Sister Nabiha,
This eloquently put tale, touches the deep
recesses of my heart. It puts a finger at the
throbbing pulse of all Gambians. With such pieces of
art, we can keep reminding Gambians, and the human
race at large of the tragedy of April 10. That way,
we can refrain from letting our guards down ever
again. We must stay involved, we must in our own
little ways, contribute to the democratic progress of
our country. Never again must we watch while
injustices are being practiced in the Gambia. For
they only lead to what we saw on April 10.
--- Nabiha Safriwe <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> With a limping gait she walked, leaning heavily on a
> walking stick. Her once serene face now wreathed in
> pain, she was dressed all in black but for the red
> head-tie. Dragging her bare feet, she slowly moved
> towards me. Her eyes, when she finally looked at me
> were devoid of all warmth. With a raspy voice she
> spoke, slowly and carefully as if she has all the
> time
> in the world. “I have come to thank you, she said
> “For the support you’ve given me during my moment of
> pain, our pain.” Sluggishly I shook my head
> signifying that it was the least I could have done,
> and uncomfortably shifted my gaze from her searching
> ones.
> Suddenly she grabbed my hands and her next
> question
> shocked me. “Look at me, really look at me and tell
> me what you see?” Startled, I instinctively moved
> backwards stumbling on a rock, losing my balance and
> landing heavily on my behind. “Look at these hands,
> these callused hands of mine,” She went on,
> undaunted
> by my fall. “For years I have cultivated the soil
> for
> the purpose of raising my son, all I wanted was his
> education, but look at what happened to him!”
> Slowly
> she put her cane down and gently started clapping
> her
> hands to the rhythm of her words. “ I have a pain,
> a
> pain so intense it immobilizes me, at night I lay
> awake with thoughts and memories that wrench at my
> heart and promise never to go away. My eyes are dry
> with ‘unwept’ tears, vainly I searched the horizon
> for
> my lost son but to no avail.” For a moment she was
> silent as if rehearsing her next line, a single tear
> slowly rolled down her left eye and landed on my
> dusty
> feet. “Tell me, who is going to tend to me in my
> old
> age and bury me when I die, now that I have lost my
> son, my only child, ahhh the pain it suffocates me!”
> As if trying to get rid of the discomfort she beats
> on
> her chest and unflinchingly looked at me. “I
> represent all mothers who lost a child or a loved
> one
> to this nightmarish regime, this regime that brought
> nothing but pain and injustice to all. Alas, these
> poor arms of mine will never again embrace him.
> Forever he has been taken away from me, he was but
> fifteen years old, a baby, my baby. His young
> promising life cut short by a bullet, ahhh, ahhh!”
> Touching her red head-tie, she whispers in a tired
> voice “This is for my son and all sons and
> daughters
> of the Gambia, who has been lost in this tragedy, it
> represent tears, tears that I cannot shed, tears of
> blood that I must learn to live with to the end of
> my
> days.” With these final words she turned and
> pathetically walked back to her hut, disappearing in
> the shades of the mango trees.
> In the distance
> the melodious voice of the Muezzin can be heard
> calling the faithful to prayers.
> Dazedly I got up, dusted my pants and with a heavy
> heart I headed back to the village ‘Bantaba’,
> thinking
> out loud. “What are we going to do about this
> problem
> that plagues our beloved motherland, the Gambia?”
>
>
>
> =====
>
>
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