Baba,
      I have read with glee, and at times with great amusement, your short
stories that detail the innocent and superstitious narrative of Momat about the
one-legged horse; about the fire that burnt on and off under the big Soto
tree; about Maam, the big monster that swallowed kids when they go to the bush for
circumcission and about the ninki nanka. These kinds of stories were very
much a part of growing up in Gambia in those days. You nicely weave them into
your stories bringing back memories to many who grew up around that period. I
cannot agree more with the importance of the work you have started with these
narratives, making many of us to relive the past and the innocence and excitement
the gives energy and vitality to our young lives. Keep it up.

    To compliment your present story, I will share this narrative.

                                                       *


       I was six years old when I attended the St. John's kindergarten. The
catholic nuns ran the school located at the grounds of the convent at Buckle
street in Banjul. It was just a walking distance from my compound.

       I remember walking as prideful as a peacock, in my new navy blue
shorts and white short sleeves shirt uniform, as my mother led my niece and me to
our classroom. On this first day in school, I had a pair of black and white
striped sneakers; the only other time besides festive occasions that I had worn
shoes. I always walked bare-footed. I was a shy kid, but somehow managed to
make few friends on this first day at school.

        At school each day, I anxiously waited like a stalking cat for the
break time bell to ring. With a loud hurrah, the other children and I rushed out
to the school grounds to play. The noise, the shouting and yelling on the
concrete paved school ground, the clapping and singing of a thousand pieces of
sound in rhythmic harmony. The girls played Acara, the game in which two girls
faced each other, clapped their hands and tried to match their outstretched
legs. If there was a match one would be out and another took her place. The boys
played hide and seek behind the school toilet, in the empty classrooms and in
every nook and corner of the school ground. Others would form a ring, a
merry-go-round, jumping and dancing.

      I ate my lunch with my friends, cassava and beans with palm oil gravy,
and wandered around the school ground being naughty. However, when I was in
primary three and about nine years old I loathed going to school with
unmistakably passion. The other kids constantly bullied me.

      I remember Benjie, the big bully. He was about my age but more muscular
and stronger. I was tall and skinny like a bamboo stick. I cautiously avoided
having fights with my peers. Benjie knew how timid I was and bullied me.
Every day at break time, like a wounded lion he wandered around the school ground
looking for me.

      "Give me your lunch," Benjie barked at me.

      "I won't." I clutched my lunch bag very tightly to my chest.

       "Don't you hear me? I say give me your lunch," he angrily repeated his
demands.

        Benjie then wrestled the lunch bag from my tight gripped. He ate my
lunch while I looked. The lunch made of mboru ak akara, bread and fried mashed
beans with oil gravy, that my mother bought from YaAdam the food vendor at the
corner of our street.

        With the patience of a lamb, Benjie always looked for me in the
crowded school ground. If I was fortunate to see him first, I melted into the thick
crowd like wet salt. He would then run after me, and like Jonah in the belly
of the fish, he too would be swallowed in the crowd.

        Benjie and I lived in the same street. Our compounds were adjacent to
each other. The altercation between us continued throughout the school term.
Whenever we came across each other in the street, Benjie always bullied me. I
became so timorous; I had to watch out for him before I venture to go out into
the street. However, with a muscle of determination, I was emboldened one
sweaty, sunny afternoon. Benjie saw me at the junction of the street from my
compound, and rushed to blow and kick me as usual. I defensively stood my grounds
like a ramming ram. He was taken aback by my stance and asked:

    "Do you want to fight?"

    "If you are ready, I am ready," I timidly replied. My biceps sagged like
a bag of bones.

    We stared at each other; we appraised each other like a ripe mango at the
treetop beyond our reach. With surprising agility we interlocked. I got
around him, lifted him as gently as the pelting rain and sent him crashing down. He
landed on the ground on his back with a big thud as if a big pebble was
thrown into a basin of water. I sat on top of him; his face as ghastly as a
petrified monkey's as he received punch upon punch on his pancake face. Rivulets of
blood formed a gully and streamed from the corners of his mouth. A passerby
came to Benjie's rescue and with zest separated us.

      I also remember an appalling situation when I was in primary four. I
instinctively knew that I was in trouble, when I walked into my class that
fateful morning and all the pupils started jeering at me. The hair on my head was
all shaven off, like the rump of a monkey, as a punishment by my father. When
the bell rung for break time, I was the first person to run out of the
classroom. But the bullies in the class followed me in high pursuit. They caught up
with me, and one after the other slapped me hard on my bare head. I ran all the
way home whining like a hungry piglet.

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