LEXOZINE

ISSUE 01 · AUGUST 2026 · 46 MIN READ

Fragments of the Coast · Issue 01

Fragments of the Coast

A Digital Literary Magazine

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Voices · Memory · Society · Culture · The Coast

Editor's note

Editor's Note

LexoGraphix Plus1 min read

Fragments of the Coast · A Digital Literary Magazine

This master preserves the contributors’ original voices while establishing a consistent magazine hierarchy for final typesetting. Titles, bylines, article labels, chapter markers and body copy have been separated visually to make layout, pacing and feature treatment easier during design.

Poetry

Mariatou Bah2 min read

The sea is not the solution

Contemplative figure standing beside a stormy sea

I grew up being scolded;
Sold to the street.
Lost in a society with numerous errors.
A home of terror, where terrorists lead at the mosque, and preach at the church.
My mind enslaved in a community of preys, Hungry for my body to quench their thirst- for sex!

I live fighting invisible battles
To be set free, all I yearn for
All I prayed for and pleaded for.
I climbed on trees to be able to survive, but every door I knock,
I’m punched on the face
I bleed and weep, my life becomes weird
The only hope there for me
Was to sleep and dream.
A nightmare that gives me hopes
And routes to survive, yet engulfed in fear.
A society of beasts waiting for the poor
To toil, so they can survive.
Sucking their blood like hungry vampires.
An era of terrors with numerous errors without looking at the mirror
They think they are the heroes.
Turning every woman into a widow
With zero knowledge on how to develop a plan, but the belly must be fed.
So it is a must to bribe for an office:
Prostitution, robbery, and corruption
Becomes the skill of every youth.
“Daddy is old;
Now it’s my turn to
Provide for mom!;” The goal and dream of every great citizen.
Then with hope and joy,
They left for a greener pasture.
To toil and moil and send back home,
But the sea is with no eyes to perceive
So; there is nothing to see.
The waves either aren't friendly to man.
Gone, a hope.
I bet the Mediterranean is not to blame,
but our kings and queens
bear the story to tell.
What a devastating loss!
To the poor and illiterate child, I thought this was his dream until I hear him out,
Then I learned there was nothing to do.
I thought it was a smile until I saw him cry Then I realised that the smile was just pasted on his face to cover up his pains
For there is nothing to gain.
No rain or game was there to palliate his pain
He breaks and beg, but comes no hand to give,
Oh how they suffered, yet the sharks survived; chanting and ranting for success. What a Nation!
A Nation with no mercy for the youth

Mariatou Bah3 min read

The storm

As I sat on the veranda of my house on that stormy afternoon, the wind howled fiercely, twisting the rain into whips that lashed at the trees. The gusts played with my hair, pushing it relentlessly into my eyes as I scrolled through a script I was editing on my phone. The rain, a symphony of nature’s fury, was the only company I needed – until a piercing scream shattered the rhythmic drumming of water on the roof.

The sound jolted me, tearing my attention away from the screen. At first, I thought it was the wind playing tricks on my ears. But then, the scream grew more intense, drowning out the storm itself. Voices erupted in chaos, filling the air with questions – “What happened? What’s going on?” – mingling with the increasingly desperate pleas of a man.

“Woi, help me!” The man’s voice echoed with raw terror, louder than the storm

Without thinking, I bolted out of my house, barefoot, hair wild, no veil on my head. The rain soaked my clothes instantly, but I didn’t care. As I reached the street, I noticed I wasn’t alone. Around thirteen others stood, just as dishevelled, just as confused, all drawn to the scene like moths to a flame.

Across from my compound stood another, with its black gate towering ominously amidst the downpour. On the right is a simple line of three rooms; on the left, an unfinished building, skeletal and haunting in the dim light, still under construction.

It was from this structure that the horror emerged.

A construction worker had fallen – from the roof, high above, where he had been inspecting the rain-soaked beams. The building had become treacherous, every surface slick, every plank weakened by the relentless rain. He had slipped, plummeting into the unfinished rooms below. The storm, which had seemed an inconvenience minutes ago, had now become a villain.

The man – a tall, dark-skinned figure dressed entirely in black – lay crumpled on the ground. A ground of young men hurried to him, their faces masks with shock as they gently lifted his limp form. His leg was twisted unnaturally, a grotesque break that made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t hold back my tears as I watched them carry him, every movement filled with urgency and dread.

The man’s cries pierced through the chaos, his voice full of anguish and fear. “Oh no, I will die,” he sobbed, his words a chilling mantra.

People gathered around, frozen by the spectacle of his suffering. Some whispered to one another in hushed tones, their faces pale with worry. Others, like me, couldn’t help but cry. The raw emotion in the air was as heavy as the rain.

Two boys climbed into the car with him – one carefully cradling his broken leg, the other murmuring words of comfort, though his fear was evident in his shaking hands. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the car roared to life, the wheels spinning in the mud, and they sped off toward the hospital. The rest of us were left standing in the rain, helpless and silent, our hearts heavy with uncertainty.

