By the time the lorry finally reached Farato, night had settled properly over the village.
It was much later than Borogie had intended.
The journey from Serekunda had been long, and every delay along the road had seemed to add another layer to the darkness. People had descended at Lamin, others had boarded at Old Yundum, and the lorry had stopped more times than anyone could count. There had been passengers with baskets, women carrying babies, men returning from the market, and children who had fallen asleep against strangers’ shoulders. By the time Borogie, Matou and Bubel reached Farato, the village had already surrendered itself to the night.
Matou stepped down from the lorry with stiff legs.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Farato at night was different from Farato in the morning. During the day, the village seemed open to the sky. The paths were visible, the compounds alive with movement, the fields stretching beyond the houses. But at night, the darkness gathered everything into itself. Only small pools of light escaped from kerosene lamps and cooking fires here and there. The moon had not risen high enough to be of much help.
“Hold Bubel’s hand,” Borogie told Matou as she adjusted the bundle on her head. “And do not let him run ahead.”
“I won’t,” Matou said.
Bubel, who had slept for much of the last part of the journey, had suddenly regained all his energy.
“I’m not a baby,” he protested.
“No,” Matou said, taking his hand nevertheless. “You are a big man who still gets lost if someone turns their back.”
“I don’t get lost.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
Borogie was too tired to settle the argument.
“Both of you, walk.”
They began the familiar journey along the narrow road that led towards their compound.
Matou’s body was tired, but her heart was not. She was happy to be back. There was something about the darkness of Farato that felt different from the darkness she had known in Bakau. There, darkness belonged to houses with electric lights and busy roads and people moving even after sunset. Here, darkness belonged to the land itself. It carried the smell of damp earth, animals and firewood.
As they approached the compound, Matou noticed the glow.
The kitchen fire was still burning.
Then she heard voices.
“They are waiting,” she whispered.
Borogie did not answer, but Matou could hear the relief in her mother’s breath. The thatched gate creaked as they pushed it open. Immediately, Bubel released Matou’s hand and ran forward. “We are back!”
The compound came alive. Yerro, who had been sitting near the fire, lifted his head sharply. Nenneh Dado, who had been bent over a large bowl, turned around.
“Allah!” Borogie exclaimed before anyone else could speak. “Are you people still awake?”
Nenneh Dado placed her hand on her chest.
“Still awake?” she repeated. “We have been waiting for you since before the last call to prayer.”
Yerro looked at Borogie, then at the darkness behind her.
“What happened?”
“The road happened,” Borogie said wearily. “Every village wanted to stop us. Every passenger had somewhere to go.” That made Yerro smile despite himself.
“You left early.”
“We did. But we reached Serekunda late, and by the time we found a lorry coming this way, the sun was already thinking of going home.”
Matou had barely placed her small bag down when Nenneh Dado pulled her towards her.
“Come and greet me properly. You have returned from town and forgotten the people who stayed here?” Matou laughed and bent to greet her.
“I did not forget you.”
“Hmm. You remembered us because your stomach remembered food.”
“I was hungry before we even reached Tabokoto.”
Yerro looked at her.
“Did you eat?”
“We ate some food on the road.”
“What food?”
“Some of the things Maama Ousman brought.”
“And the sweets?”
Matou looked away.
Yerro laughed.
“So the sweets did not survive the journey.”
Bubel immediately shouted, “I had mine!”
“Of course you did,” Matou said.
“Matou gave it to me.”
“That is because your Maama told me to share.”
“Did I?”
“Yes!”
The adults laughed.
Dinner was waiting.
They had delayed serving it because Borogie and the children had not returned. In Farato, particularly in Yerro’s household, a meal was not merely food placed before hungry people. Eating carried its own sense of family order. One waited for those who were expected, especially when they had travelled. To eat while Borogie and the children were still somewhere on the road would have felt wrong.
Nenneh Dado had kept the food warm as long as she could.
“Come,” she said. “The porridge has been waiting for you like an abandoned child.”
They gathered together.
Matou washed her hands and sat near Bubel. Yerro was served first, as was customary in the household, his portion placed before him. Then the rest of the family gathered around their shared food.
Borogie finally sat down.
For the first time that evening, she allowed herself to relax.
