She wanted to call Matou once more. Wanted one last look. One last chance. But pride, pain, and custom held her in place. If the child wanted to come, she would come.
She did not.
Borogie stepped out of the Owens compound with an empty basket and a heart heavier than when she had arrived.
On the road back, the sun seemed harsher. The distance to Farato felt longer. Every step carried the image of Matou’s scar. Every breath carried the coldness of her greeting.
For the first time, Borogie allowed herself to wonder whether love could make a decision and still be guilty of harm.
She had wanted a future for her daughter.
But what if the road to that future was paved with loneliness?
What if opportunity, without tenderness, became another kind of poverty?
She walked on, blinking back tears she refused to shed in public.
At home, if Nata asked, she would say Matou was well.
She would say the Owens thanked her.
She would say the girl was growing.
But she would not say that Matou had looked at her like a stranger.
She would not say that her child’s cheek carried a scar.
She would not say that a mother’s sacrifice could return years later wearing the face of betrayal.
Not yet.
Some griefs needed darkness before they could be spoken.
When her mother left, Matou regretted it immediately.
The regret came so fast it startled her.
One moment she was standing stiffly inside the house, pretending to busy herself with nothing in particular while Borogie exchanged final pleasantries with Mrs. Owens and Aunty Bae.
The next, she was standing at the doorway watching her mother disappear down the sandy road with the empty basket balanced on her head.
And suddenly—
She wanted to run after her.
Not just to the gate.
Further.
All the way to the Bakau garage.
Perhaps even beyond.
She wanted to call out:
“Neneh!”
The way she used to.
The way she had not done since arriving at the Owens household.
But pride is a terrible companion.
It often arrives disguised as hurt.
And hurt had become Matou’s closest friend.
So she remained where she was.
Watching.
Until her mother became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.
Only then did the guilt arrive.
Heavy.
Immediate.
And merciless.
It sat on her chest the entire afternoon.
When she washed dishes.
When she swept.
When she folded clothes.
When she lay down to sleep.
The guilt followed.
Like a bag she had not chosen but was forced to carry everywhere.
The household did not help.
They did not say outright, “We told you so.”
But they came close.
Mrs Owens sighed repeatedly whenever Matou entered a room.
Jane shook her head dramatically whenever the story came up.
Even Margo, usually gentle, said softly one evening:
“You should have at least walked with her to the gate.”
The words stung.
Because they were true.
Matou knew they were true.
But what did they know?
What did any of them know?
Her feelings were too tangled even for herself.
Anger.
Grief.
Resentment.
Betrayal.
Loneliness.
Love.
They all lived together inside her now.
Like strangers trapped in the same room.
At times she blamed Borogie.
At times she blamed Yerro.
At times she blamed poverty.
And often she blamed herself for blaming them.
The truth shifted depending on the hour.
At night she missed her mother desperately.
In the morning she remembered being given away and became angry again.
Then she remembered Borogie carrying vegetables all the way from Farato just to see her.
Then she remembered the scar.
Then she remembered her mother’s face when she saw it.
Round and round the thoughts went.
Until even Matou grew tired of them.
Yet something had changed after that visit.
Something permanent.
The wound on her cheek had healed into a thin line.
The wound inside her had begun doing something else.
It was making her think.
Really think.
For the first time since arriving at the Owens household years ago.
And once a child begins thinking independently, adults often become nervous without knowing why.
The summer holidays approached slowly.
Then suddenly.
As they always did.
Exercise books grew thinner.
Lessons became lighter.
Teachers spoke increasingly about examinations already completed.
Children discussed holiday plans.
Visits to grandparents.
Trips to relatives.
Village ceremonies.
Naming ceremonies.
Harvests.
Circumcisions.
Family gatherings.
Everywhere Matou turned, someone was speaking about going home.
Home.
The word followed her everywhere.
And it stirred something restless inside her.
A realisation.
One so simple she was almost embarrassed she had never considered it before.
She could go too.
The thought arrived unexpectedly one afternoon while she was scrubbing uniforms.
She paused.
Soap dripping from her hands.
Heart beating slightly faster.
Could she?
The idea felt forbidden.
Impossible.
Yet the more she thought about it, the more possible it became.
Why couldn’t she?
She was not a prisoner.
She was not an orphan.
Her family still existed.
Her parents were alive.
Her siblings were alive.
Farato was not another country.
It was only a journey away.
The realization felt almost revolutionary.
For years she had simply accepted her circumstances.
Accepted that her life happened where others placed her.
Accepted that adults decided and children followed.
But she was growing now.
Growing enough to ask.
Growing enough to want.
Growing enough to imagine alternatives.
And once imagination enters a child’s heart, resignation begins to die.
