Dear Mr. Jallow,

    Thank you for this lovely piece.  I just returned from my second trip 
to my husband's home in Allunhari.  I love all the kids and people I've 
met there.  Your writing makes me imagine I can understand all the things 
the kids say (not that I saw kids taunting anyone) and something of their 
internal lives, tho I'm still struggling just to get my greetings right!

with best regards,


Zainaba Warner (Dukuray)

Seattle, Washington


*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

On Tue, 1 Feb 2005, Baba Galleh Jallow wrote:

> 
> 
> 
> One day, Long ago . . .
> 
> By Baba Galleh Jallow
> 
> ‘Daddy! Daddy?’
> 
> My mother’s voice did not distract me from watching the drama on the
> street. I was safely hidden behind our bamboo fence and peeping through a
> crack. Pappa the mad man was still a few feet away, but I could hear the
> children taunting him.
> 
> ‘Daddy is that you?’ My mother called again. I glanced over my shoulder
> and saw her standing at the kitchen door.
> 
> ‘No, Mama it’s not me. I’m here,’ I said.
> 
> ‘Don’t you go out there fighting,’ she warned.
> 
> ‘There’s no one fighting,’ I said. ‘The children are taunting Pappa.’
> 
> ‘Well don’t you go taunting any mad men or you will get your head
> broken,’ she said.
> 
> I resumed my peeping as mama disappeared back into the kitchen. Pappa was
> now almost adjacent my hiding place and I felt my heart beating faster. I
> was so afraid of mad men, particularly Pappa. People said mad men had
> superhuman strength, their own strength and the strength of the devils
> that possessed them. So I was never one to taunt a mad man or go mango
> stealing.
> 
> I saw Pappa walk past me, his gray tattered boubou reaching only to his
> knees, his big hands dangling by his sides. He was always barefooted and
> bareheaded. I never heard him talk. Sometimes, he ignored the children
> and would not chase them as they were now challenging him to do. But it
> was known that if Pappa decided to chase somebody, he would never give
> up. A few months before, he had chased Ndoi right into her mother’s
> bedroom and pulled her out from under the bed and almost strangled her to
> death. Only the timely intervention of Ndoi’s father and brothers saved
> her life. And there she was again with the other children, shouting
> ‘Pappa come and chase me! Pappa come and chase me!’ On that day, it
> seemed, Pappa was in no mood for chasing anybody and soon, the children
> gave up.
> 
> Pappa was just one of the many mad men in the village. No one knew where
> they came from and each one of them hated something. Pappa hated ‘come
> and chase me.’ Gankal, who could not speak and who barked like a dog,
> hated ‘wet skin.’ Like Pappa, Gankal sometimes ignored the children when
> they called him ‘wet skin.’ But sometimes, he would grab a stone, a
> bottle or a stick and furiously haul it at the children. And he would
> angrily bark like a dog and keep hauling missiles. One day, he smashed
> Basiru’s head with a big stone and drew a lot of blood. I never called
> Gankal ‘wet skin’ and when I saw him coming down the road, I either
> turned back or hid somewhere till he passed.
> 
> And there was Alagi, who hated Oh, Tuuk! Alagi did not beat people or
> throw missiles at them. His specialty was cussing. He had a very sharp
> tongue and cussed the parents of anyone who dared to call him Oh, Tuuk. I
> never called him Oh, Tuuk. Alagi knew the entire Koran by heart and
> people said too much learning drove him mad. They said he had read some
> verses that were too heavy for his head.
> 
> And there were Father Borro, Kumba the Genie and Franco the thief. Franco
> the thief stole anything under the sun - from clothes left in the sun to
> dry, to a raw piece of fish - anything that could help buy a glass or
> bottle of senga, or local beer. Franco the thief was always drunk.
> 
> After Pappa disappeared into the distance without a chase, I came out of
> hiding and joined the other children. It was a happy day for me. There
> was no school and my Koranic teacher had traveled. So I was free to play
> soccer and wrestle in the sand and go hunting birds or do anything the
> other children wanted to do.
> 
> Pappa was long forgotten when someone spotted Grandpa Biram in the
> distance and shouted, ‘Grandpa Biram is coming!’ We all scrambled to our
> feet and ran toward Grandpa Biram chanting, ‘Grandpa Biram where’s Yasin?
> Grandpa Biram where’s Yasin?’ Grandpa Biram responded ‘Yasin is in
> Paradise.’
> 
> Grandpa Biram where’s Yasin? Yasin in the Paradise. Grandpa Biram where’s
> Yasin . . . ?
> 
> Yasin was Grandpa Biram’s mother and every time we saw Grandpa Biram
> coming down the street, we followed him chanting, asking where Yasin was.
> And he would tirelessly respond, ‘Yasin is in Paradise.’ I chanted after
> Grandpa Biram because he was not a mad man like Pappa or Gankal. He was a
> very old man who always wore a red hat and walked very slowly, using a
> walking stick. But he was a nice old man and all of us children loved
> him. He never got annoyed at us or refused to answer our endless
> questions.
> 
> That day, as usual, we followed Grandpa Biram right up to his compound
> gate where he stopped and turning toward us, kindly said, as he usually
> did: ‘Yasin is in Paradise. Thank you all. Now run home and play.’
> 
> ‘Goodbye Grandpa Biram,’ we all chanted. ‘Goodbye Grandpa Biram!’ Then we
> ran back to continue playing.
> 
> The next day I saw a lot of people hurrying down the street. I ran up to
> my mama and asked her where so many people were going.
> 
> ‘Grandpa Biram died,’ she said.
> 
> I ran back to my friends to announce the news.
> 
> ‘Grandpa Biram died,’ I announced. I don’t remember if anyone heard me or
> not.
> 
> 
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