With a limping gait she walked, leaning heavily on a
walking stick.  Her once serene face now wreathed in
pain, she was dressed all in black but for the red
head-tie.  Dragging her bare feet, she slowly moved
towards me.  Her eyes, when she finally looked at me
were devoid of all warmth.  With a raspy voice she
spoke, slowly and carefully as if she has all the time
in the world.  “I have come to thank you, she said
“For the support you’ve given me during my moment of
pain, our pain.”  Sluggishly I shook my head
signifying that it was the least I could have done,
and uncomfortably shifted my gaze from her searching
ones.
        Suddenly she grabbed my hands and her next question
shocked me.  “Look at me, really look at me and tell
me what you see?”  Startled, I instinctively moved
backwards stumbling on a rock, losing my balance and
landing heavily on my behind.  “Look at these hands,
these callused hands of mine,” She went on, undaunted
by my fall.  “For years I have cultivated the soil for
the purpose of raising my son, all I wanted was his
education, but look at what happened to him!”  Slowly
she put her cane down and gently started clapping her
hands to the rhythm of her words.  “ I have a pain, a
pain so intense it immobilizes me, at night I lay
awake with thoughts and memories that wrench at my
heart and promise never to go away.  My eyes are dry
with ‘unwept’ tears, vainly I searched the horizon for
my lost son but to no avail.”  For a moment she was
silent as if rehearsing her next line, a single tear
slowly rolled down her left eye and landed on my dusty
feet.  “Tell me, who is going to tend to me in my old
age and bury me when I die, now that I have lost my
son, my only child, ahhh the pain it suffocates me!”
As if trying to get rid of the discomfort she beats on
her chest and unflinchingly looked at me.  “I
represent all mothers who lost a child or a loved one
to this nightmarish regime, this regime that brought
nothing but pain and injustice to all. Alas, these
poor arms of mine will never again embrace him.
Forever he has been taken away from me, he was but
fifteen years old, a baby,  my baby.  His young
promising life cut short by a bullet, ahhh, ahhh!”
Touching her red head-tie, she whispers in a tired
voice  “This is for my son and all  sons and daughters
of the Gambia, who has been lost in this tragedy, it
represent tears, tears that I cannot shed, tears of
blood that I must learn to live with to the end of my
days.”  With these final words she turned and
pathetically walked back to her hut, disappearing in
the shades  of the mango trees.                                         In the distance
the melodious voice of the Muezzin can be heard
calling the faithful to prayers.
Dazedly I got up, dusted my pants and with a heavy
heart I headed back to the village ‘Bantaba’, thinking
out loud.  “What are we going to do about this problem
that plagues our beloved motherland, the Gambia?”



=====


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