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By Madeline Ileleji
I suppose I must have really been a fool to not notice the strangeness in his wild tongue. He was a lover and a friend, an adequate portion of friendship and love that must have blinded all the wisdom I once prided myself for. Yet as I knew from before, that other day, I was a friend to him, the lover belonged to me alone and the friendship was ours to share. I suppose it’s right to say we all love a little too much, maybe if I had just loved him a little less, I would have known he was a wild thing and all the conversations about the ocean and the big ships would have given me clues. Not until I had my heart shattered did it really occur to me that all of his life plans began with that powerfully pissed off statement.
“Do you know that about a hundred and fifty eight illegal immigrants have died at sea in the last two months and no one is talking about it?” Molamin said as we crossed the road. “No,” I replied staring into his dark face as I trailed behind him on the Banjul Highway in my blue school uniform.
“A hundred and fifty eight people died in that boat headed for Spain Sannet.” He said again, calling out my name to emphasize his frustration. The way he called out my name with the gentleness of his voice almost got him a tender reply, but then, that wouldn’t change the narrative.
“A hundred and fifty eight illegal migrants died,” I repeated trying to point out the fact that they were illegal migrants. He gave me a horrified look, one that said my response disappointed him. Then his eyes hovered beyond the graves to the deep blue of the ocean and just like every other day I knew I couldn’t compete with his love for the ocean. Molamin was a sea person, he lived for the ocean, that wildness of God’s divine creation intoxicated him. Every time we walked past the Banjul cemetery, he always looked beyond the graves to the beach and into the sea as though his calling had been made ages ago. He took his time when he watched the sea drawing in all his senses and all his soul and spirit, something I could never figure out in all the long years that we’ve been best of friends. That form of nature was like pure adrenaline for him, he would laugh like a maniac at the sound of the waves. I never really got it, but that was okay too.
We walked past several students like us, all standing on the roadside waiting to catch a free ride home. All of us in our uniforms, three thirds of the population coming from the kombos. Banjul the capital of our country The Gambia was a commercial centre, most of the government ministries and agencies were located in the capital. Then you have the banks and the private firms, then there’s the first high schools built by the Christian missionaries. We attended the Catholic all boys and all girls’ schools- St Augustine Senior Secondary and St. Joseph senior Secondary school. Together we were called ‘Saints’ after decades of fellowship with Irish Priests and Nuns acting as principals.
As best of friends, Molamin and I always had something to argue about. I hated his guts sometimes but he was the only person I could tolerate for that long. “Why did you have to emphasize the fact that the dead were illegal migrants Sannet?” Molamin inquired with a firm gaze. I kept silent, gently biting my tongue. As the daughter of a female lawyer, I had a whole lot to say but most times he had all the facts and I ended up losing the argument. I guess I didn’t inherit all of my mother’s fighting spirit after all. So it was better this way, I let him speak then I would vent out my frustration later.
“The sad reality is not that they died, Sannet,” he continued. “The fact that the government hasn’t said anything concerning their deaths is quite pathetic. It’s as though those youths were never here, they never mattered.” He paused for a while, bit his lip, then he sighed deeply into his gut. “Well now they belong to the ocean and that’s not something to be sad about.”
I watched him as he transcended every form of incredulity, my emotions triggered by his sensitivity. Oh boy! This form of Adams breed was pure beauty both mind and body. He was a sophisticated person. Sometimes it took me a moment to comprehend the logic of his mind moreover his sentimental statements. He cared too deeply about everything that happened around us. Molamin was very much different from most people I had met. He was a rational being and his mind was his greatest asset. It was almost quite impossible to bate him with words. I knew however that he was right about this. The Government consisted of a bunch of sad, lousy and good for nothing imbeciles. This however, wasn’t entirely their fault, I was certain for sure. I’ve never been very open minded about the ‘back way syndrome.’ I felt young people, boys in particular were being very careless with their lives. Europe shouldn’t be everything if the same opportunities could also be created here. Well not entirely everything, at least one could make a decent living here in our small country. What’s a country of 2.4 million people got to cry about? I wondered. But then, there’s the government we elected, I cannot dive into that right now.
I hadn’t realized Molamin was gazing at the foul expression on my fair face until he spoke up. “Why do you have your judgemental face on again?” He questioned. I was never to judge anything or anyone. He had taught me that after I had bickered several times in weeks over the high school girls who were dating the young men with the fancy three thousand dollar cars. He had quoted the Scriptures for me “Judge not so that thou wilt not be judged.” Ever since then I have learnt to keep my judgements at bay. “Why are you judging them Sannet?” He asked again as he dragged me by the hand to stop me from walking any further.
