This is a story I am developing.







         Mam Biram was very cautious, and took notice of everything
around him, as he walked briskly on the sandy street of Ebou Town. He
crossed the main highway going to Brikima. He was on his way home from
the political bureau. This was his usual route, although he took the
extra precaution of not using the same street every day. Some of the
streets were poorly lit, and most of the other streets were in semi or
total darkness, depending on the number of houses that had their lights
on casting a shadow of brightness on the looming darkness.

        On the main highway going to Brikama, the street was crowded on
both sides of the road, and underneath the electric light poles which
stood a far distance apart, groups of women sat chatting excitedly in
front of their displayed wares. They sold roasted peanuts, oranges and
bananas, cassava and beans with palm oil gravy,  and other food items.
The Odeon cinema, strategically located in the middle of the street a
half mile from the Serrekunda market, added to the excitement of the
robust comings and goings of the gleeful people on the street. The
street became alive with the honking of cars. The laughter and
shouting, the bantering and noisy din, reverberated into the depths of
the dark and humid night.

         As soon as he crossed the highway, Mam Biram quickly 
disappeared
in one of the adjourning streets. He avoided the crowded sidewalks as
much as possible, and most of the time wore a guise that made it
difficult for people to recognize him. He exuded an aura of modesty and
humility, in both the manner in which he dressed and the way he
approached people, that generated a lot of curiosity and enthusiasm
around him. His public persona was the face of a serious, committed and
dedicated servant of the people, who was not afraid to say publicly
what others would only utter in whispers. He exhibited a thorough
understanding and mastery of the public debate, which earned him a
reputable standing among his fellow citizens.

     Mam Biram fumbled with his keys in the dark, and clumsily walked
into the sparsely furnished living room. He put the lights on. He
sauntered into his bedroom and undressed, and then walked back into the
living room. He made a steaming cup of coffee, and then sat in the
brown leather couch. He stretched his right hand outward and picked a
book from the books shelve in the corner of the room. He carefully
flipped through the pages. There was a wooden mahogany table in the
middle of the living room, and a portable typewriter sat discreetly on
a writing desk by the bedroom door.

      Mam Biram sipped his coffee and started to read. He had a long
night ahead of him, and a lot of writing to do as well. He was the
editor in chief of the daily independent newspaper, The Nation, which
served as a tool to educate about policy issues and other social and
political matters. The Nation, also, was invariably the organ of the
political organization he had helped to found, and was the
quintessential vehicle of dissent that gave voice to the voiceless. Mam
Biram used his unequivocal stance against the excesses and misguided
policies of the government, to highlight everything that was wrong in
the country.



Rene

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