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse, as if the weight of what we’d witnessed pushed us back to our homes. I returned to my veranda, the rain still pounding, but now, it seemed colder, darker. I sat down, drenched and shaken, my mind replaying the scene over and over.

What would become of him, I wondered? The storm outside was nothing compared to the one raging in my thoughts.

Poetry

Rofine Camara1 min read

The Last Beacon

Lighthouse at dusk beneath gathering storm clouds

Like the river, tears still flow,
As we mourn a beacon
In the darkness of our own.
A guiding light that was meant to be,
For innocent souls and eyes to see.

The demons paraded all night,
But with his power of combating
The signals of darkness in our sight,
We came to ignite
A fire in our wounds—
Wounds that can't be healed—
As we killed a beacon
In the darkness of our own.
Now we bow our heads
To say it was against our will.
In a world of doubt, we've come to live.
Like the blind, we now walk.
We do hear voices,
But we never know
Who it will be.
Like cowards, we are fearing—
Not to be chopped like wood.
We now survive with regret,
Which has changed our mood,
As we are left with no beacon
For the darkness of our hood.

Poetry

2 min read

The Son Of The Land

Rooted figure symbolising resilience and connection to the land

Can we have a conversation?
Am I the fruit of my father, Africa, son of Adam, the seed?
And are you truly my mother?
If you are, then take heed.
Mama, we have the coolest air within,
But we can't breathe.
For the worst mistake you made
Is trusting a hyena to lead.
In secret, he kills,
And accuses the innocent for what he did.
Mama, please, you are still not awake,
As if the sun didn't rise.
Our innocent lives are ever at stake
Whenever the moon loses its eyes.
We can't count the heartbreaks
Of those souls that purely died.
Daddy whispered in our ears
That education is the key,
But you made him a liar,
Changing the padlock to our dreams,
Turning us into movie characters,
Acting different horrible scenes.
Mama, it is in me, the willingness
To learn and understand,
But my mind quieted with lots of stress,
As many within learn just to pass exams.
In the smiling coast
We now are drowning,
In search for better air to breathe.
None of that you can secure.
We are left with a whole life frowning,
A pain that will not be easily cured.
Aren't you that best mother before
That every child needs?
But hunger is killing your children on every door,
As you increase the prices of what he feeds.
And we are having that shiny stomach no more.
Our tears became the quencher of our thirst.
Whenever it rains, our tongue does lick.
Mama, promise to me that you shall put a smile on our faces,
If it will be there for all,
And you will teach us
To learn the dancing steps of those days.
In one tune, one rhythm, we shall stand tall.
Mama, promise to me,
You shall make your children believe
Life of ease is at home
A new age of yours where everyone shall breathe
And be proud of their own.

Short Fiction

Bassi Mbye2 min read

Story of kindness

Once upon a time, there was an old woman who helped students when they were going to school. Of kind gestures, career guidance, daily lunch and buying bicycles for the underprivileged, the students never lacked from her.

A few years later,

Those students graduated from universities and colleges, and mounting positions.

They opened an alumni group to discuss their experiences. And one of them heard on the street that the old mummy who supported them had gone bankrupt and has been given notice to leave in the house she was renting.

Then the man shared the information on their alumni group, where he suggested that they meet Mummy and give her assistance, and that assistant would be a compound.

A few days later, they all met and visited Mummy, who did help them.

The first one to knock on the door was Stephen, who introduced himself in front of the old mum and his spouse and gave her a cheque of $3000. The old mum was overwhelmed with joy and later heard someone shouting a lot more.

The old mum then came out and found a group of people who reached an average of seven men, including one lady, who did the same after introducing themselves and also gave her an amount of £3,000.

The head of their alumni group, Stephen, took out a compound document that they bought for their Mummy and gave it to her- a surprise return of her kindness during their time in school.

Poetry

Muhammed Korta1 min read

Passersby

Passing silhouettes on a rain-soaked street

I stood wise among many
For knowing what they don't
Like we are strangers just given time to stay
And to marry as many as four wives
But to love who love us more
And not to love just to be in love.
I saw travellers unwilling to accept this journey
I asked them to let go of fear and go into the fields
But they just stay and stay, just to be given permission
And before they reap the harvest
Birds eat their fields
And they starve to death.
I saw a lonely sight at the beach
They said a rich man lived their lavishly
Alone with his wife and few children
He doesn't want the distraction of the poor
And who visits him are those wealthy as he
I told my children to believe or believe not
But all these are found on each face of the world
As they also pass by, they would see it all.