“I just don’t know why anyone would want to put himself through that rough journey at sea, in a rubber boat that’s almost capsizing just so they could find greener pastures. The very thought of it sickens my stomach.” I protested flaring my hands in the air. Might I tell you, I had seen two or three documentaries on illegal migration. For a boat like that, I wouldn’t waste a dime for a ride in it with hundreds of people highly over the boat’s capacity. It was a death sentence and it wasn’t worth it in my opinion.
“ No tell me Molamin,” I fired up again rolling my eyes right at his pleasant Mandinka face.
“Poverty Sannet,” he fired back at me almost completely agitated. “That’s the top of the list. Then there’s lack of employment opportunities, lack of sufficient vocational and skills training institutes, low minimum wages for people in the informal sector. Do you know the data for 2018 showed that about 62.4% of males between the ages of 15–24 are employed in the informal sector, 52.9% between the ages of 25–35. And you know the reality, Sannet. It’s not as though the majority of them have crimson jobs, most live from hand to mouth. Do the math then and tell me what population of the country is employed in the informal sector, I can give you the other figures if you have a mind to try.”
His eyes widened like the full moon, I could see the veining on his head popping like raisins on a piece of cake. At that moment I shut my mouth and listened attentively because I knew I had lost this argument. I didn’t have the facts and he had it together with the data to back it up. With Molamin it was always about data. It was difficult most times for people our age to keep up with him. But I appreciated his curiosity and his desire to always know things from a reliable source. He kept me inspired with all he knew and for that, I admired him a great deal. It was like falling in love with someone for the beauty of their mind. But then we were best friends, I had to keep my feelings off of our friendship. Besides we were told girls were never supposed to ask boys out and that I believed in all my naivety.
“Hey!” He called out to me and I looked up at him. “Most of these people Sannet are breadwinners, they have families to feed, siblings relying on them to go to school. Those working in white collar jobs, don’t have it easy as well.” I shook my head to that, to let him know I approved of his statement. “Salaries in The Gambia are relatively low, it’s never enough. Most graduates earn about ten thousand Dalasis which is roughly two hundred dollars before tax, some even below that. You might be lucky to make six hundred dollars working in the UN for a start. It’s not enough, mostly because we are a consumer country.”
For a moment, we went quiet, calmly watching a bunch of other students walk past us. They were particularly loud and just like us, they were hustling to get a free ride home or catch the bus. You didn’t fully school in Banjul if you never begged for a free ride back to Kombo. When the students approached us, they stared at us amusingly as though we were having a lovers quarrel in the middle of the highway. We ignored their gloating and stared to the right straight into the National Assembly building. It was the most beautiful government building I knew for sure. It was built like a monumental figure with its heels pressed to the ground. It had an asphalt shingle surface instead of the conventional concrete surface. The building was partly opened on its side with concrete rods running at an angle. The design was foreign and exotic. It was the Chinese who did the work of course. They have quite an eye for architecture.
Molamin had to pinch me to restore me back to my physical state. We both smiled at that as I nudged my arm closely to my chest. He gazed at me with concerned eyes and smiled again. “Can you please be open minded about it, Sannet?” He asked. There was something about that statement that concerned me greatly but I didn’t put much thought to it. Why the hell should I be open minded about illegal migration through the back way? Reluctantly, I nodded my head and smiled back. He grinned at me then said, “Besides poverty, lack of employment and other reasons, some people just want to be somewhere else they can do something different. Just to see the world and have a glimpse of it beyond the ocean. I would give anything just to have that. “
I couldn’t say quite much to that, so I kept mute silently pacing beside him and watching his manly features at close range. I always knew Molamin was passionate; he had this flare for life. But he had a shortcoming too, he was a wild thing. He was one of those people whose dreams were too big for our 11295 square kilometer country. I think his father knew what sort of a child he had made, so he suppressed the boy. Most of his brothers had left for Europe, they visited during the Festive season and in the summer. They all married Gambian women from traditional Muslim families. Molamin was totally different from his family. He was more open minded and that was threatening. As a boy he was mostly drawn to the Christian girls and that too threatened his father’s dynamics. To tame the boy, he had made it known that as soon as Molamin graduated High School he would be trained to take over the family business. Molamin hated it at the hardware store, he hated taking orders, it made him feel small.
Kemo Touray-Molamin’s father ran the biggest hardware store in the country and he had other investments in textile as well. Since Molamin was the smartest of the lot he made, he placed the burden of taking over the family business on Molamin. Molamin however wanted to see the world, he wanted to be one with the ocean, to travel like a mariner, sail after sail then eventually settle on an island. Molamin’s dad was seventy five years old and Molamin was the youngest of his sixteen children from his three wives. Molamin was different, different in the way he spoke and the way he saw the world. He was free spirited, unapologetically passionate and I loved him for that. But that too I kept to myself. We were best of friends and that was good enough for now.
