Echoes of Fuladu 3: Somewhere our feet could never reach…

As Matou entered the narrow path that led to her father’s compound, every emotion known to her seemed to awaken at once.

They rose quietly, like birds disturbed from tall grass.

Joy. Longing. Wonder. Relief. A strange nervousness.

But tears never came. Her happiness was too full for tears.

It filled every corner of her heart until she felt she might burst from it.

The path seemed smaller than she remembered.

As a little girl, it had felt impossibly long. Now her feet carried her almost effortlessly over the familiar sandy ground. Every bend stirred another memory.

There was the old anthill where Bubel had once insisted a giant snake lived.

There was the shallow ditch where she and Khadjel had spent an afternoon floating calabash shells after the first rains.

There stood the nettee tree Yerro had planted the year they moved into Farato. It had grown taller than the roof of the hut now, its branches stretching generously over part of the compound.

Everything had changed.

And yet nothing had. The smell reached her before the house did.

Wood smoke. Boiling millet. Freshly pounded pepper.

Somewhere nearby someone was roasting groundnuts.

Another compound was frying smoked fish.

The scents wrapped themselves around her like old friends who had been waiting patiently for her return.

She slowed her pace.

Not because she was tired.

Because she wanted to savour every step.

The afternoon sun filtered through scattered clouds.

Children’s laughter floated from somewhere behind another compound.

Goats wandered lazily across the sandy road, paying little attention to anyone.

A rooster crowed confidently despite the lateness of the day.

Everything sounded like home.

She reached the thatched entrance.

The little gate had become crooked.

One of its supporting poles leaned slightly to one side.

She smiled. Father still hadn’t repaired it.

She pushed gently. The gate creaked exactly as it always had. No one heard.

Inside the compound came the sound of laughter.

Loud. Unrestrained. Happy laughter.

Someone had just said something amusing.

She recognised Bubel’s unmistakable giggle immediately.

It had grown deeper.

But it was still Bubel.

Her heart skipped.

She stepped quietly into the compound.

The yard seemed much bigger than she remembered.

Or perhaps she had become smaller inside herself after living away.

The new family hut stood proudly beside Yerro’s smaller sleeping hut.

The walls of sun-dried mud had weathered into a beautiful earthy brown.

The roof was neatly thatched, thick enough to promise cool nights during the coming rains.

Near the kitchen stood several large clay water pots covered with woven lids.

Fresh firewood had been stacked carefully against the wall.

Someone had swept the compound not long ago.

Only a few dry neem leaves lay scattered across the sand.

She walked softly towards the women’s hut.

Her plastic bag suddenly felt heavier.

She placed it carefully on the verandah before stepping inside.

The large room served both as sitting room and sleeping room.

Two wide mud platforms, smoothed carefully with clay, stretched along opposite walls.

On top rested woven mats rolled neatly beside folded blankets.

A calabash hung from one wall.

Cooking utensils gleamed faintly in the afternoon light.

Nenneh Dado was the first to see her.

She had been sorting dried peppers into a large woven tray.

Her hands froze. Her eyes widened.

For one impossible second she simply stared.

Then she gasped loudly.

“Eh!”

The peppers spilled across the mat unnoticed.

“We have a visitor!”

Everyone turned.

Borogie looked first towards the doorway casually.

Then looked again.

This time properly.

The bowl she was holding slipped from her lap and rolled noisily across the floor.

“Matou…”

She whispered it.

Almost afraid the name itself might frighten the vision away.

Bubel needed no second invitation.

He leapt to his feet so suddenly he knocked over a calabash beside him.

“Matou!”

He sprinted across the room.

His skinny legs moved faster than she remembered possible.

Before she could kneel, he threw himself into her arms with such force they both stumbled backwards laughing.

“You came!”

“I came.”

“You really came!”

“I told you I would.”

“You didn’t!”

“I forgot to tell you.”

He laughed so hard he could barely breathe.

“You’ve grown!”

“So have you.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

He stood back immediately.

“Have I?”

She nodded seriously.

“You are so juch taller now.”

His chest puffed with pride.

Borogie finally found her feet.

Unlike Bubel, she did not run.

Mothers who have spent years carrying both joy and worry learn to approach happiness carefully, almost reverently.

She walked slowly.

Her eyes never leaving her daughter.

When she finally stood before Matou, she reached out with trembling fingers.

She touched her shoulder.

Then her hair.

Then both cheeks.

As though confirming flesh.

Warm flesh.

Living flesh.

“My child…”

Her voice broke completely.

“How did you know the road?”

Matou smiled through tears threatening to form.

“I remembered.”

Borogie shook her head in amazement.

“You remembered after all these years?”

“I remembered everything.”

The older woman finally gathered her daughter into her arms.

The embrace lasted a very long time.

Neither spoke.

Neither needed to.

Some reunions happen beyond language.

Nenneh Dado wiped discreetly at her eyes with the edge of her wrapper.

“Look at this child.”

She laughed softly.

