Hi All,

Sometime back, I asked a somewhat cryptic question about information on this year's Hajj. Many decent folk responded not only to my enquiry but also in a spirit of solidarity to provide general information on the overall organisation of the pilgrimage by the Gambian authorities.

My aunt, of whom I once wrote in this space many years ago, is a traditional rural Mandinka woman. She took delight in hard work in the rice fileds, treated me to delicious bowls of chicken stew when I spend a day ploughing her waterlogged rice paddy in wet August days of years and years ago. She would woo herself with songs to offset the ache of hoeing crusts of mud, clearing up the grass for rice seedlings. Work mixed with pleasure ensured a natural supply of renewed energy, and like most other women she left for home only because domestic chores were waiting to be completed. It was usually that millet or coose needed pounding in her old wooden mortar for the next day's meal, and preparing supper for the evening. The rainy season in the village is otherwise uneventful for boys, except for the thrill of stealing fresh maize from the gardens of someone else's uncle.

My aunt would willingly answer to my inquisitive questions about how she and my mom lived as their father's children. Why did he settle in Kartong? How was my dad, a fulani "tumaranke" from out of town, treated by the mandinka? She was always there to satisfy my youthful curiosity when my mom would dismiss it as strong-headednes. By the time I was in high school, she had already become my personal encyclopedia. 

So one day I asked her why she attended NCP rallies when she was an ardent PPP supporter. Political rallies are the next best thing to a free theatre, she said. It was huge fun, listening to Oustas Mass Sanneh of Sukuta. Together with Mass Jobe, the two of them remained for many years NCP's most formidable orators, literally sending chills of fear down the spine of PPP opponents. They would weave great mandinka proverbs supported by verses from the Holy Quran and release the massive weight of devine condemnation on the heads of A.A Njai and Sir Dawda Jawara, barreling salvos of laughter and deafening applause from the excited crowds. Sheriff "ngunja", Jawara "chaalo"... and so the endless pounding and counter-strike went on and on from one village to the next.
Like my mom and most other women, my aunt went to PPP rallies as a matter of duty. But she went to NCP rallies to get fun and feed her secret scepticism about the "truth" of PPP claims.

 [While I was in detention following the failed rebellion led by Kukoi Sanyang, a cell-mate by the name of Ringo - a Camelia-smoking fish monger from Brikama - told us a story about Sanjally Bojang and Oustas Mass Jobe. They were on the campaign trail and as if by design, the NCP contingent met in mid river with PPP folk on the ferry from Dankunku. The Oustass began screaming at Sanjally on the other ferry, verbally tormenting him about his crookedness and his failure to pay the seasonal workers on his farms their proper dues. Sanjally was so furious his beard started to tremble and he threatened to swim across to the NCP ferry for a long overdue fight. But he gave up when he realised he was going to be alone on that "mission impossible", and he had no intention of facing a ferry-load of agitated NCP militiants all by himself. For years I laughed at this rivetting cinema].

So when I learnt from my aunt last November that her best friend was to do the Hajj, sponsored by President Jammeh, I instructed my brother to "silently" make preparations for auntie also to travel to Mecca. We could not surprise her much though, as she had to be involved in part of the documentation process. Nevertheless, she was highly excited and started to jump all over the place travelling everywhere bidding friends and relatives good-bye even before she new of her ETD.
After paying the 43,285 dalasi for ticket and lodging and visa (a permit issued by the Hajj Cerificate Authority, I think) I expected that an accurate time of departure will also be given. All of us quickly adjusted to that inconsistency when I learned that things do not work in Gambia quite that way. After countless telephone calls using pre-paid calling cards, and transferring reasonable sums of dollars and Saudi riyals for her pocket money, things were finally settled except for one minor detail.

I telephoned and requested to speak to my aunt. Fortunately her "one-nose" friend who was being sponsored by the president was visiting her. I spoke to her friend first who would not listen to anything I had to say before I hear out her long- distance prayers for me and my family. She said she would pray for both myself and Yahya Jammeh in Mecca.

"No, Mba Kaddy, you need not pray for Yaya Jammeh", I said as gently as I could. 
Amidst a giggle, she managed to say "Woi Mammadu, you cannot say that about anyone. He is sponsoring me and many others; he deserves some prayers too".

"I know that. But he is the President and he is the healthiest and  wealthiest man in Gambia. So what would he need prayers for? Please pray for us "chaali frayo" instead". With that she bursted into an endless guffaw. 

Then my aunt took the receiver. After clearing the air about prayers for President Jammeh, I asked her whether my brother had purchased a suitcase for her. She answered in the negative but said she was uncertain whether they should need one.

After speaking with my brother we agreed that he should make enquiries about luggages at the agency the next day. 
I called again the next evening and got informed that none of the pilgrims would need a suitcase; that the good agency, by blessings from an even better President, was going to provide suitcases for all the pilgrims. 
I nearly screamed into the telephone. 

"So the price of the suitcase is already charged within the price of the ticket?
What if your sister insists on lending auntie her suitcase, would we get some money back?"
My brother did not immediately get the fun. But when I heard him say to himself that "barreh, mbe nyo dia banna jangneh!" I began to to laugh.

Two days later Ebrima Ceesay's deep throat threw us the story about the grand suitcase rally at July 22 square in Banjul. I could not believe my stupidity. I asked myself why I did not not see it coming...? Why did my sixth sense fail to go as far as seeing the propaganda inherent in the suitcase business. The Gang of Five had rallied the entire Hajj population to display its generosity and scheming organising expertise by providing the pilgrims suitcases they had already paid for at a huge profit. They assigned different colour of suitcases to different flights so as to avoid confusing the illiterate rurals many of whom were getting their first taste of sophisticated modern air travel. My aunt got a blue suitcase, the colour for the third flight!

A departure date was promised three times, but no plane would come. They had to glue their ears to the radio and eyes to the television to catch news of their departure. When the day finally arrived they had been ordered to be at the airport at 5 p.m. Their flight took off six hours later!

The same harrowing experience of uncertainty about the flight back home was to be yet another ordeal; and this time it was on foreign soil, far from the comforting presence of family and familiar places. But this is the Hajj. A trip and journey of a lifetime for my aunt and a million other muslims the world over. Koranic legends of Moses' parting of the Red Sea, Abraham's well of zamm zamm water, the Kaaba, and many other old places, that they imagine to be as old as the world itself, all suddenly acquire a truely awesome physical presence. If you are illiterate and lack a coordinated orientation about time and distance, geography an history become one and the same thing in your mind. Islam and Faith in Allah and the Holy prophet are perceived with  a new realism, capable of taming the most impatient amongst men. So waiting for a journey back home, after waiting for a lifetime to get there, is just no huge deal. Everyone comes home essentially fulfilled. 

So when I spoke with my aunt after her return on Friday, February 28th, she naturally had forgotten about her suitcase. 

The blue suitcase, has still not arrived. When I last spoke with my brother, he informed me that the suitcase may come by sea instead!  For all I know, it is still on transit, at a distance a cosmic imagination from Kartong. 

So fellow G-lers, if a blue suticase comes your way, whether you are in Bergen or Nashville or Baghdad, or Doha,  kindly remember my aunt. It may just be hers!

Thank You for your patience,

Momodou S Sidibeh.

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