Thanks Awa. These excerpts are part of a 250 page manuscript. I feel much
should be done about the story itself, in terms of developing the characters,
the places, and being more familiar with the issues under consideration. It
is necessary, in this respect, to visit the places I want to write about, or
at least should be the basis of what I want to write about. Since the setting
of the story is about this imaginary Gambian village, it is necessary to be
in the Gambia for a while to work on this as a project. These are the
contraints. Trying to convey images which could have been better treated had
it been that you were there physically to conduct the research, make the
observations, interviews, and visit places that can best project what you
want to write. This is the work that needs to be done. It may take time, but
hopefully it would be done. I have been sitting on this for three years.
Meanwhile, I will share the skeleton of what I have now. Again, these
excerpts are randomly selected.

                                                   *


    The aircraft, a metallic bird with outstretched silvery wings, glided
lazily on the wet tarmac, and came to a grinding halt. The landing stairs,
unfolded slowly, effortlessly, a mildly, creaky, shaky, railed metal
stairwell that anchored steadfastly on the ground. The hordes of passengers
tiredly descended from the aircraft; they were weary, exuberant, impatient
and acutely restless. They walked hurriedly, briskly, the short distance into
the airport terminal.

     Samba followed deligently, excitedly, the rest of the passengers, who
eagerly formed a long line behind the immigration desk at the International
Arrival lounge. The passengers glowing faces, like embers in a dying fire,
masked a burning hunger for all the glittering spectacles that lurked
enticingly beyond the airport. A big eye-catching sign artfully designed,
emblazoned the words: Welcome To New York.

    Samba was now thirty years old. He was tall and of medium built. He
weighed less than a 150 lbs. He had a bronze colored skin. His hair was
black, soft and curly; his eyes small, joyous, with a thin line of eyelashes.
His nose a little pointed, he had a round-shaped mouth with one of the front
teeth jutted out. He had sunken cheeks; nonetheless, he appeared quite
handsome in his new navy blue suit.

   "Passport please," the burly immigration officer requested.

   Samba for a moment appeared visibly startled from his reverie. It was now
his turn at the long queue. He timidly handed over his passport. He
remembered scornfully, joylessly, a friend whom immigration officers had
heartlessly returned home with the next available flight. His friend had
acceptance from a school, an I-20, but made the cruel mistake of arriving
three weeks after schools had already opened for the Fall. Samba saw his
friend wear the cloak of melancholy as they returned him home; a boisterous
send-off party held few hours earlier on his behalf.

   "Next...," the immigration officer scoffed.

    Samba's relieved was profound. The fear that cuddled in his chest,
pounding nervously with an irate fist, in that brief encounter, suddenly
fizzled out like a punctured ballon. He had made it. He gave a long sigh of
relief. His travel bag hung loosely on his shoulder, he strode with ease into
the welcoming lounge. He did not expect anyone to welcome him. When he called
Sainey Touray, the person who would be accommodating him in New York prior to
his departure, there was no indication that someone would pick him up from
the airport.

     There were throngs of people in the welcoming lounge. Some were holding
big signs with the names of the people they had come to pick scribbled neatly
with colored markers. They raised their signs high above their heads. Others
scrutinized gleefully, like dissected frogs in a science lab, the stern and
tired faces that emerged from the arrival lounge.

    Samba had never met Sainey Touray before. He had been to Banjul only
twice, for the almost twenty years he had been living in New York city.  A
friend who had arranged for him to stay at his place, introduced them over
the phone. He unreservedly gave Samba his address at the Bronx, and told him
gently how to get there.

    Samba suddenly felt hounded, like a bunch of stray dogs, by different
people who naggingly asked whether he needed a taxi. Some of those who had
approached him had features that were peculiarly Gambian or Senegalese. They
might have known that he was a Gambian. They came up to him warmly and said:

    "Njama ngam"

    "Njama rek," he replied

    "Do you know Sainey Touray? The marabout who lives in the Bronx," he
asked.

    "I know him very well. Are you going to his house? I can take you there,"
one of the persons answered quickly. He had lips so full like a chunk of
roasted beef.

   They were now squabbling among themselves as to who should take Samba. It
happened that Sainey Touray was a prominent figure in the Gambian immigrant
community in New York, and was also strongly regarded as a spiritual and
cultural leader. His standing and moral authority, however, went far beyond
the Gambian immigrant community; he was a renowned marabout.

     "Look! I can take you there. The person you are going to is my uncle,"
the person with the big lips said in mild irritation.

     "Well! Let's go then," Samba said feeling tired now.

