Matou recognised a bend in the road where she had once fallen while racing Nata. She remembered an old mango tree under which women had sold smoked fish. She remembered the path leading towards the garden Borogie had cultivated for years, though now new houses stood where the soil had once opened wide.
“So many people,” she murmured.
“That is why your father left,” Borogie said. “There was no room for the land to breathe.”
The lorry stopped near the familiar junction, and they climbed down. Borogie adjusted her basket, Matou took Bubel’s hand again, and together they walked towards the cluster of compounds where Ousman Bah and Nata lived almost side by side.
The first compound they entered belonged to Ousman Bah.
Before they reached the gate, a small boy came running out, naked except for a string of beads around his waist. He stopped abruptly when he saw them, one finger in his mouth, his eyes wide with suspicion.
“That must be Mamma,” Borogie said.
The boy studied them.
Bubel studied him back.
For a moment, the two children stood in silence, each waiting for the other to explain himself.
Then Bubel asked, “Are you the baby?”
Mamma removed his finger from his mouth. “I am not a baby.”
“You are small.”
“So are you.”
“I am five.”
Mamma held up three fingers.
Matou smiled. “That means you are three?”
He shook his head and lifted another finger with great effort. “I don’t know.”
From inside the compound came a woman’s laughter. Ousman Bah’s new wife appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on her wrapper. She greeted Borogie warmly and called over her shoulder, “Caw Ousman, your people have come.”
Ousman Bah emerged almost immediately.
Age had settled more visibly on him, but fatherhood had also changed him. He carried himself with a fullness Matou had not seen before. His eyes softened when they rested on Mamma, and his voice took on a pride he made no effort to hide.
“My daughter from Bakau,” he said as Matou bent to greet him. “So you finally remembered us.”
“I never forgot.”
“You stayed away long enough.”
“I was not allowed to travel alone.”
“Excuses,” he said, though his smile showed he held no offence.
He embraced Bubel and then called Mamma closer. “This is your brother.”
Mamma immediately objected. “He is not my brother.”
Ousman laughed. “He is your family. That is close enough.”
Matou watched him lift the boy into his arms. Ousman’s face changed as he did so. The hardness built by years of childlessness, disappointment and wandering seemed to disappear whenever Mamma leaned against him. He kissed the boy’s head openly, unashamed of tenderness.
“This child has made his father young again,” Borogie teased.
“He has made me tired,” Ousman corrected. “That is not the same thing.”
His wife smiled from the doorway. “Do not listen to him. He follows the boy around as though Mamma gave birth to him.”
Ousman waved her away. “A man must watch his only son.”
“Only son for now,” she replied.
He laughed deeply, and the happiness in it warmed the compound.
Borogie handed over part of what she had brought. Ousman protested, as elders often did, insisting she should not have burdened herself, while still examining the vegetables with satisfaction. His wife took the basket gratefully and invited them to sit, but Matou’s eyes had already moved towards the neighbouring compound.
“Go,” Ousman said, noticing. “Your sister has been waiting to see you for a long time.”
Matou did not need to be told twice.
She crossed the short distance with Bubel racing beside her. Nata’s compound was quieter. A mat had been spread beneath the shade, and a few washed garments hung from a line near the wall. From inside came the sound of a spoon scraping against a cooking pot.
“Nata!” Matou called.
There was a pause.
Then her sister appeared.
For an instant, neither moved.
Nata looked older than Matou remembered, though she was still very young. Her face had thinned. Grief had left a seriousness around her eyes. Yet when she saw Matou, something bright returned to her expression.
“Look at you,” Nata said.
Matou crossed the yard and threw her arms around her.
Nata held her tightly.
“Six years younger, but almost as tall as me,” she murmured.
“I am not that tall.”
“You are.”
“That is because you are short.”
Nata pulled away in mock offence. “You come to my house after years and insult me?”
Bubel arrived breathless. “She insults everyone now.”
Matou turned on him. “You were told to stay with Neneh.”
“I came to see Nata.”
Nata bent to hug him too. “At least one of you missed me properly.”
“I missed you,” Matou protested.
“You did not even cry.”
