Sub-Saharan Wanderings

I recently went on a week-long trek deep into the heart of Gambia. Destination: Basse. It’s the town where my father was born and home to many members of his family.

The trip upcountry was spectacular. Endless fields of savanna, baobab trees, and tough shrubs scattered among plains of grass. The open expanses were littered with lofty red-sand ant hills - mini skyscrapers of the sub-Saharan wild. I saw clusters of thatch-hut villages along the way that gave fleeting impressions of the daily comings and goings of rural life. Cattle roamed free, kids frolicked by the roadside as I caught their waves and shouts in the rearview. The sun was blindingly bright; heat so stifling it could choke you, inescapable and unforgiving in its relentlessness.

During my trip I went home to Ma’s compound. My grandmother, Tuwayel, is a beautiful old woman. She is tiny with a deceptively delicate look about her. I only see her on my trips to Gambia – which are infrequent – and we have a communication issue because she only speaks Fula, a language that I know a grand total of 10 words of. Despite this I see the love that shines in her eyes when she looks at her family, her infectious grin could power me light years to space and back.

On my last night in Basse everyone was outside lying under the stars. We placed mats on an elevated expanse of cement to buffer our bodies from the heat that the ground had been soaking up all day. Limbs sprawled out, bones exhausted, seeking relief in the reprieve of those cooler night time moments. We were laughing, chatting, enjoying each other’s company while basking in the glow of feeling that all was as it should be.

I looked up at the sky and saw a bright crescent moon and stars up above. In a lull of conversation I remarked that in some cities in the US you can’t see many stars due to light pollution; sometimes the moon is utterly obstructed by tall buildings. My cousin translated and Ma nodded, cooed an affirmative “ahh” of understanding and smiled. We all remained silent, reflecting on this as we gazed up at the heavens, the skies uniting us in common understanding.

I can add two new words to my arsenal of Fula: Kohdeh means stars and lewru means moon. When I look up at the night sky my father’s family has my whole heart. Despite the divergent reality of our day-to-day lives, I know that the bonds that connect my family – no matter how far removed or distantly in contact – those bonds are a transcendent and beautiful thing.