We had just made it pass the Denton Bridge-the entrance to the capital city Banjul. The police checkpoint was slowing down traffic. Drivers lined their cars on either side of the road moving bumper to bumper as they all attempted leaving the capital at the close of work at 5pm. Molamin yet again wanted to cross the road to the left, to where the boats were. We’ve done this ritual for three months now, day by day after school, he had to see the boats. To my knowledge there was nothing fanciful or special about them. They were all made of wood, very much like canoes. The boats I liked were the ones we saw at the port every Friday. Fridays were usually half days for us; we ended the school day at 11:45 am. The rest of the day we spent at the Gambia Ports Authority where we would watch the big ships deck and others took to the Atlantic Ocean. That was the sight I appreciated. Molamin knew all the names of the ships in the port, from the ships carrying goods to the navy vessels. He knew them all by name, each one of them he committed to memory. He knew their routes and their navigation coordinates. He knew each ship’s capacity and where it was made. I enjoyed the sight of the ships but, I didn’t bother committing their names to memory. Most of them had foreign names, names of captains and queens. I preferred the ones named locally like the Kunta Kinteh ferry or the Kanilia ferry.
The local boats at the Denton bridge weren’t a thrilling sight for me. They rested on the shores of the river surrounded by a swamp of mangroves. I didn’t quite enjoy the smell of the mangroves and the oysters that breed on them. “Its 5:15pm Molamin,” I finally said, already feeling nostalgic.
“Just give me a moment Sannet,”he replied.
I stood still on the shore, my facial expression was bitter, if he wasn’t my best friend I would have thrown him over the river. However, I stood still and watched him walk to the wooden deck; he was speaking to a man that had been quite a regular visitor at the deck. I watched the two of them, gently exchanging gifts. I couldn’t quite figure out what Molamin offered the man, but I assumed it was a shirt, a neatly folded shirt. The man sure needed a new shirt; his white T-shirt had turned filthy black after it had been worn several times without being washed. I knew Molamin was charitable, so I didn’t bother inquiring what he offered the man when he returned. His eyes bore a certain look I recognized from our earlier conversation. He gazed at me with precision, his lower lip gently folding to a curl. Then I heard him sigh so deeply, the strain in his voice terrified me. Slowly but casually I tucked my hands into his and smiled to his face.
“You did a good thing. Cheers to your beautiful mind.” He gazed at me quite astonished, the speech on his lips struggling to air out. I always told him “cheers to your beautiful mind” after every good thing, after every acquired knowledge, after every A grade he made. Molamin was exceptionally brilliant and I praised him for his beautiful mind whenever it was warranted. He didn’t utter a word but his eyes bore a certain kind of treason, that I wouldn’t have called treason on that particular day, at that particular time. Dragging me by the hand, he led me to the shore again. There was a new boat which hadn’t been there before. It was solid, painted in blue and white and it was all made of wood. Standing still I watch Molamin’s face light up like wildfire. He went round the boat, tracing the rough outer surface with his palm. Each time he took his eyes off the boat, they landed on me, and each time my heart skipped a beat. He had the loveliest eyes a man could possess, dark brown and affirmative. They were so full of passion, a passion for boats and the limitless ocean. When he ran his fingers across the boat, I wondered what he imagined, the depths of his imagination sailing from shore to shore, the ocean in all its shades of blue streaming down the strands of his imagination in the mystical colors of sound waves. His face had this glow that I cherished his dark skin and ornament of pure beauty. Oh I knew I loved him a great deal. I loved him for his wild passion, for the beauty of his mind. I loved him for all the things grown up women love men for. From that moment, I knew he would grow up to be a man who had his shit together.
“Guess what Sannet,” he called out to me, slating his face towards the sun, the picturesque of his best angle so divinely displayed. “What is it,” I answered, trying hard to clear my throat. Each time the sun danced on his face, my mouth went watery.
“This boat can carry a hundred people from Gambia straight to Europe and all would make it safely. The best time to sail is right after winter towards the ending of March.”
“You trouble yourself with so much,” I muttered with a polite frown on my face. “If only the people who are going through the back way considered these tiny details you mentioned, maybe a lot of boats would not capsize after all.” At my statement his face darkened to a foul frown. His eyes descended on me in such a hurry, if only I were half as wise as him, I would have known what he meant to say. But then quickly, he smirked, then politely adjusted his gaze and said to me “you wound me yet again Sannet. But you are right. To make a dangerous journey at sea, the boat’s capacity must not be extended. You have to consider the weather, hurricanes and tropical storms, the boat getting lost and other things. But some things are worth dying for Sannet. Besides what is life without risk?” He asked, placing his long arms on his hips.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said the one thing I knew best.