She spent nearly two weeks gathering courage.
Every day she rehearsed.
Every day she lost her nerve.
Mr Owens intimidated her.
Not because he was cruel.
Quite the opposite.
His kindness often frightened her more than harshness.
Aunty Bae was predictable.
Mr Owens was not.
And she desperately wanted him to say yes.
Which made the possibility of hearing no unbearable.
So she waited.
And waited.
Until Sunday.
Sundays at the Owens household followed a ritual.
Church in the morning.
The family dressed carefully.
Shoes polished.
Hair combed.
Bibles carried.
After church came the largest meal of the week.
Rice.
Stew.
Sometimes chicken if fortune smiled.
The children ate loudly.
The adults spoke about church matters.
Politics.
School.
Neighbors.
Then everyone retreated into varying degrees of laziness.
Except Matou.
There were always dishes.
Always.
That Sunday she found herself alone behind the house.
The afternoon sun hung heavily overhead.
The meal had been especially large.
Which meant the mountain of dishes seemed endless.
Enamel plates.
Metal bowls.
Serving spoons.
Cooking pots.
Cups.
She worked steadily.
Water.
Soap.
Scrub.
Rinse.
Stack.
Repeat.
Her mind wandered toward Farato.
Toward Borogie.
Toward Bubel.
Toward Khadjel.
Toward Nata.
Toward home.
She was so lost in thought she almost missed the footsteps.
Mr Owens.
He appeared quietly.
As he often did.
Holding a cup of tea.
Observing.
The way thoughtful men often observe before speaking.
“Working hard?” he asked.
Matou jumped slightly.
Then smiled.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded.
For a few moments neither spoke.
Only the sound of water.
Then the opportunity appeared.
And before fear could stop her—
She took it.
“Sir?”
“Hmm?”
Her throat tightened.
“If…”
The words vanished.
Mr Owens waited patiently.
“If what?”
She inhaled deeply.
“If it is possible…”
Still nothing.
Her courage threatened to evaporate.
Then she thought of Borogie walking away down that road.
Thought of Farato.
Thought of home.
And the words finally came.
“Can I visit my family during the summer holidays?”
Silence.
Not long.
But long enough for panic to begin.
Mr Owens looked genuinely surprised.
Not offended.
Surprised.
“As in Farato?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You want to stay there?”
“Just during the holidays.”
The washing water suddenly became fascinating.
Matou stared into it.
Unable to meet his eyes.
Her heart pounded.
Mr Owens remained quiet.
Thinking.
Then unexpectedly—
He smiled.
A real smile.
“Of course.”
Matou blinked.
Certain she had misheard.
“Sir?”
“Of course.”
She stared.
Speechless.
The answer had come too easily.
She had prepared herself for negotiation.
For conditions.
For discussion.
Not agreement.
Just agreement.
He seemed amused by her expression.
“You thought I would refuse?”
She didn’t answer.
Which was answer enough.
Mr Owens sighed.
“Matou.”
His voice softened.
“Your family is still your family.”
Something tightened painfully in her throat.
“You do not stop belonging to them because you stay here.”
The words struck her deeply.
Deeper than he realized.
Perhaps deeper than he intended.
She swallowed hard.
“I can go?”
“Yes.”
“For all the holidays?”
“Yes.”
Three months.
The number exploded inside her.
Three months.
Not days.
Not a weekend.
Three entire months.
A season.
An eternity.
A miracle.
The joy rose so suddenly she almost laughed.
Almost cried.
Almost hugged him.
Fortunately she did none of those things.
She simply stood frozen.
Mr Owens chuckled.
“When do schools reopen?”
She answered immediately.
He nodded.
“Then return before reopening.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And greet your parents properly for us.”
“Yes, sir.”
The smile refused to leave her face.
Even after he walked away.
Even after she returned to washing dishes.
Even after the sun began sinking.
She washed every plate twice.
Not because they needed it.
Because she could not stop smiling.
That night she lay awake.
Not with sadness.
Not with homesickness.
Not with fear.
With anticipation.
For the first time in years.
She imagined Farato.
The new compound.
The hut her father built.
The smell of wood smoke.
Borogie’s cooking.
Nata’s laughter.
Bubel’s mischief.
The long walks.
The fields.
The freedom.
She imagined sleeping beside her own blood.
Talking late into the night.
Fetching water together.
Helping in the garden.
Being someone’s child again.
Not someone’s responsibility.
Not someone’s charity.
A child.
Simply.
Fully.
Belonging.
And somewhere deep inside her—
Past the scar.
Past the loneliness.
Past the hurt.
Hope quietly returned.
Like a guest who had been absent far too long.
And this time—
Matou opened the door and let it stay.
The Standard Gambia
Modern Ghana
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