Matou watched her mother eat and thought of the strange turns life could take. That morning, they had been in Jeshwang. They had seen Nata in her marital home. They had visited Khadjel and Maama Ousman. Khadjel had cried when they left. Ousman Bah had given them sweets and money. Nata’s husband had pressed money into Borogie’s hands.
And now they were back here, eating around a bowl under the same night sky.
The journey already felt like a dream.
After dinner, Borogie told them about the visit.
She told Yerro that Nata had received them well.
“She is trying,” Borogie said carefully.
Yerro looked at her.
“Trying?”
“You know what I mean.”
He did.
No one mentioned Nata’s marriage further.
Borogie spoke instead of Ousman Bah and his young son.
“Caw Ousman is happy,” she said. “That boy has changed his face. He looks younger when he carries him.” Yerro nodded slowly. “He waited a long time for a child.”
“He is grateful.”
“He should be.”
Matou listened quietly. She thought of Khadjel again.
“She cried when we left,” Matou finally said.
Borogie stopped eating.
Yerro looked up.
“I cried too,” Matou added.
“Of course you did,” Borogie said gently.
“I know how she feels.”
There was silence.
No one needed to ask her to explain.
Everyone knew where Matou had lived. Everyone knew that she had been away from home for years.
Yerro reached for his calabash and drank.
“Sometimes,” he said, “a parent makes a decision with tomorrow in mind, but the child only feels today.”
Matou looked at him. It was perhaps the closest he would ever come to explaining himself. The family retired late that night. The journey had exhausted them all.
But the following morning, Farato woke to something far more exciting than news of Borogie’s return.
There had been a fight at the Alkali’s house.
Not an ordinary quarrel.
Not a disagreement between women over a goat or children over fruit.
A proper fight.
By sunrise, the story had already travelled through half the village.
By the time the women were sweeping their compounds, the story had grown legs.
By the time the first visitors came to greet Yerro’s household, it had grown wings.
“Have you heard?” a woman called from outside the gate.
Nenneh Dado looked up from where she was sorting vegetables.
“Heard what?”
“About Kornyaji.”
That was enough to make Borogie stop.
Matou, who had been feeding the chickens, listened immediately.
“What happened?” Borogie asked.
The woman lowered her voice, although everyone knew lowering one’s voice was often the quickest way to ensure that everyone gathered around.
“The Alkali beat him.”
“Beat him?”
“Beat him properly.”
“Why?”
“Palm wine.”
The words travelled through the compound like smoke.
Yerro, who had been preparing to leave for his farm, paused.
“Palm wine?”
The woman nodded.
“He went again to those tappers.”
Borogie exchanged a look with Nenneh Dado.
Everyone in the village knew about Kornyaji.
The alkali was a respected man. His word carried weight. People came to him over land disputes, family quarrels and disagreements that ordinary people could not settle. But in his own compound, life had not been as generous.
He and his wife had been blessed with children and then robbed of them.
Six children had been buried.
Some had died at birth.
Others had survived long enough for the parents to know their faces, their cries and their small habits before death took them too. One had died before learning to walk properly. Another had become ill as a toddler and was gone before anyone could understand what had happened.
After six burials, the Alkali and his wife had been left with only two surviving children.
Kornyaji, their son, and his sister, Sira.
The village knew what that meant.
When a family had buried so many children, the living ones could become more precious than they could bear. Every fever was feared. Every injury caused panic. Every act of disobedience felt larger than ordinary disobedience.
Kornyaji had grown up under the heavy shadow of the children who had died before him.
But lately, he had changed.
He was a teenager now, tall and restless. He had begun staying away from home for long periods. He argued with older men. He laughed at things when no one else was laughing. At times, he seemed to have too much energy, talking quickly and moving from one place to another without finishing anything. At other times, he became withdrawn, staring into space as though he were listening to something beyond the hearing of everyone else.
The villagers had their explanations.
Some said the boy had fallen in with bad company.
Others said he had become stubborn because he was the only surviving son.
A few older women whispered that something was wrong with his mind.
In those days, such things were rarely spoken about with certainty or understanding. People saw changes in a person’s behaviour, but they did not always have the words that later generations would use to describe mental disturbance. What they saw instead was a boy becoming unfamiliar to those who had raised him.
And Kornyaji had recently begun visiting the palm-wine tappers.
That was what angered his father most.