“You’ll need a good supply of canned food for the journey and a map which you already have. I suppose you are all set.” Now that made him quiver with amusement. He popped his eyes at me, raising his shoulders in such a godly fashion. He couldn’t hide the smile that curled on his lips.
“Now that’s a brilliant one Sannet,” he chuckled. “I see you’ve caught up so fast. Cheers to your beautiful mind.” He affirmed lifting his map to the sky.
Before anything else, he drew closer and hugged me so tight without a second thought he pecked me on the cheek. I felt goose bumps all over my body. The blush on my face was as radiant as the fireworks displayed on New Year’s Eve. If he looked a little closely, he would have seen my feelings booming out of me like magical dust.
“Alright now, we have to get going. It’s getting late.” Molamin said as he read the time on his watch. “I thought we were going to watch the navy vessel depart to sea?”
“They’ve already left Sannet,” he answered. “They left at 11:45am, I watched the vessel take off with the navy parade before it went to sea. It was magnificent.” At that moment, I felt betrayed. We were supposed to see it together but he went alone.
“Oh common don’t give me that look! You have never skipped school Sannet. What difference would it make if i had told you that vessel would leave in the morning?” I knew he had a point though. He would have gone alone still, yet still he should have told me.
We left the Denton Bridge at 5:45pm and got a bus heading to Bakau. The bus was filled with other students like us who had idled away their time in Banjul before heading back home to Kombo. As the bus moved, I placed my head on Molamin’s shoulder; the scent of his perfume filled my nostrils. Molamin had the good things, he wore expensive perfumes that came from Spain and they lasted all throughout the day. For a while we sat quietly staring at the trees we passed by as they all faded into nothing. The cars on our side of the road speed off vividly each vehicle keeping to its side of the lane.
“Molamin” I whispered. He lowered his eyes to my face to let me know he was listening. “Where does a migrant begin their journey to Europe through the back way?” There was a long pause before Molamin answered. For some reason I believed he knew the answer. For several weeks he had read so much about illegal migration. He had watched all the documentaries done by CNN and BBC on it. That was his new found hobby lately. There was always something new to learn with Molamin.
“Do you really want to know?” He asked with a solid gaze. I shook my head in response. Gently he tucked his hand into mine as he stared into my eyes with content.
“First you have to cross over to Dakar where your journey begins. From Dakar there are two routes to get to Agadez in Niger. You could either get a bus to Bamako in Mail, then Gao then you go straight to Agadez in Niger. Or you could take the bus to Burkina Faso, from Burkina Faso you take another Bus to Agadez in Niger.”
“Is Agadez not a UNESCO World Heritage site?,” I pitched in interrupting Molamin with my hesitant question. “It still is Sannet but now it is a smugglers town. Migrants set off from all over West Africa to Agadez in Niger. From Agadez they journey through the Sahara desert to the Libyan border. Many don’t make it due to the extreme conditions in the Sahara desert. But still it is what it is. It costs about one hundred and fifty pounds from Adagez to the Libyan border. The smugglers use pickup trucks as a means of transportation to the Libyan border.”
At that moment, the bus conductor interrupted our conversation when he demanded for our transport fares. Molamin quickly pulled out a twenty Dalasis note and handed it to the young conductor to cover both our fares. I raised my eyes up at him and blinked twice as I waited for him to continue his story. All the while he didn’t let go of my hand.
“From Libya the migrants board the rubber boats called the dinghies or the wooden boats slightly packed with over 300 migrants from different parts of Africa to journey across the Mediterranean to Europe. There are two routes, the Central and the Western route. The Central Mediterranean route goes to Italy. It is the most common route used. The Western Mediterranean route goes to the Canary Islands in Spain, it is mostly referred to as the Western African Route. That is all I know of Sannet. It is a very dangerous journey you can’t truly comprehend the courage it takes to leave everything behind in search for greener pastures. It is still worth it for some, and those who die while trying become one with the ocean and that is the most beautiful thing in the world.” At that statement, the bus stopped. We got down, said our goodbyes and each headed home.
The week that followed, we performed the same ritual each day. We went to school, after school we walked down to the Denton Bridge watched the wooden boats then headed back home. Molamin said as little as was necessary. He was mostly invested in his map. He wanted to memorize everything: the oceans, the countries in each continent and their borders, their longitude and latitude coordinates. As usual I stayed off at one end of the wooden boat doing my homework while he went about his business. I hadn’t really paid much attention to all the effort he put in it. I concluded it was one of those things. Maybe, if I were half as brilliant as him, I would have figured it. I made excellent grades as well, I was an A student just like him. The difference was I worked harder. Molamin never had to struggle for anything. He was one of those people who was just gifted naturally. I could spend a whole day trying to figure calculus. For him it was easy. He only had to look at the thing once and just like that, it registered into his photographic memory. It was until later that I knew there was a difference between smart and clever. I was clever but Molamin was smart.
