----- Original Message -----
From: <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Tuesday, May 17, 2005 8:47 PM
Subject: Re: [>-<] The Owl and the Pussy Cat


> 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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