Poetry

Muhammed Korta1 min read

Nature in Seasons

I longed for May or June
To see the heaven open its wings of kindness
From its Falls
The pasture spread green
In peasants’ joy, let no one mourn
Till the earth, grace the herds.
I longed for the Autumn or Spring
To sniff earth's mild air of blessings
Lie under the fall of autumn gold
And the running water so calm and bold
How it quench my thirst for nature
I only want to be alive
To see the birds, how they chirp
And the sun how it glows with might
Walk through the friendly woods
Admire the trees and petals
When they grow in size.

Poetry

Alpha Jobe1 min read

The Raped Africa

Cracked portrait symbolising Africa's resilience

Once upon a time
In the continent of love and peace
Where the rivers flow from the highlands
With fresh fishes and shrimps
Where the dense jungle
Homes wild animals and economic trees
Where mothers culturally nurture their young
Where children danced and clapped
In the rain and storm...
Came the white man
Who trespassed her
With a gun hidden under her skirt
Who hornswoggled her and stole
Her golds and diamonds
Who stole her children and branded them at their backs
Like horses
The Children of Africa
Now, left in a tunnel with no light at the end
All forcefully taken from her
Ripped and shredded.

Poetry

Alpha Jobe1 min read

The Misgivings

In my beloved country!
I do not have the puniest doubt
That my country is ill-starred
Because my distinction in subjects do
Not proof my potential in marrow
With distinctions, I graduated but
In demurrers, I ended!
All doors shut in all offices I walked in
Memories regurgitated in my brain
Remembering the speech I gave as a valedictorian
With my plate I hawk to the market
My mum in dire straits and
My dad walking in dark spectacles
In the markets we are chased and beaten
Our taxes represent not our voices
Our souls are irritated!
Our voices are ignored!
The barons are elevated in their heisted suits
For The Gambia, Our homeless land
We cry!

Poetry

Muhammed Bakayoko1 min read

Hectic journey to success

Lapses make me to fall on thorns,
Thorns leave scars.
And the scars shall not be forgotten,
It gives strength,
The eyes are with vivid visions.
And with visions, no rest.
Imminent,
Yet far in space and time,
Asking for dedication and strive;
The hectic journey can never be easy,
But with persistence, you achieve everything..

Poetry

Muhammed Bakayoko1 min read

Work work

The people that came before you,
Worked hard in building their legacies
A monuments you pride yourself with
Many fall from great, yet others rise to great with nothing

Make the whole zone your own.
To rise through the ranks,
Where nobody will call a rank and file.
Just rely on what you know, but keep searching for more;
To achieve and to inspire generations.

Poetry

Muhammed Lamin Manneh (ML Manneh)1 min read

In Between

The spouse
Of talent, is passion.
While you're
The dowry, the divorce.
A prophet,
I am not, but an astrologer;
I used you, a star,
To foretell you; your art.
Stars shine!
And to excel,
In between originality is...
Enough space
Right at your disposal.
From the backstage,
To the spotlight, it's a blink—
When the time is right.
Fate is no bet.
But like Bruce Lee in...
Martial arts as a mentee,
Yes, of your craft, be the 'Yip Man'.
He was his master.

Poetry

Muhammed Lamin Manneh (ML Manneh)1 min read

The Song

Tear my heart,
You'll find me with my bills,
Lost to an unfeasible budget line.
And then tear deep down,
You'll find me with my cute life,
Free of "The Song",
But just the dream of a poor man.
A dream, or... yes—
An illusion.
With the steps
Of ups and downs, I dance
To the song of lack,
With lyrics of pain and tribulations.
Melodies as cries.
While 'they' dress in suits
Of lies tied with ties;
Backed by masquerade manifestos...
And, flex on taxes, my sweats—
Proclaimed for my glee,
Yet at my expense.

Poetry

Amadou S Jallow1 min read

Back

I could never see tomorrow,
Even if tomorrow called.
The boy, sole, who lived in me
Came back from the dead,
Now a man, sole, asking for
the laurels fate promised.
How could I have told him,
even if I could? All the roses
are now hay, white, fungal hay.
He has lost fate in fate.
He has lost faith in faith.
And could I have blamed him?
I couldn't have when I couldn't.

Essay

Amadou S Jallow6 min read

What the Quality of Leaders We Produce Tells Us as a Society:

Article

It is an undisputed truth that if a particular people, nation, or kingdom are blessed with a good leader, they experience a golden generation—a period of growth, peace, and prosperity. However, it is even more undeniable that a poor, visionless, or selfish leader can drag an entire society into chaos, poverty, ruin, and even to hell.

This is not some mysterious phenomenon; it’s something deeply rooted in the relationship between leaders and the society they emerge from. Leaders don’t just fall from the sky like rain or snow. They are raised within families, shaped by communities, educated in schools in these same communities, and influenced by the values and norms of their societies.

So, the question is—what does the quality of our leaders tell us about ourselves as a society?

1. Good and Functional Societies Produce Good and Visionary Leaders

A society that's built on love and honesty; a society that believes in the value of education, integrity, accountability, and compassion will naturally produce leaders who carry those same values into their leadership. It's not rocket science, it's simple human nature.

