The days slipped through Matou’s fingers like water. It was only much later in life that she would understand why. Time had its own strange character. It dragged its feet when the heart was burdened, stretching ordinary days into endless seasons of loneliness. But happiness was a thief. It stole mornings before one had fully awakened and carried evenings away before anyone was ready to say goodnight.
Each morning Matou promised herself she would savour every moment. Each night she wondered where the day had gone. She was happier than she had ever remembered being. Farato was not merely home. It was freedom.
Unlike in Bakau, where every chore was expected and quietly measured, the work she did in her father’s compound felt like an act of love. Nobody counted how many pots she washed or how many times she swept the yard. If she grew tired, someone would simply say, “Leave it, child. There will be tomorrow.” Those words alone made every task lighter.
The wives of Yerro took turns running the household, as custom demanded. For two days Borogie prepared the meals while Nenneh Dado tended her vegetable beds, washed clothes or repaired old wrappers. The following day their roles changed as naturally as sunrise followed night.
Matou cared little whose turn it was. She followed whichever mother happened to be in the kitchen that day. When Borogie cooked, Matou loved watching how her mother seemed to measure ingredients without ever measuring them. A pinch of salt disappeared into the pot almost absentmindedly. Ground pepper was scattered with a movement so practiced that she never tasted to check whether it was enough.
One morning, while Borogie stirred a pot of Maafeh Laaloh, Matou leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching carefully.
“Neneh,” she asked, “how do you always know how much salt to put?”
Borogie smiled without looking up.
“My hand tells me.”
Matou frowned.
“Your hand can speak?”
“It has been speaking longer than you have been alive.”
She scooped another pinch between her fingers.
“When you have cooked for enough hungry people, your hand remembers before your head does.”
Matou laughed.
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t?”
Borogie handed her the small calabash of salt.
“Very well. Today your hand shall speak.”
Matou took far too much.
Borogie burst into laughter.
“No, no! Unless you wish to preserve the family like smoked fish.”
They laughed until tears formed in Matou’s eyes.
On the days it was Nenneh Dado’s turn, the atmosphere in the kitchen became entirely different. Nenneh Dado loved conversation. She could peel onions, pound pepper, wash rice and discuss three different village matters without ever losing track of what she was doing. “Have you heard?” she would begin almost every morning.
“Heard what?” Matou would ask, though she knew the question itself was part of the ritual.
“They say Binta’s goat has started eating washing from the clothesline.”
Matou covered her mouth to hide her laughter.
“It cannot.”
“It can.”
“It ate one entire wrapper.”
“What happened?”
“The husband blamed the wife.”
“The wife blamed the goat.”
“And the goat blamed nobody because goats have no shame.”
Matou laughed so hard she nearly dropped the pestle.
“You enjoy gossip.” Nenneh Dado shook her head dramatically.
“I do not gossip.”
“What do you call this then?”
“I educate.”
“About goats?”
“About life.”
Every morning seemed to produce another story. By the third day Matou realised that half the village’s history lived inside Nenneh Dado’s memory. If Borogie taught through quiet example, Nenneh Dado taught through laughter. Matou loved them both for different reasons.
***
The animals became her closest companions. Every morning, before anyone reminded her, she fetched fresh leaves for the goats and sheep. She had begun recognising each one by its markings. The old ram still behaved as though he owned the compound. The youngest kid had developed the habit of nibbling the edge of her wrapper whenever she stood still too long. The chickens no longer scattered when they saw her approaching. Instead they ran towards her, knowing she usually carried grain hidden inside the folds of her wrapper. But it was the sheep that fascinated her most. For reasons nobody could explain, they adored her. If she crossed the compound, they followed. If she walked towards the well, they followed. If she disappeared behind the huts, they wandered after her in a patient little procession, bleating softly whenever she disappeared from sight. Even Yerro noticed.
One afternoon he sat repairing the handle of his hoe while watching the strange parade. “There she goes again,” he chuckled. Borogie looked up from sorting vegetables. “What now?” “Your daughter has started another congregation.” Everyone turned.
Matou was walking towards the mango tree carrying a basket of cassava peels. Behind her marched five sheep. Not one wandered away. Not one stopped to graze. They simply followed. Bubel marched proudly behind them with a stick resting across his shoulders. He looked like a tiny shepherd leading an invisible army. Yerro laughed until tears gathered in his eyes.
“I have spent twenty years raising those sheep, they never followed me like that.” Matou turned around. “I didn’t ask them to come.”