“She has become a young woman.”

From the adjoining hut came the sound of movement.

Yerro had heard the commotion.

“What is happening?”

No one answered.

He stepped into the doorway.

Looked.

Stopped.

For a brief moment the strong farmer who feared almost nothing looked completely overcome.

“Matou?”

His voice came out much smaller than usual.

She turned immediately.

“Baba.”

She crossed the room quickly.

Then bent respectfully.

Greeting him properly before embracing him.

Yerro held her firmly.

Longer than fathers of his generation usually allowed themselves.

He cleared his throat twice before speaking.

“You have become tall.”

“So they keep telling me.”

He laughed.

“A good thing.”

He stepped back to examine her.

School had changed her.

She stood differently.

Spoke differently.

There was confidence in her eyes.

But also something else.

A maturity that did not belong entirely to childhood.

He noticed the scar.

His smile faded briefly.

His fingers hovered near her cheek.

“What happened?”

Matou hesitated.

Borogie answered quickly.

“A small injury.”

Yerro looked from wife to daughter.

He understood immediately that the story was larger than the answer.

But today was not for sorrow.

Today was for reunion.

The news spread through Farato almost immediately.

Children carried it first.

“Yerro’s daughter has come!”

“The one staying in Bakau!”

“The school girl!”

Within half an hour neighbours began arriving.

One after another.

Each wanting to greet her.

Each asking the same questions.

“Do you remember me?”

“Have you forgotten your village?”

“Can you still speak Fula?”

Matou laughed constantly.

“I remember.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Of course I can.”

Everyone wanted to hear her speak English.

She obliged shyly.

“Good afternoon.”

The neighbours clapped delightedly.

“Eh!”

“Our daughter is educated now.”

“Listen to her!”

“Again!”

She laughed.

Feeling suddenly embarrassed.

When the visitors finally thinned, she remembered her plastic bag.

“Oh!”

“I brought something.”

Everyone looked curiously.

She untied the knot carefully.

Months of quiet planning lay inside.

She brought out a paper packet first.

“Bubel.”

His eyes widened.

“Sweets.”

Real sweets.

Wrapped individually in bright coloured paper.

He stared as though they were jewels.

“For me?”

“All yours.”

He hugged the packet possessively.

“I won’t share.”

The adults laughed.

“You will,” Borogie said.

He sighed dramatically.

“I’ll share small.”

Next came two carefully folded pieces of printed cloth.

One blue.

One green.

She handed the blue one to Borogie.

“This is for you.”

Borogie looked confused.

“For me?”

Matou nodded.

The older woman unfolded it slowly.

Beautiful blue wax print.

Not expensive.

But beautiful.

Her hands trembled.

“My daughter…”

Matou smiled.

“I bought it.”

Borogie looked up sharply.

“With what money?”

“I saved.”

She pointed to the second wrapper.

“And Mr. Owens added some money.”

Nenneh Dado received hers next.

She laughed delightedly.

“Look at these flowers!”

She immediately held it against herself.

“Do they suit me?”

“They do,” Matou said.

Finally she reached the bottom of the bag.

Carefully lifting out one last parcel.

Wrapped in newspaper.

She placed it before Yerro.

“For you.”

He frowned.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

Inside lay a sturdy pair of leather sandals.

Yerro stared silently.

Then shook his head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I cannot take shoes from my child.”

“You can.”

“No.”

“You must.”

He pushed them gently back.

“A father buys for children.”

“Today,” Matou said softly, “a daughter wants to buy for her father.”

Silence settled.

Borogie wiped another tear.

Yerro looked away briefly.

Then accepted them.

Without another word.

That evening, after Maghrib prayer, the family ate together from one large bowl.

Millet.

Groundnut stew.

Fresh okra.

Nothing had ever tasted better to Matou.

After Isha they carried woven mats outside beneath the stars.

The air had cooled.

Crickets sang endlessly.

The first lightning flashed far beyond the horizon.

Rain was coming.

The family gathered close around her.

“Tell us everything.”

And she did.

Not the loneliness. Not the scar. Not Aunty Bae. Those stories could wait.

Instead she told them about Haddy.

About Yassin.

About Samba Bah and his endless gossip.

About nursery visits with Khadjel.

About hopscotch.

School songs.

English words.

Books.

Fairy tales.

The Owens’ mango tree.

Church bells.

Laughter filled the compound late into the night.

Then she opened her exercise books.

Showed them her drawings.

Her handwriting.

Her examination results.

Neither Borogie nor Yerro could read a single word.

Yet they held every page as though it were gold.

“Read it to us,” Yerro said quietly.

And Matou did.

Every line.

Every mark.

Every teacher’s comment.

When she finished, her father looked at her with a pride too large for words.

“Our daughter,” he whispered, “has gone somewhere our feet could never reach.”

Borogie said nothing.

She simply reached across the mat.

Placed her hand gently over Matou’s.

And held it there.

As though promising herself—

Never again would she let so many years pass before touching her child.