Like a mirror, good leaders are, most of the time, exact reflections of the systems and principles they were raised in.

Let's take Nelson Mandela as an example. He grew up in a larger society consumed by colonialism, racial injustice and inequality, but his immediate society was a completely different one, Mandela was shaped by the teachings of African traditions –his immediate African society–that was built on unity, humility, and service to the community. His leadership was not something divine like a prophet, he simply was a product of what his society believed and instilled in him, he mirrored the best parts of his society.

In a functional society, values such as justice, transparency, and service to others are taught at home, reinforced in schools, and practiced in public institutions. These societies view leadership not as an avenue for personal gain but as a responsibility to serve others.

2. Failed and Dysfunctional Societies Produce Poor, Visionless, and Weak Leaders

In contrast, a society where corruption, injustice, and ignorance are the orders of the day, most definitely produces leaders who embody these same failures. If a community celebrates dishonesty and corruption, ignores bribery, oppress the poor and weak, and allows power to go unchecked, its leadership will reflect those shortcomings.

Consider Joe Biden of the United States. He came into power with promises of unity and stability, still most Americans remain deeply disappointed and divided over his leadership. He might as well go down as one of the worst presidents the world have ever seen.

This isn't much about Joe Biden as a person, it's simply the best America and the American society can produce.

Also, a society where leadership is inherited through back doors and external influences, or bought through bribes instead of being earned through merit is unlikely to produce the right and capable leaders. Weak systems create weak leaders, and weak leaders create even weaker systems. This leads to a cycle of dysfunction.

3. Good and Visionary Leaders Elevate Societies

Good leaders have the power to transform their societies, regardless of how broken they might have been before. Visionary leadership is like a compass in a storm, guiding people toward stability, prosperity, and growth.

Sometimes God saves a particular people by sending them a saviour, however, these broken societies normally sees them as threats and often always try to get rid of them. The only time they'll realise how blessed they were to have them as leaders would be after the death of the person.

Patrice Lumumba of Congo and Kwame Nkrumah of Ghana are perfect examples.

Kwame inherited a nation on pieces, a nation still dealing with the aftermath of colonial exploitation. But he was a Visionary, and through that, with his vision of pan-African unity, education reform, industrialization, and accountability, he laid the foundation for Ghana’s independence and progress. Just like Edward Francis Small did for the Beloved country of The Gambia —though he never became president.

When a good leader steps into power, they know what they're there for, they know the state is like a family, and that requires them to inspire the society to rise above its challenges. They don’t just build infrastructure or create policies; they, just like a father to his children, gives the state hope, and ignite a collective sense of purpose, responsibility, honesty, integrity, accountability and love among their people.

4. Weak and Visionless Leaders Do More Harm Than Good to Societies

Throughout history, many kingdoms fell not because of the power of external pressure or attacks, but because of the presence of weak, ignorant and visionless leaders.

Weak, corrupt, or visionless leaders always prioritize their personal interests, they are always selfish creatures. They put themselves first before the collective good, and these actions leave their people to suffer the consequences.

Take Tinubu of Nigeria as an example. After assuming power, Tinubu found the nation of Nigeria already battling economic instability, insecurity, and systemic corruption. However, his leadership has done more harm than there was before, he's been criticized for ruling his country like a farmland where you grow what you want, or leave it barren, or perhaps sell it altogether with zero transparency. Rising inflation, worsening insecurity, and public dissatisfaction under his administration clearly shows how deep-rooted the issues within Nigerian society. He's definitely leading them to hell.

In The Gambia, When Adama Barrow took over, there was a glimmer of hope for change. Everyone believed in a positive transformation towards progress, however, despite tons of initial promises of reform, Barrow's leadership keep struggling with delivering any form of significant progress. His extension of power beyond his initial term and reluctance to fully address the corruption and instability of the past just shows the deep-rooted challenges in the Gambian society.

Weak leaders are driven by short-term goals. They fear accountability, suppress opposing voices, and surround themselves with sycophants rather than capable advisors. This doesn’t just slow down growth—it creates lasting damage to a society’s institutions, economy, growth, and morale. This is simply the best the Gambia society can produce.

Conclusion: A Mirror Reflecting Ourselves

Leaders are not anomalies—they are more like mirrors that reflect the strengths and weaknesses of their immediate societies.

If we want better leaders, we must first build better societies.

If we want better societies, we must first build better families.

If we want better families, we must first be better individuals.

Societies that produce leaders who embody honesty, competence, and accountability, are societies destined for many more golden generations.

The question we must ask ourselves is not just, "Why are our leaders failing us?" but also, "What are we, as a society, doing to allow this failure to persist?"

Truly, the quality of our leaders tells us one undeniable truth: The change we seek in leadership must first begin with us.

