we NEED to
ENERGIZE us in the struggle. Please, forgive me if I had misrepresented your
excerpt. You need to continue this.

My critique will commence from your first paragraph in which you lamented
vividly on the EARLY MORNING WEATHER in a Traditional Village, the NATURAL
EARLY MORNING routines or WORK SCHEDULES, if you would like, of MEN and
WOMEN, and also your skillfully highlighted the EARLY MORNING ROUTINES of
our traditional animal friends: The Fowls, Hens, Sheep and chickens. As you
well know, in every local households, unlike the Western Households in which
the best friends are dogs, the best friends in a local households are Fowls,
Sheep Hens, chickens; these friendly animals usually play a significant role
in becoming the ALARM CLOCKS of each household ie when Sun set is near, the
wonderful WAKE-UP CALL sounds of CO-CA-LI-COOH and MBEEA-MBEEA they make
punctuates the beginning of normal daily routines. For I could fully
remember my self, when I was growing up in the villages, it used to be the
CO-CO-LI-COOH and MBEEA-MBEEA sounds that used to wake me up for school, for
I had to travel miles to School. There was now need for a WHITE MAN'S fancy
ALARM CLOCKS, and yet the purpose is well served.

Similarly, the DEW you mentioned, which moistens the SAND and LEAVES,
reminds me of the GAMBIA WINTER: The DRY HAMATTAN WIND that blows from the
SAHARA DESERT to the ATLANTIC OCEAN. compared to the REAL SNOWY WINTER that
falls in Western World is incomparable. When I used to dodge, taking bathe
because the water becomes absolutely cold for bathe, and yet there was no
warm or hot water. Now that I am experiencing quite a vast different culture
in which it took me years to adjust, and still unable to adjust, my own
tradition and culture is more than just a name to me. I wish I am happily
back home to MAINTAIN and even improve my RICH tradition and culture. But
instead, some of us are drifted into "CAFE INTELLECTUALISM". That is to say,
NOW that I have earned a WESTERN EDUCATION, therefore, my tradition and
culture is no longer of value to me and offspring. Or now that I have
graduated from OXFORD, HARVARD, LSE, CAMBRIDGE etc, I feel too good to
mingle even with my own parents. This kind of CAFE INTELLECTUALISM is a
malaise in our society, which MUST be eradicated if we would be able to
effect solid growth and development in our Country. This is why, according
to your middle paragraph, PA GORGI did not mean to SCARE SAMBA, but instead,
he only meant to prevent SAMBA from drifting into "CAFE INTELLECTUALISM".

To conclude, RENE, your excerpt has made me to resurrect, and do soul
searching, rather than drifting into CAFE INTELLECTUALISM. But to my dismay,
I have even some of my family members who have long settled in the US and
Uk, and France, have all drifted into CAFE INTELLECTUALISM, for some of them
could not even manage to encourage their own offspring to speak our local
languages, which I hate so much that whenever I visit them, we are always in
conflict. Finally, RENE, you excerpt has made me to CONTINUE on the STRUGGLE
in order to make sure that PEACE and TRANQUILITY is restored back home so
that I could some day return home to my little village; this is why, earlier
on, I have mentioned that the excerpt has made me to realize that there is
no place like home-sweet home. To that end, RENE, from my point of view,
please continue to insert your excerpts in order to STIMULATE and ENERGIZE
us to further APPLY PRESSURE on the MORON. Your excerpts are definitely
NEEDED RIGHT NOW to give us IMPETUS in our struggle. THANK YOU RENE, AND GOD
BLESS YOU.

"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."


" 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
conducted 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."

ANSUMANA KUJABI(THIRD-Truth Telling, Honesty, Integrity, Responsibility and
Democracy)



>From: Rene  Badjan <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Gambia and related-issues mailing list
><[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: An Excerpt
>Date: Sun, 11 Mar 2001 08:51:59 EST
>
>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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