Category Archives: Fiction

Creative writing, imaginative spells, stories with a Linguere touch!

Suma Doomu Ndeye

(Adapted from the Legend of Ndateh and Khandiou)

The villagers were subdued as they moved singly or in small groups towards their various homes. They spoke in hushed tones and their eyes darted hither and thither. Back in the main square, a few stools littered the open space, forgotten by their owners as they made for the comfort and quiet of their abodes as soon as the last of the Elders had spoken. The village of Mbassu had just witnessed the revival of an ancestral law: any young lady who failed the virginity test on her wedding night will be shot to death. Mothers walked with creased brows, each wondering if her daughter’s wedding night would eventually lead to a morning of sorrow, when they wouldn’t even be allowed to mourn in public. Fathers let out low grunts, hands finding a preoccupation in the counting of prayer beads even as their minds wandered to that place of shame if their daughters failed the test. It was equally a test for them all… to determine the success of their parenthood and their status in the eyes of their peers.

The light from the setting sun shone on two figures, their fingers laced together as their feet added to the light patter that could be heard on the dusty path. Maram and Begay had been best friends since childhood. Despite the major differences in their characters, they remained true to each other. Where Begay was docile and was hardly seen at village functions, Maram was very outgoing and was the favorite for most guys. Sometimes, she would desert Begay and opt to go to the wells or the farms alone, having made plans to meet up with Majaga, Samba or Njogu.  Fallen tree stumps, tall shrubs and isolated huts became rendezvous spots where the men proclaimed her beauty and wove their way into her heart, at least for that moment. The air between them was taut, as Maram’s adventures were no secret to them. Their worry was too heavy for words, their tongues numbed by the reality they faced. Each had a wish of her own. Begay remained hopeful that her friend was still a virgin, that she had only played along with their male friends and that she was wise enough to save her chastity for her wedding night. Maram, knowing better, prayed for a lesser humiliation…that of never being sought for marriage.

As fate would have it, only two weeks after the proclamation at the square, their last hopes were dashed. Girane, a son of the village, sent his uncles to Maram’s home, bearing cola-nuts to ask that she become a part of their family. The elders, believing in hastening all good deeds, set the wedding date for the next day. In a state of panic, Maram sought out her friend, tears streaming down her face as her nose caught a whiff of death, only hours away.

-Begay, I don’t know what to do. I shall either leave this village or commit suicide.
– Suicide? Why would you think that way, when we should be preparing for your wedding?
-Begay, you wouldn’t understand. If I stay alive in this village on my wedding night, that bullet will surely be fired through me in the morning.

Begay was stunned! She recalled the many times she had advised Maram to desist from her ways, reminding her that her beauty could eventually become the source of great pain. She recalled one of their recent conversations…

_Goor nyi denyui jel aye khotu bouteille, sampa ko chi yornu ndawu haleh yu jigeen nyi teh ku chi defut ndanka, ding chi jaar. Su borbaa, lan lenyor wakh ndeye ak baaye? Lan la waa deka bi di wakh?
– Lolu yomba naa tontu. Su borbaa, Baaye neh du dega, Yaaye dal di neh aye joww la. Waa deka bi nak nyor laa balel khotu bouteille yi bamu set wech, ngai fecha beh cha tenn ba teh dara dula chi feka.
-Huh! Mangeh nyaan Yalla dimbaleh nyu ba nyu aanda beh cha tenn ba teh dara banj nyor dall. Ndah elek du agne, du rerr waye lou meuta saayda la

Maram’s sobs brought her back to the present and the weight in her heart got even heavier. She had to do something. She had to save her friend’s life and guard her dignity and that of her family.

Maram, I shall never let any harm come to you. I know just what to do. Tomorrow night after Bajen has performed all the rites for the jebaleh and prepared you for your husband, find an excuse to come into the bathroom. I shall be there waiting for you.
-What do you plan to do Begay? There’s no way out of this problem.
-Just trust me. Do as I say and we shall sort this out together.That bullet will never hit you as long as I’m alive.

The next night, after all the festivities, Maram was ushered into the bathroom and bathed as was usually done for all brides. Her Bajen showered prayers on her, laced with praises of her ancestors. Launching into the traditional lehmou, she dressed her in white cloths and led her into her new room, where a raffia mat draped in equally white sheets lay prepared. Looking at her for the last time, she encouraged her to stop crying. “Bul joye. Denka naala sa ligayu ndeye ak baaye. Denka naala Yonent bi. Denka naala Yalla.” Maram used that moment to return to the bathroom. Upon confirming that all the required rites were performed, Begay set to execute her plan. She asked Maram to hand over her white cloths and beads in exchange for her own clothes, and then wait for her. After much hesitation, they changed into each other’s clothes and Begay went into the bedroom, leaving Maram speechless. She was to spend the night disguised as Maram, sleep with her husband and save her friend’s life with her own chastity.