Commentary

Alieu Juwara4 min read

A Letter To My Master

Dear God,

Did your Angel of Finance and Economic Affairs tell you that there is more to be done with our problems than just increasing the salaries?

When he prophesied about the expected outcomes of our economy in your Chambers, why did he leave so many stones unturned? It’s apparent that your servants are crying, so hard and loud, but only to the hearing of those with hearts to ponder. When I read from the scriptures: “There are people with eyes, but they cannot see. Some with brains, but cannot think. And some with ears, but cannot hear.” I said to myself, “Must they be human in another form? Little did I know that such were the people our affairs would one day be stirred by.”

First and foremost, you may think you’ve heard us well, or seen our struggles, and so you want to address them by loading our coffers, but take a step back and ponder, because by doing so, you only prove your blindness, dumbness, and emptiness. In case you are not aware, the economy is still recovering from the acute sicknesses that your bad policies caused when you and your disciples increased salaries without taking into account their consequences—perhaps only thinking about the returns you would personally make from it or the applause from your servants to smoothen your road to the polls.

God, problems are better solved when strategically studied, analyzed, and approached systematically, lest one may end up adding oil to the fire.

Meanwhile, as a country, our problem is not the low pay. We are not desperate to amass so much wealth. We only want to live a decent life that will allow us to enjoy the fruits of our labor—nothing more. In case you do not know, your desperate servants sent me to ask you the following: “Have you forgotten about the ruptured education system that fails to provide quality education to your servants? Does it not bother you when your annual scriptures finalized in the Legislative promise Free Education, yet schools struggle for months to secure their own shares of the cake—one that your disciples slice daily? Have you not observed that your salary increment is giving birth to a drastic increase in food prices and tuition fees of private schools, colleges, and universities? Sure to speak—the very institutions that fail to guarantee us the least quality education to save your kingdom. My Lord, is it not concerning that our hospitals have turned into zones of capital punishment for crimes we’re innocent of? See, it is more than ironical to receive good pay but cannot get the most basic medical services because there is nothing to be offered.

Tell me, what do you have to say to the desperate youths who lose trust in their own lands and prefer to die in the Mediterranean or the burning Sahara Desert rather than wait for promises that would never be fulfilled? To the poor farmers who are plowing their souls in their barren fields only to get half a day’s meal? To the weak women and children whose hopes lie with you—their Master and Savior? Do you really have anything for them, or is it the same thing again: “I have sacrificed to take this country from dictatorship,” a battle we all fought together, but you always demand credit single-handedly?

Would you also be the God whose covenants are only seen on billboards and postcards decorating our roads and departments but are never felt or recognized by your servants? In case your angels failed to tell you, here is how we will pay for this victor in disguise, and our cries will never stop:

Your angels are happy with the increment, and so are the businessmen! But there is more to this than just that. Businesses lack the infrastructure to increase their productive capacity when buyers' purchasing power increases. This results in a short-run effect of rising commodity prices, rent, utilities, education, transport, health, etc. Additionally, the excess demand propelled by the higher earnings compels higher imports and worsens the Balance of Payments—another problem that translates into a fall in the value of the local currency.

Conclusively, I sought advice from your brother, Ebrahim Troare of Burinka Faso. Here is his brotherly advice:

Seal the holes in the government coffers and stop all leakages from our national treasury. Battle corruption; it is our open enemy.
Establish a good investment climate that would attract local and foreign investors. Employment and production would multiply.
Improve the state of infrastructure and separate economic affairs from politics. They are complementary but not interchangeable.
Curtail non-productive expenditures and rationally handpick all priorities. "Benechin" and meat during Meet the People Tours would not take us anywhere!
Reject Foreign Aid and Loans. They come with stringent indentures that only impede our economic progress and make us subservient to the lenders. The solution lies within, not from outside. It’s high time to embrace the true meaning of our independence—the sovereignty our heroes fought for.

These will boost domestic production, increase the citizens' trust in their country, and encourage investment. Prices will succumb.

Poetry

Alieu Juwara1 min read

A Beggar's Call

When he rises to tear the streets,
Unlike you that rides in the limousine
He wallows through the dreadful routes
Staring at the casting shadows
That provides the company he ever longs for.
As perceived, he has less to offer
Not more than an empty forearm
With palms only rough and dry,
Confused for the carver's sandpaper
That you least accept his humble handshake
Even when he has his heart to pour.
But the beggar's call has this lot to offer
A trade that only souls perceive
For he batters his pride and honour
Just to remit the shortest breath for a soul
Yet, the most he commands is disrespect.
Behold—
You, behind the wheel
Peeping through the tinted glasses
Answer his call with respect, not disrespect.