A week passed again and we went at it the same way. It was a Monday and as was notably my tradition, I went for evening Mass at my Parish Star of the Sea. I enjoyed the solemnity of the Mass; it was uplifting to my soul. The Catholic Church was small. It is seated on a hill right in front of the Bakau Fish Port. The wooden crucifix faced the congregation and for some reason I kept my eyes on it. I could however feel that I wasn’t the only one watching. Gently I turned my head and there I saw Molamin on the right side of the pews kneeling down, his face bowed. It wasn’t surprising to me that Molamin was in Church. He attended most of our school Mass on Thursdays at school. Most Sundays he stood outside the Church waiting for me. What surprised me was the fact that he was fully immersed in the prayer he was offering. He never once looked at my direction throughout and because he was there, I was distracted. I couldn’t go for Holy Communion. By the time the Priest said the final blessings, I was already outside waiting for Molamin.
He took his time, quietly seated his face bore a very serene expression. At that moment I worried over him. If someone who knew his father saw him in Church Molamin would be in big trouble. His sister in-laws shop was right opposite the church and that was very frightening. Yet all the logical reasons didn’t seem to bother him this time. He finished praying then came out to meet me.
When I saw him, I didn’t know what to say. Everything in that moment felt confusing. Molamin was particularly quiet. There was still time to watch the sunset, so we strolled off to Cape Point Beach at our very hidden spot to watch the sunset together. It was there standing on a hill staring into the ocean that I summoned the courage to speak. “You came to Church. If your father finds out you will be dead.” He gave a loud chuckle then said, “I’ll be long gone before that.” I frowned at his statement. My eyes tried to lock his gaze but I couldn’t keep up for long.
“I wanted to pray for you Sannet. I went to church to pray for you in a way that you would understand.” His voice was so soothing I had to bite my tongue so as not to ruin this moment. My eyes trailed his face like the inspector general of police. I watched his forehead crease, I saw the broken look in his eyes and at once I couldn’t think of anything else but to embrace him. I just knew he really needed a hug and so did I. We stood there in a bundle of joy and sadness, his tall arms wrapped around me in a loving fashion.
“I hope you will forgive me someday Sannet.” He muttered as he squeezed me closer and closer until I felt his breath in my ears. I wanted to reply to his words but then he said “I hope you know that I love you too.”
It was as though my dreams had come true. All the logic in my head vanished. I quickly let loose of his grip and stood open mouthed before him. The Lord knows I’ve loved this boy for half my life, and knowing he loves me too was everything a girl could hope for. I couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t speak. I stood like a Greek statue, muted and astonished. As I demonstrated my surprise, Molamin had a good laugh and his voice echoed like a happy child. “I do love you Sannet Maria. You’ve seen all my pieces and you still think I’m brilliant. You still say cheers to your beautiful mind. And yes I do love you too and I hope one day you will remember that.”
Without a second thought, he leaned closer and said, “May i kiss you now?” I shook my head right away offering him my consent. He leaned a breath closer and slowly, our lips met in a fragment of holy grace. He didn’t rush it; he took his time to ensure I was fully immersed into the kiss. And yes he tasted nice. His touch had sent shivers to all parts of my seventeen year old body. I struggled to keep my feet on the ground. My hands found their way to his hair and slowly, I caressed the back of his head just like I saw in the movies. At that moment I knew Molamin was mine. We had bonded in the way the Greek gods did, the way the English did in the eighteen century, promising each other eternal love. Then he pulled away, the smile on his lips assured me that I did great for a first kiss. He placed another gentle kiss on my forehead, then picked up a stone and walked to the wall on the right.
I watched him gracefully in the moonlight as he drew something on the wall. It was there I noticed he had developed some muscles. I painted his image in my head, following his design from bone to bone until the sketch of his godliness registered completely in my memory. By the time he was done, I stood speechless again staring at the wall he had just vandalized for my sake. It was a heart staring right back at me, a heart inscribed “cheers to your beautiful mind.” Those were the words I often told him to appreciate his brilliance. To know that it meant a great deal to him brought tears to my innocent eyes.
I wept on his shoulders like a child, my tears streamed down like a little lake. I could picture the image of us that could have been carved out during the time of Pompeii. Standing on that hill we were divine. The smell of the ocean embraced us; the one star in the night sky bore witness to our young love. We stood there holding each other for about 30 Minuit’s, soaking in all that love that transpired between us. When he heard a car approaching, he pulled away, kissed me one more time on my lips and then led the way for us through the greasy path we had come.
