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.
There’s a saying that goes: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” And so, I wait. I wait for teachers to show up to school. I wait for students to be assigned classes. I wait for meetings to begin. I wait for lessons to be taught.
As I was moving into my new home, my father turned to me and relented that he wished the house could be nicer. Hearing those words from a Gambian as you step into what will be your living space for the next two years is a scary moment.
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.
Every day for the past 30 days, we have only eaten rice and fish. Actually, fish only comes on the lucky days; sometimes, it’s only rice and leaves. As the days of rice and leaves and fish drug on, I tried to think of each meal as one closer to the day we would eat meat. The night before felt like Christmas Eve as I anxiously awaited “The Sacrifice.”