Poetry

Alieu Juwara1 min read

When Night Falls

When night falls and the sun hides,
Brightness rises for the stars to rise,
The hue slides for the view to fly
As it shades the shadow to make a slime.
Painted and coloured are the skies and clouds
In the beautiful dyes of nature,
Following the rhythmic patterns of earth
That enfashion the summer rainbow.
The dyes are real and crayons pearl,
Transforming the spacious heavens
Into the colourful canopies of pleasure
Over the sparkling lights of the round twilight moon.
And at nightfall, visions vanish,
But hatred blurs and hearts brighten.

Serial Fiction

Bubacarr Darboe14 min read

Culture vs. Education

Chapter 1

The moon shone brightly in the night sky as children played hide and seek at the Bantaba in their village, just a stone's throw from the carefully built round hut of Mba Sunkarr and Bakanding Bojang. They were a close-knit family living in the heart of Wanjaas.

Among them was Sarah Bojang, their only child, who had always dreamed of getting an education. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah!” called Babanding, shining his flashlight over the group of kids sitting on the cool, sandy ground. “Nnaaam,” Sarah responded with her sweet, melodious voice. “Is tomorrow a school day?” “Yes, it is,” she answered, picking up her shoes from their hiding spot.

As she brushed the sand off her body, one of her friends reminded her, “You will be in charge tomorrow, Sarah.” She didn’t reply, instead looking back at Babanding, who stood patiently, holding a nightstick in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

“I told you not to stay out playing too late, especially on school nights. If you keep this up, you won't be allowed at the Bantaba anymore.” Sarah had no words and felt a bit embarrassed. Bakanding then told her to perform her nighttime prayer, Isha, to wash away any sand from her day, which she did before heading to bed.

“Nna!” Sarah called to her mother. “Where are my white socks? I washed them after school today!” “You’re starting your attitude again. Why can’t you look for your school things in the daytime before bothering us at night? Check in my clothing bin; I put some of your things there. And please don’t mess up my ironed clothes,” her mother replied. “Okay, Nna,” Sarah said, rushing off to her mother’s room. She quickly gathered her school materials for the next day.

As dawn broke, Bakanding called his family for the Fajr prayer before heading to the mosque. He made sure Sarah was awake and washed her face. While Bakanding went to the mosque, Sarah and her mother prayed at home. Mba Sunkarr started a fire and put an iron kettle filled with “Jambakatang” leaves on the stove to brew tea.

“Jambakatang” tea is popular in the villages for its various health benefits, far more revered than modern tea bags. Mba Sunkarr served this special tea to her daughter and husband, preparing warm rice to go along with it. Bakanding returned home right after the Fajr prayer to find the tea ready.

As the sun began to rise, casting its light across the land, Sarah got ready for school. She applied lotion to her skin and went to ask her mother for lunch money while she was sweeping the yard. “Nna! Esamah” (good morning), she greeted. Her mother replied with the same words. “I’m ready for school. Where’s my lunch?” Sarah asked. “Did you greet your father?” her mother replied. “No!” she answered. “Then go greet him and ask for lunch money; I don’t have any to give you.”

With a smile, Sarah ran to her father. She greeted him and asked for lunch money. Bakanding, who was resting on his rice-straw bed, got up, straightened his clothes, and took out fifty bututs to give her. “Abaraka baake, Babaa” (thank you, Dad), she exclaimed joyfully. “Thank you too. And don’t get into fights on your way to school,” he advised. Sarah nodded and dashed away.

Though it was still early and chilly, Sarah ran all the way to school. “Good morning, Master,” she greeted Mr. Alagie Jewru, the grey-haired man standing by the school gate. He always wore his glasses low on his nose and a suit with brownish leather shoes. “Good morning to you too, my child,” he replied. Mr. Jewru had an excellent memory and knew almost every student and their parents.

“Who’s your father?” he asked. “My father is Bakanding. You visited our home yesterday evening and had kola nuts with him. You asked me for a glass of water too. You wore a blue T-shirt and your usual hat.”

“Oh, okay, now I remember. Thank you, little journalist,” Mr. Jewru said with a smile. “My name is Sarah!” she added. “Yes, yes, I know. Thank you. You may go to your class,” he replied with a warm chuckle.

As Sarah entered her classroom, Mr. Jewru took off his glasses and sighed, amazed by her. “No one should dare misbehave when she’s around. She speaks so well, she could even tell the tiniest details of what someone did in her presence,” he thought to himself as he walked to his office.

At just six years old, Sarah was already in the third grade and showed great promise. Her teachers noticed her strong academic performance, but she often found it hard to study when her friends were outside playing. She seemed naturally smart and didn’t worry much about studying, even during exam weeks.

Chapter 02

After being promoted to seventh grade, Sarah’s school was transferred to a nearby village just a few kilometres away from Bulukandi, her birth village. It was one fine evening. The sun turned its yellowish colour as it dipped to set when Sarah came from school and saw her clansmen gathered at their compound.

Her appearance swiftly changed. Her face wore some sort of sorrow and confusion—not knowing what might be the reason behind the gathering. To her, it might be nothing except death. The angel of death had visited her family, but who exactly it could be was a blur in the air.

