I finally caved and gave into my lifelong hatred of cats.
The stray neighborhood cat was purring incessantly outside my bedroom window and after hours of sleeplessness, I finally decided to get up and see why it was crying so loudly. It was, after all, my fault the cat was homeless and hungry in the first place.
Although a big river divides the country in half, an alarming number of Gambians don’t know how to swim. Superstitions and traditional tales have even inspired fear about the river and the crocodiles that hide in its waters.
I usually sleep through the 5 a.m. call to prayer, having finally grown accustomed to the faint mutterings from the faraway mosque. But it’s never long until I’m forced awake anyway. My family, of course, owns the biggest cock on the block and the rooster never fails to crow at sunrise.
Auntie is my new little sister, a 4-year-old orphan my family cares for. And although she is less than a quarter of my size, she has appointed herself my body guard.
In The Gambia, everyone gets new clothes and shoes to wear to the prayer grounds and out to greet neighbors. The kids get so dressed up they are practically unrecognizable in their fancy clothes and gaudy make up. And to be honest, although it’s not the intent, some do actually look scary. Instead of parading around for candy, though, they ask for “salibo,” any small amount of money neighbors are willing to give.
Known as “the tree of life,” some baobab trees have been dated as ancient as 6,000 years old. The tree in Sibanor stands at the center of the village, a watchful presence harboring even more stories than the toothless weathered widows who kneel below it in prayer.
I can now carry a full bucket of water on my head without spilling a drop. It is actually much easier than waddling the few hundred meters from the tap to my compound with the bucket awkwardly in-hand.