    He sat comfortably on the back of the old Lincoln Continental, and
watched curiously outside as the driver navigated expertly the maze of turns
and circles, to get out of the airport and into the highway. He couldn't take
his eyes from the window, turning his head to the right and to the left, as
he greedily indulged in the spectacle before him. The driver was now plying
across a long bridge; he then came to a toll booth. He lowered his door
window, dangled his left hand outside and paid the toll booth attendant a
fee.

     "That bridge we just passed is the Whitestone Bridge. Amazing!  Is it
not?" the driver asked.

     "It is more than amazing, I guess. Right now, I am dazzled with all I am
seeing," Samba repled.

     The whole city was aflame, the lights so dazzling, like a myraid of
firballs in the sky. Beyond, gaping defiantly towards the clouds, the tall
buildings, the towering buildings, stood impressively everywhere, the wonders
of modern architecture that mockingly defied the limits of the sky. The
expansive highways, running parallel over and under, across bridges and into
tunnels, invoked a marvelous spectacle that jolted one's imagination.

    The taxi driver pressed hard on the accelerator zooming passed the scenic
skyline that Samba found so tantalizing. The night was wickedly cold, and the
wintry wind coldly caressed his face when mistakenly he rolled down his door
window.

    The taxi driver was now in the Bronx, and came to street where a group of
other taxi drivers, with leather gloves and heavy jackets, gathered in front
of a Convenient store chattering mildly.

   "How are you doing guys," he greeted them enthusiastically. "I have a
newly arrived Gambian pasenger."

    They were all from the same ethnic group, and spoke in their language.
Most of them have day jobs. They worked very hard in restaurants, sweat
shops, merchandize factories, gas stations etc, and worked at night also as
taxi drivers. A very industrious ethnic group. Well noted, they laboriously
toiled, basking under the burning Sun, the diamond mines in Freetown and
Zaire. They possessed in-depth business acumen, the basis of their survival,
demonstrated with remarkable wit and zeal.

    Except for few other people who dared to brace the biting cold, the
streets deserted wholly. Finally, they came to a very tall brownish building,
or so it appeared in the dark. The contours of the building against the
sparsely lighted street conjured an image of a menacing monster. They got out
of the car and walked slowly towards the building. A security guard, dressed
in layers of clothing like a corn, approached them and asked spitefully:

     "What do you want?"

    "We are going to the eighteenth floor, apartment 36," the driver replied.

    "You have to use the intercom for them to open the door," the security
guard mouthed.

     He sluggishly walked back to his metal desk, and resumed looking
excitedly at his adult magazine. The driver buzzed the apartment, and a
sleepy voice asked in a croak sound:

     "Who is that?"

     "It is me. I have a visitor for Sainey," the driver responded in their
language.

    They door opened, and they walked into the lobby of the building. The
driver pressed the button for the elevator, and Samba heard distinctly the
squeaking noise the elevator made as it descended. It was an aged elevator.

    He led Samba quietly to apartment 36. He knocked gently the door, and the
same sleepy voice answered from within. After they waited for a few minutes
the door opened and he herded Samba inside.

    What Samba saw when he walked into the apartment gave him a jolt. There
were about six people sleeping in the living room. Some slept on the couches,
and the others on the floor. The driver exchanged a few words with the sleepy
person and left.

    "Enjoy your stay," he said to Samba. He shook his hand affectionately.

    Samba sat on one of the vacant couches. The sleepy person said to him in
broken English:

      "You can lie down and make yourself comfortable." He put out the light,
and the next minute Samba heard him snoring loudly like a braying donkey.

     Samba sat in the darkness, and was momentarily lost in his thoughts. He
closed his eyes tightly, and was taken through a cloud of distance, back to
his compound in Christekunda. He sauntered idly into his bedroom, and
sprawled cozily in his neatly made bed. He slowly, painstakingly opened his
two eyes, and frieghteningly greeted eerie darkness, except for the snoring,
heavy breathing and audible sounds coming from the sleeping persons.

     "Everything would be alright in the morning," he muttered to himself.

     He removed his shoes slowly, and crouched fittingly into the small couch
in his clothes. He covered himself with a thin piece of cloth that he found
lying on the floor. The house was warm with the temperature at least sixty or
so degrees. He couldn't sleep for the rest of the night or morning, and twist
and turn in the small couch until daylight broke.

     The activity in the apartment when the Sun began to peep in was
bewildering. With the number of people sleeping in this three bedroom
apartment, they took turns to use the only bathroom downstairs. Those who
slept in the living room did not wait to use the bathroom downstairs. They
went into the kitchen, and one after the other washed themselves up
temporarily.

    They would put one leg in the kitchen sink and washed it up to the knee.
They would then remove that leg and put in the other one doing the same
thing. They would washed one hand to the elbow and then the other. They
washed their faces three times, and used their fourth fingers as a tootbrush
to clean their teeth and mouths.  Finally, they rinsed their mouths and
spewed the water splattering into the sink....

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