Perhaps it was her grandma, because she had not been feeling well these days. But how could it be a funeral when people were wearing smiley faces? No one seemed to be worrying, as laughter and chats could be heard from a distance. Middle-aged uncles were setting themselves up under the mango tree, brewing attaya.

“Assalamu Alaikum,” she greeted, without killing a second to check on her grandma, whom she always found comfort and a sense of existence with. She stepped into her chamber only to realise that she was alive and healthier than she could ever have imagined. “What is happening here?” she asked. “Go and undress yourself and come, let’s chat.”

Sarah dropped off her bag and undressed herself in her mother's chamber. As she passed by her in-laws, one of Umar’s brothers—her husband—called, “Hey, my wife, how are you doing?” She couldn't believe her ears. She turned to see whether she was the one he was calling. Sarah ran to her grandma, sobbing. “Is it right that my father meant what he said last time?” Grandma nodded.

In those days, parents arranged marriages between a boy and a girl at their tender age. They tried to maintain the bond and unity in the family by getting their kids married to one another. So, this was also planned since Sariba’s childhood—that she would get married to her cousin brother, Umar.

She threw herself at Grandma and burst into tears. All her dreams of becoming a role model for her clan, family, and friends seemed far to fetch. The desire to be a nurse—caring for patients and helping women in labour—was shattered and blown away, as this ten-year-old child, who was not even qualified to cook, was now embarking on the world of marriage.

Her fast physical growth: big hips, butts, bulging tits, and eloquent expressions were what deceived her parents. But her mind and soul expected nothing of this nature. How could she explain to her friends, classmates, and teachers that their smart and promising girl was forced to be a school dropout?

Sariba was off mood throughout that evening. Her lunch was given to her, but she showed no sign of taste for food. She was buried in grief and disappointment the whole night, knowing that what had happened couldn't be undone unless one of them answered the call of The Most High, Allah.

She told her grandma to tell her friends that she was asleep when they came to call her to the village Bantaba to play, which she did as assigned. She spent the night weeping severely under her pillow. Grandma always woke up to console her, telling her that as far as there is life, there is still hope.

She told Grandma to do her a favour by telling her father that she was ready to marry—if they allowed her to complete her education. “I will do anything for you, my dear. Talking to your father will not be a problem. But I too need your favour,” Grandma said. “What?” “Promise me that you are going to stop crying and go to bed.” She chuckled and nodded her head.

Chapter 03

The night was calm and soothing, but that was to others, not Sarah. Though she didn't cry, she accepted her grandma's request, but she never knew the sweetness of that night. She kept tossing and turning the whole night without her eyes closed.

Sarah woke up very early in the morning, greeted Grandma and her parents, swept the compound, and prepared for school. She normally branched to call her friends on her way to school, but not today. She was disappointed, betrayed, and caged by her clansmen, especially her father.

The little happy girl whose face always beamed with smiles that showed her beautiful dimples and white teeth, her eloquent speeches that moved even the most arrogant person, her well-curved hips which allured men on the streets—were all in grief. Grieving for a future she was craving but now stripped away from her.

Her rights and respect were taken away, leaving her in despair. Her dignity was lost, and her gender was in shame. Her age had been cheated, and her physicality had been abused, distancing her mates from wondering.

Sarah was colder than ice in the class throughout the day. She was in class, but her mind travelled 1,000 kilometres per hour into space. When her friends asked what the matter was, her responses were always precise: “I'm fine,” but truly she was not. She had been very contributive during lessons, and her interaction with the teacher in terms of problem-solving was good—until this day.

She distanced herself from her mates in isolation, hanging out within the confinement of the classroom.

Her teacher, Madam Tunkara, called her after school, asking her about her drastic change of mood. Madam Tunkara drew her to the guest chair next to her desk, pointing for her to sit. She brought a bottle of cold water and a glass from her drawer and served Sarah some. This treatment was not normal, but to make Sarah comfortable and willing to express.

She cleared her throat and sighed. “I have noticed your contribution in class today was very low from normal and your movement with your friends, i.e., your break-time routines—going together to the school playground, sitting and chatting under that ‘Soto’ tree, and all the stuff I knew you and your friends with. What is wrong?”

Sarah bent her head toward her laps and paused for some seconds. Her eyes dewed with tears that showed her feelings. Her heart pounded in her rib cage with unspoken expressions. She became dumb and unable to articulate. She seemed too young to discuss a matter of this nature. She was filled with words and phrases to start with, but which one would be perfect to start with?

“My father got me married yesterday,” she said. Tears started rolling, and she chuckled.

“What!” Madam Tunkara exclaimed out of shock. She opened her eyes as if she was informed of having a bastard child in her womb, and her mouth was left open like a crocodile hunting flies. She dragged and leaned back on her 360-rotating seat.

“Have you done something which forced him to take this risky decision?”