“I cried inside.”
“That does not count.”
They laughed, and for a moment the heaviness surrounding Nata seemed to lift.
Bukari emerged from the house after hearing the voices. He greeted Borogie respectfully when she arrived and welcomed Matou with genuine warmth. His limp was more pronounced than Matou remembered, but his manner remained gentle.
“So this is the famous schoolgirl,” he said. “Your sister speaks of you.”
Matou glanced at Nata. “What does she say?”
“Mostly that you are stubborn.”
“That means she misses me.”
Bukari smiled. “Then she must miss you greatly.”
There was kindness in him, Matou could see that. He offered them water, found a low stool for Borogie, and asked Nata to bring the groundnuts he had purchased earlier. Nothing in his behaviour seemed cruel. Yet Matou also noticed the way Nata’s shoulders tightened when he stood too close, the way her laughter became smaller when he joined the conversation.
Good people are not always the right people for each other, she thought again.
After Bukari returned inside, Nata and Matou sat close together on the mat. Bubel and Mamma had already begun chasing each other between the compounds, their earlier disagreement about kinship forgotten.
Matou spoke first. “Are you happy I came?”
Nata nudged her. “What kind of question is that?”
“You did not answer.”
“Yes, I am happy.”
“Are you happy here?”
The second question landed differently.
Nata looked towards the doorway before answering. “You have become bold.”
“That is not an answer either.”
Nata sighed, though there was affection in it. “I am managing.”
Matou frowned. “Mama says marriage is sometimes about duty.”
“Mama has survived many duties.”
“But do you like Bukari?”
Nata plucked a loose thread from the edge of the mat. “He is kind.”
“That is still not an answer.”
Nata looked at her sister properly then. Six years separated them, but Matou’s life away from home had aged her in ways time alone could not. She was still a child, but she understood loneliness. “No,” Nata said quietly. “I do not love him.”
“Then why stay?”
“Because our father says I must. Because people believe a woman should stay. Because leaving a marriage is not as easy as walking out of a room.”
“You walked out before.”
“And I was beaten.”
Matou’s expression darkened.
Nata quickly softened her voice. “Do not carry that anger for me.”
“I can carry it if you are tired.”
The words moved Nata more than Matou knew. She reached out and took her sister’s hand.
“You sound like Neneh.”
“I hope not. She tells me to endure too much.”
Nata laughed despite herself. “Then perhaps you sound like yourself.”
They sat quietly for a while, listening to the boys shouting in Caw Ousman’s compound.
Then Matou began talking again, as she always did when silence grew too heavy. She told Nata about Farato, about the sheep following her, about Bubel’s crooked letters and the kite they had made. She described the stories she read in Bakau and imitated Samba Bah’s dramatic manner until Nata bent forward laughing.
“You must bring this Samba to meet me.”
“He will know all your secrets before he leaves.”
“Then he must never come.”
Matou continued, telling her about Haddy, Yassin and the classroom incident, though she softened the frightening parts. She told her about Khadjel’s nursery class and how serious their younger sister looked while reciting the alphabet.
Nata’s face warmed. “You saw her?”
“Every break time before school closed.”
“Did she ask about us?”
“She asked when she could come to Farato.”
Nata looked towards Ousman’s compound. “She is so close and yet we hardly see her.”
“We should go there now.”
“We will.”
Their mother called them to eat before they could rise. Caw Ousman’s wife had prepared food and insisted everyone share the midday meal in his compound. They gathered around a large bowl beneath the shade: Caw Ousman, his wife, Borogie, Nata, Bukari, Matou and the children. Mamma sat on his father’s lap and repeatedly tried to take the largest pieces of fish.
“Leave something for the visitors,” Caw Ousman told him.
“They have fish in Farato,” the boy replied. Everyone laughed.
Matou looked around the bowl at faces she knew, faces connected by marriage, blood, obligation and history. Some were happy. Some were enduring. Some had found unexpected joy late in life. Others were still waiting for life to become their own.
But for that afternoon, they ate together.
And perhaps that was what family often was — not perfect happiness, but the stubborn act of returning to the same bowl despite everything that had passed between them.