“They have chosen you.” Nenneh Dado laughed. “Perhaps in another life she was a shepherd.” Bubel immediately objected. “No!”
“What then?” Borogie asked. “A queen.”
“A queen?” “Yes.”
“Because everybody follows queens.”
Matou pulled him playfully by the ear. “You know nothing about queens.”
“I know you keep ordering me around.” Everyone laughed. It was true. She had become wonderfully bossy with Bubel. Not cruelly. Lovingly. She insisted he pronounce difficult words correctly. She corrected his counting whenever he skipped numbers. She refused to let him grip his pencil in his fist. “No,” she would say patiently, rearranging his tiny fingers. “Hold it like this. The pencil is not your enemy.” He frowned in concentration.
“My fingers don’t listen.”
“They will.”
“When?”
“When you stop arguing with them.”
Sometimes he deliberately mispronounced words simply to hear her correct him. “Say hippopotamus.” “Hippototamus.” “No.” “Hippopota…” “No.” “Hippopotamus.” “There.” “I knew it already.” “You did not.” “I was testing you.” “You are only five.” “I can still test teachers.” Matou burst into laughter. “You sound exactly like Baba.”
***
Every afternoon, when the chores were finished and the fiercest heat had passed, Bubel would come searching for her. “Jaja meaning Sister!” She always knew what he wanted. “A story?” He nodded eagerly. “Two stories.” She pretended to think. “Only if you sit properly.” “I am.” “You are upside down.” He quickly straightened himself. “Better?”
“A little.”
She settled beneath the shade of the mango tree while he curled beside her, resting his head against her lap. The stories flowed effortlessly. Some she invented. Others came from the old Ladybird books she had read so many times at the Owens’ house that she almost knew them by heart. She told him about talking rabbits who outwitted greedy foxes. About little trains that crossed mountains. About princes disguised as shepherds. About giants who were defeated by clever children. Whenever she forgot part of a story, she quietly invented another ending. Bubel never noticed. To him every tale was true.
One afternoon Borogie returned from the garden carrying a basket of okra. She stopped outside the hut without announcing herself. Inside she heard Matou’s voice. “…and the rabbit looked at the lion and said, ‘Strength is useful, but wisdom travels farther than muscles.'” There was a long silence. Then Bubel whispered in awe, “What happened next?” “The lion became angry.” “Did he eat him?” “No.” “Why?” “Because by then the rabbit had already disappeared.” Bubel clapped delightedly.
Borogie smiled to herself.
She had always been known as the storyteller of the family. Children from neighbouring compounds often gathered just to hear her stories after supper. Now her daughter was becoming one too. That thought filled her with quiet pride.
***
The evenings became everyone’s favourite time. Especially when the rains stayed away. During the height of the rainy season, darkness often belonged to frogs. Thousands of them croaked from flooded rice fields until conversation became almost impossible. Crickets whistled endlessly from the grass. Sometimes a snake slid silently through the compound, disturbing only the chickens before disappearing again into the darkness. But on the quieter nights, when the rain clouds rested elsewhere and only a cool breeze drifted across the village, Yerro had his own tradition. Just after Maghrib prayers he gathered dry branches from beneath the neem tree. Bubel eagerly carried the smaller sticks. Matou arranged them carefully. Soon a small bonfire crackled to life in the centre of the compound. Nobody hurried indoors. The fire became their sitting room. The flames chased away the evening chill while sending sparks dancing into the star-filled sky.
Yerro sat on his favourite wooden stool. Borogie and Nenneh Dado spread woven mats nearby. The children settled wherever they pleased. Sometimes neighbours wandered in. Sometimes they did not. Nobody needed an invitation. Conversation simply began. Not with important matters. With ordinary ones.
“How was the garden today?” “The okra is doing well.” “The millet needs another good rain.” “They say the river has risen.” Then, as the fire burned lower and the stars multiplied overhead, the conversations deepened. They spoke about childhood. About seasons of drought. About Fuladu before they came to Kombo. About cattle that had been lost and found. About marriages. About forgiveness. About people whose names had long since disappeared from memory except around fires like this one.
Matou hardly spoke. She listened. Every story felt like another thread sewing her back into the family she feared she had almost lost. And every time the firelight danced across her father’s weathered face as he spoke, she realised she was learning something no school in Bakau could ever teach. She was learning where she came from. And for the first time in many years, that knowledge made her feel whole.