“I'm not sure,” she nodded. “My grandma said this was planned by my father since I was young, that I would get married to Umar, and that's what he is fulfilling.”

“Is there anything I can do for you—something like talking to your parents, if you are okay with that?”

“No! It won't work. My dad won't listen to you.”

“I will try my best to make sure this thing doesn't happen,” Madam said.

“You will not understand,” Sarah said, shaking her head.

Madam Tunkara insisted that she must talk to Sarah’s father, even though Sarah didn't welcome the idea. She gently wiped Sarah’s face with her handkerchief, which she drew from her side bag. She gave her word to visit and have a dialogue with Sarah’s parents soon. Both ended up tearful, hugged, and dispersed.

Madam Tunkara sat in her office wondering how this young girl’s parents sent her to her matrimonial house this early. Her questions were answered. She couldn't do anything about it but consulted the schoolmaster. She entered the office and greeted him, her voice filled with concern and her face pale with discomfort.

“We need to talk, Master!”

“Is there any problem, my dear?” he asked.

“A big problem, for that matter. One of my students named Sarah Bojang was forced by her father to get married.”

The headmaster, upon hearing Madam Tunkara, set down his lenses and leaned on his seat, resting on one of his arms.

He was extremely surprised by his gesture as the atmosphere was filled with total silence.

“Did you confirm this?” he replied.

“I have talked to the child and given her my word to visit her parents.”

“This community is trying to resemble other communities in teenage marriage, and the consequences always backfire.”

Madam Tunkara crossed her legs over with frustration and remarked, “Well, she seemed mature by her looks. I think that's what made her parents give her hand in marriage.”

“Make me alert, and let us go together to her parents.”

He switched off the laptop, opened the drawer, and put the laptop to rest till the following morning.

Sarah went through the back route of Wanjass village and straight to her home. She intentionally changed the route to avoid further questioning from her mates who barely saw her in school. When she got home, she undressed and went to Grandma, who was resting on a mat under the mango tree. She explained to her that her teacher would visit Dad concerning this marriage issue.

“Sarah!” Grandma exclaimed and gently rose from the mat.

“What has gone over your intelligence that you couldn't see what might happen when your teacher sets his or her feet here? Your journey to your ancestors will begin the day your father sets his eyes on them regarding this issue.”

Tears started rolling from the young girl.

“I told her not to visit, but she insisted.”

“You better stop it before the heavens start shaking.”

She lay back on the mat without an utterance, and Sarah too, but her mind had too much to think about.

Chapter 04

A few days passed without Sarah's teachers coming to visit her, which was something she had secretly wished for. She started to avoid them because they seemed too quick to notice her struggles, and she didn’t want to answer any of their questions.

One day, while Bakanding Bojang was in his backyard making tools under a large cotton tree, some strangers arrived at his home asking to see him. The strangers met his grandmother, who welcomed them inside and made them comfortable.

After exchanging the usual greetings in Mandinka, Madam Tunkara introduced themselves and explained why they were there. Grandma nodded, confirming that the topic of getting Sarah married was indeed a reality. She called for her son with a soft, shaky voice, and Bakanding quickly came into the room.

He greeted the visitors and took a seat. “These are Sarah’s teachers who came to check on us,” he said.

“That’s wonderful,” replied the old man. “Let me call Sarah for you; she shouldn’t be too far away.”

Bakanding then called for his daughter from the play area, saying, “Greet your teachers; they’ve come to visit us.”

As she pulled back the curtain, Sarah’s heart raced with anxiety. She understood why her teachers were there. After exchanging greetings, one of the teachers spoke up.

“We’ve heard about the plans for your daughter Sarah’s marriage, and we felt it was important to talk with you.”

“We don’t wish to challenge your decision,” the teacher continued, “but given her age and development, we believe she might not be ready for marriage just yet. We are kindly asking you to allow her to finish her education before she gets married.”

Bakanding sat quietly, nodding along as he listened, creating a sense of hope for Sarah, who was anxiously watching her father’s reactions to the teachers' gentle words.

“That’s understandable,” he finally replied. “I appreciate that you are considering her well-being. I need to return to my work now.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” said the teacher, relieved. Sarah felt an overwhelming wave of joy wash over her as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her heart. She stood up to hug her teachers with gratitude before walking them out.

“Dad agreed that I can finish my education!” she exclaimed joyfully as she returned.

“Sarah! Go back to playing until later this evening,” her father instructed.

Delighted, she dashed back to her friends. Grandma understood Bakanding well, knowing he often focused deeply on his duties.

That night, Bakanding called for an urgent family meeting in his chamber. He harshly scolded Sarah for bringing those teachers to their home, declaring that her education was over starting that very night. He called Sarah's future in-laws to arrange for the wedding the next morning, utterly determined to send her away. Unfortunately, Sarah never saw her school or her teachers again, as she was married off the following day, and her father vowed he would never welcome her back into his home.