We held each other’s hands silently walking in the dark. By the time we reached the main road, there was a taxi parked on the side of the road. We walked up to the driver and Molamin said “please take my lady home to the other end of Cape Point.” He pulled out a hundred Dalasis note and tossed it to the driver. Then he opened the door of the taxi and led me in. “I have to buy dinner for myself. Just head home, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
It was there when I first noticed it. His voice was broken as though somewhere deep inside him hurt a great deal. But then he smiled and caressed me on my cheek. If all the love in the world could be given to a person, the look in Molamin’s eyes said it all. “Molamin!” I called out. “Maria,” he replied. When our eyes met in a dwindling manner, I held his hand and said “I love you Molamin Semeka Touray so very very much.” At that the taxi driver sped off and I felt Molamin’s eyes hovering around me like a broken promise. What do teenagers know of broken hearts?
That night I slept like royalty, the glamour of my evening following me into the deep night. My parents watched me with eager eyes, wondering why I felt particularly wonderful. The joy in me beamed into a night of Cinderella dreams: Dreams of white dresses and wedding bells. Like the young in love, I looked forward to the next day with eager anticipation, my imagination thrilling me with its lovey-dovey images. I wanted to see him again, I wanted to hug him and breath the scent of his perfume. I wanted to stare into his eyes, into those eyes that wore truth like a fragrance and tell him all the things I couldn’t say before.
I woke up at 5am as usual, listened to some good music for about 30mins. I had my bath then took my time to dress up. I wanted to look extra pretty for Molamin with my oversized uniform and the eight cornrows on my head. By 6:15 am I knelt down to offer my morning prayers to God in earnest gratitude. I said a beautiful gratitude prayer and all the words were poetic. Then I had my breakfast. After that off I went to the junction Molamin and I met every day at 6:45 am.
The streets were still dark but the security lights from the houses lit the path quite alright. Unfortunately, Molamin was not there. Maybe he slept off late. I wandered. I stood there for an extra fifteen minutes and still he didn’t show up. I started to feel nauseous in my stomach. Did I do something wrong? I questioned myself. Was I not a good kisser? Did I offend him when I said I loved him too? All the insecurities in me began to resurface. I didn’t know what to do, so I headed home and begged my father for a ride to school.
I was dull the entire day, nothing amused me. For some reason, I felt something in me that I couldn’t understand. I sat with Molamins cousin Binta during the break period. It was she who told me that Molamin had left for the village, he would be back at the end of the week. There was something off about her statement. Molamin would have told me if he was going to the village and that too troubled me.
The entire week was spent in annoyance. My friends at school stayed off me, my horrible mood irritated them. My father dropped me off at school every morning and in the evening he picked me up from school as well. He too must have sensed my foul attitude so he said as little to me as he could manage. Once or twice he inquired after Molamin, and I said the same thing I told everyone “he is in the village.”
Two weeks passed and Molamin still hadn’t returned from the village, I started to feel betrayed. Everyone at school inquired after him and unfortunately I couldn’t say much to his whereabouts. His line was switched off and that troubled me. I had decided to visit his home after school but just as i stepped into my home with my father, Molamin’s dad was already in our living room with his third wife- Ajie Fanta.
When I saw them, I knew at once that he was gone, the wisdom of it stared me right in the face as I froze like cold ice bleeding out. For some reason whatever it was, I felt I was part of his journey. At that moment, my mother’s eyes stared me down to a cold gaze: love, empathy and fear all in one powerfully emphatic gaze. Her eyes were heavy, each stare matching my broken heart. It was as though i knew but i hadn’t realized that i knew, and her eyes bore all the solace I needed.
“Sannet, your best friend has gone through the back way to Europe.” Molamin’s dad said in a voice that broke out so solemnly, his pain must have wrecked his aged heart.
“He has gone to the ocean,’’ I repeated coldly as all my broken pieces shattered inside me in their own fashion. That was when everything dawned on me. All the trips we took to the port, the everyday walk to Denton Bridge to watch the boats, the map Molamin kept, his sudden interest in illegal migration. Everything rushed in on me and i felt so stupid all at once. The clues were always there. I had a front row seat while he planned his voyage and still I couldn’t figure it out.
And oh I wept like a broken mule. Each memory felt new in my head. If only i were half as bright as him, i would have known. When he kissed me he was saying goodbye. When he asked for my forgiveness this was what he meant. My parents didn’t know what to say, they watched me with comforting eyes, as Uncle Kemo-Molamin’s dad embraced the wreckage his son had just made. I wanted to scream it was his fault. He had pushed his son into this. If only he knew how much Molamin wanted to sail, he would never try to tame the boy.
“He should have told me he wanted to go to Europe; I would have taken care of it the right way. I would have never allowed him to risk his life like that at sea. What did I do wrong Sannet? His mother died and left me with him, where did i go wrong with all the opportunities I gave Molamin?”
