Video: Several kids from the neighborhood, along with my brothers and sisters, crowded in around me with so much anticipation that I couldn’t even open the box. When I finally was able to light one of the sparklers, they were so amazed it was as if I had actually brought Las Vegas fireworks to Sibanor.
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.
My life of fro-yo, high-speed Internet and a trendy wardrobe is nothing but a distant memory. Everything in Gambia is different, including me. And somewhere along the line, dare I say, it all started feeling normal.
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.
As we dressed for the cultural show, my mother draped strings of beads around my neck and across my chest in a traditional Jola fashion. She stood back, looked at me and sucked her teeth. “Ahaaaaa,” she said. “Nice, nice! My toma will be first.”