I would have said the things lined up in my head, but I couldn’t. The old man was hurting gravely and so was i. He whimpered in my embrace. The man was seventy five years old and Molamin wasn’t his favourite child. The boy had been raised by his oldest sister- Tobaski and since she got married and moved to America, Molamin pretty much raised himself. His dad was good for the money, so i wasn’t surprised that Molamin could raise the money he needed. The Tourays were a family from old money. Their ancestors migrated to the Senegambia region after the collapse of the Mali Empire. And Kemo Tourah had been lucky to inherit their trade. He dealt in everything he could lay his hands on: hardware and fabrics that was his specialty. I felt sorry for him in a way; he raised a child he didn’t know.
Day by day for six weeks we grieved in my house in silence. I went to school during the day and in the evenings I wept myself to sleep. Molamin’s father was a constant visitor in my house. He was always there seated in my living room with my mother and father. Together we grieved as one. Molamin was the most brilliant person I knew so at his expense, I understood that sometimes people just want an out. Life could be frustrating when lived in a box, when lived in another man’s dream. Molamin was trapped and he wanted to see the world. So he took to the sea as an illegal migrant just so he could be free of his father’s dreams for him. I couldn’t judge him yet I was angry at him. He took a part of me that would never be whole again. He broke my heart and left me dead inside. Yet still i remembered what he always told me “somethings are just not about you Sannet.” For some reason, I understand it now. This wasn’t about me. He made his choice alone and now i sleep in fear in bed all night listening to ‘’All i Want” by Kodaline.
The next day was the sixth Saturday since Molamin left and still we hadn’t heard from him. As usual i went by my day all bitter and broken; the very sight of young people annoyed me all at once. But my father insisted that we watch ‘The Irishman’ together. We sat in our living room, our eyes glued to the TV screen. The Italian mafia gave quite a show. I had completely forgotten about my sorrow. Gradually, I smiled at the movie drawing in all my attention to the brilliance of the screenplay. Just when I thought I could manage a smile, I heard people screaming in the neighborhood. We stayed in Cape Point, an extension of Old Bakau, so nothing was a secret in this old town. My mother was the first to get up and head outside. My father insisted I stay inside the house with him. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it but I didn’t put up any form of resistance. We waited nervously as the screams of several people magnified, it seemed as though several women were crying all at once.
My mother walked back into the compound, her face was glued to the ground. The look in her eyes smelt of dead and pain so I knew it was bad news she brought in with her. “What is it mama?” My father inquired, drawing closer to my mother. Her eyes were the saddest i ever knew, she bore it with such serenity as she stared at me. I began to shake my head in despair, every part of me hurt as though hot iron rods were pierced on my skin.
“A boat capsized on its way to Italy, sixty five Gambians died. Thirty Five were from Bakau. That is why the women are crying. Molamin was on that boat Sannet.” At that statement, I fell to the ground, my silent whimper turned into loud screams in an instant. I wept as though I had been widowed at a young age. My stomach lurched inside me; I felt my heart shatter to a thousand pieces. My chest hurt so greatly, I thought I was going to die. Grief is painful; let no one fool you into believing it’s not painful. I hurt like a wrecking ball, breaking and shattering like glass pieces do.
My father broke down as well; it felt as though he had just lost a child of his own. He hurt in the way men do, bleeding from the inside with watery eyes and tears that never came out. Two of us sat shattered on the ground while he embraced the pieces of me that broke again and again. I wept for the boy that stole my life from me this past six weeks. I wept for the husband I never got to grow up with. I wept for the lover who had my heart for half of my life. I wept for the boy who drowned in the ocean. I wept for my best friend in the way that lovers do. Molamin was all for me, companion, friend and lover. He was all I ever knew and wanted. And now he was dead.
I wept all the tears a girl in love could give to a broken heart. I wept all the tears the living cried for the dear dead. I bled in sorrow, the tears ripping out of me like a meteor display. If i was a star that would have been the end of my life. I was a tragic display of human emotion.
As we grieved like broken humans, Molamin’s father with his half-brother and stepmother, walked in. They too shed drums of tears that exceeded the capacity our living room could contain. If the walls had arms, they would have embraced us. Together we hurt for the person we all loved a great deal. We went an hour at it, our screams joining into a chorus until it finally died down to soft whimpers. I watched Uncle Kemo with watery eyes, the news of Molamin’s death had aged him overnight. His lips shivered. His body trembled. He had never buried a child, a wife he once had. And now the trauma of loss is anew again. I couldn’t comprehend the kind of grieve parents feel when they lose a child. It should have never been so. Earth should have strict rules. Parents should never bury their children; it should be the other way round. But now this, I grieved for me; I grieved for Molamin’s dad. Death and loss had made a wreckage of him.
There was a sudden knock on the door, my father the only sober one in the group went to get the door. He didn’t think twice before he opened it. Whoever it was was welcome to join the grieving party. We were hurting and we were tired. A man in a brown shirt stood at the door, his hello muted by all our grieving faces. Without much trouble I recognized him. He was the man Molamin always met in Denton Bridge. By now I had figured out that this man was his handler. When I saw him, I motioned to my father to let him in. The man stared at all of us with concerned eyes. “What do you want?” I yelled, staring straight at him with contempt. He ignored me, then taking out his phone he made a quick phone call. We all watched him with disgust, each of us waiting to see what he wanted. Before any of us spoke out again, my phone rang. At first I was hesitant to pick up the call, it was a foreign number and I wasn’t sure if it was right of me to answer a video call without knowing the caller.
“Go on and answer your call Sannet, he is waiting for you.” At that statement, all of us stood up. Molamin’s father walked up to me and so did my father. I was reluctant at first then I hit the button, and there on my screen was Molamin Semeka Touray alive and well.
He said,” Maria,” before I could reply, his father took the phone from me to speak to his son. For a moment we were all dumbfounded trying to grasp what just happened. I had just emptied my eye sockets weeping for this boy while he was alive hiding somewhere in the world. My father, ever so curious, turned to the man and said “we thought he died in the boat that capsized in Italy. How is he alive?”
The man hesitated for a while then answered “I was the boy’s handler, he went all the way to Niger but he never got on that boat when he arrived in Libya. Whatever changed his mind I do not know.” When he said that, he turned to stare at me, watching me as though I had something to do with it before he went on. “Agadez is not a place for everyone and so is Libya. So after three weeks, he turned back and made his way to Senegal. There he flew out again to Nigeria where he finally left for Norway with the help of his sister’s husband.”
My father who stood close to me embraced me in a tight squeeze. It was as though he knew I needed a tight squeeze. I wept in his embrace, buried my head in his chest to hide my joyous tears. I hadn’t realized how much weight I had lost over the past weeks until my father released me, I felt so small in his arms.
Molamin’s father was busy screaming at his son in their Mandinka dialect. My mother who was the strongest in the lot just stood still watching all of us in amusement. Uncle Kemo after several failed attempts finally handed the phone to me; I shook my head at him then stared straight at Molamin with my wounded eyes.
The two of us quietly gazed at each other, each one with his broken pieces shattering right out. I was glad he was okay and that was all I could manage to think of right then. I had slept night after night with horrible nightmares of something bad happening to him on that dangerous journey. So right there, I had lost all sense of humor. So I just stared at him.
“There is a package inside the old stereo in your living room, please fetch it and hand it over to Bala Musa,” Molamin instructed me.
I didn’t move one itch, I just stood there watching him gloat and smirk. My father who stood close by heard him, so he fetched the package, opened it and found about 3000 dollars well hidden in the envelope. There was also a picture wrapped inside a gift bag. When my father handed the contents to Bala Musa, he took the money and handed the wrapped photo to me. As I struggled to unwrap the package, Molamin muttered “I couldn’t do it Sannet. I couldn’t get into that boat in Libya after everything I saw in the Sahara desert. I just couldn’t do it after knowing my mother died birthing me.”
At that statement, I raised my eyes at him watching the mild tears gush out of his ever beautiful eyes. He looked well, his hair had grown out and it made him appear mature. “You’ve grown skinnier,’’ he teased. To that I smiled as I finally finished unwrapping my gift. As I watched the picture, I couldn’t help but smile again. We were one hell of a pair and for some reason, it felt as though we were not done with each other. When Molamin noticed my smile, he said “I’m truly sorry for everything I put you through Maria. I knew if I got into that boat, I would make you a widow at a young age and that too i couldn’t handle.”
At that my father had to fetch his bottle of wine, everything had become too much for him to handle still sober. So he poured us all some wine and to my surprise, even Molamin’s dad, the pious Muslim he had always claimed himself to be, took a glass. My father didn’t hesitate to offer some wine to me.
“I must have caused you all great sorrow to warrant a glass of wine from all of you. For that i am truly sorry. You will find all the explanations you are looking for Sannet in an envelope behind our photo. I do hope you will forgive me.”
Turning to the rest of them, I picked up the letter Molamin wrote me from the center table. My heart felt lighter by then, I could smile without feeling an urge to die. When I turned the little white envelope, the first words I saw startled me. I turned to my father, then facing Molamin I smiled effortlessly as though I had just won a lottery. Dropping the envelope, everyone saw the words written in big bold letters. In a synchronized manner we all raised our glasses in gratitude. The big bold letters on Molamin’s envelope said it all, “cheers to your beautiful mind.”