Before sunrise, Begay slipped out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, suppressing the pains she felt and aiming solely to get to the end of her plan with success. She retrieved her clothes and handed Maram the white wrappers, revealing the red stain of pride and purity. She swore her to secrecy and they vowed never to utter a word about what had happened that night. Back in her own hut, Begay crawled unto her mat and just as she shut her eyes to sleep, she heard a voice calling out to her.

Begay! Begay! Let all your worries disappear. You are pure of heart and body! You shall be a virgin twice! Dinga dorn ndaww nyaari yorn.

A month later, it was her own wedding night. Despite the sacrifice she had made and the doubts she had in the veracity of the strange voice’s proclamation, Begay remained very calm. Through the interrogations with her own Bajen, she never let out their secret and urged this latter to remain confident, as she shall never bring shame upon her family. Night fell and she went through her own rites. Maram lay worried, her thoughts on the news that would reach the villagers’ ears the next morning.

At the crack of dawn, Begay heard her husband’s voice calling out to Bajen.

Bajen! Kontaan naa. All I ever wished for has come to pass. Begay has made me proud and whatever you ask of me, I shall give.
-Alhadoulilahi Rabb’il al amin. Begay has made me proud. Suma dorm ji waacha na. Dormi Samba Linguere, kuko tekk chi leket, mu def cha lako warr. Suma dorm ji labaan na!

The two friends had both escaped death. The years passed and they gave birth to beautiful daughters, who grew up to perpetuate their mothers’ friendship. The two became inseparable and were the mini Maram and Begay.

(20 years later)

It was the rainy season, but the village was as dry as the Sahara. The farmland cracked from the heat of the sun, the waters in the wells dried up and with them, the hopes of the villagers evaporated. In Maram’s home, things were not so bad. She had enough to feed her family and offer some to Begay, who was not as fortunate. As the days went by, her generosity and loyalty to her friend started to waver. One hot afternoon, Njillan, Begay’s daughter returned home with her empty buckets, confirming that there would be nothing to eat that day. Begay sent her to Ya Maram’s home, after much hesitation from Njillan, who felt they had asked for help one time too many. Reluctantly, she walked the dusty path and met Maram seated in the middle of her courtyard, picking pebbles from her rice. Her daughter, Ndebou, stood beside her, pounding coos for that night’s dinner. She greeted her cheerfully and sat next to her, already helping with her task.

-Asalamu aleikum Ya Maram. Mother sent me to ask if you had any rice you could lend out to us until we can sort ourselves out. There’s nothing to eat at home. 
-Eh, get up. Go back and tell your mother that I’ve got nothing for you. Nit mun naa deka chi nyaan rek? Jogal dem wah sa yaye neh suma tehn bi wow na!

Embarrassed, she returned to her mother and explained what had happened. Begay was shocked and insisted that Njillan go back there with a message. The sun was unbearable, but she took her usual shortcut and upon reaching Maram’s home, she paused for a second and delivered her mother’ message.

– Ya Maram! Ya Maram! Ya Maram! Suma yaaye neh, tehn bi guenon nafeh wow, mu roht, rohtal la. Once, the wells were drier than they are now, but she fetched enough for the both of you!

Upon hearing those words, Maram’s mind got filled with images of her wedding night and the sacrifice Begay made to save her life. She turned to Njillan with her own message to Begay.

-Sor demeh wahal sa yaaye neh, howma ban tehn lenyor wahati. Waaye tehn bi, boromam dem na. We shall talk of the owner of my well no more. 

With that, she ran out screaming and plunged into the well. This time, even Begay’s friendship and selflessness could not save her from the clutches of death.

A Mother’s Plea

Dear Son,

I’ll tell you a story. I beg not for your pity, nor do I wish to see you angry after hearing it. See, I have watched you grow from a distance, turning into a fine young man. The apple surely does not fall far from the tree. I watched as you went through our traditional rites of passage, wishing I were near you, to provide the love and comfort only mothers are wont to give. I noticed your eyes grow cloudy and your heart heavy, as you watched your mates run into the safe arms of their mothers. They had finally been initiated into manhood, but a man would always remain a boy in the presence of his mother. I heard you curse out loud, expressing your resentment for me, for I left you when you needed me the most. It never was my fault and I hope you will understand.

The first rays of the sun had just appeared and I had not slept a wink. The dawn air was cool and I wished I could go for a walk around the compound, to take advantage of the serenity before the early risers started dragging their feet and going about their chores, but I couldn’t move. The heaviness in my feet reflected that which occupied my heart. Tears threatened to fall and it was all I could do to stop weeping. I was scared of another round of scolding if Mama found out I had been crying again. I lay in bed, willing myself to sleep, as the day ahead promised to be a long and difficult one. After countless efforts of counting invisible sheep and goats, I fell into a soft slumber. No sooner had my lids closed than I heard Bajen Kumba’s voice, coaxing me out of bed, to get ready for the activities ahead. Today, I had been exempted from doing any chores, for it was my big day.

Njillan, jogal ma sanga la, nga solu balaa gan yi aksi’, she coaxed. I dragged my feet to the open bathroom, where she had placed a low stool and ordered me to sit down. A bucket filled with warm water and some odd-looking twigs stood just beside her feet. She pulled a small bottle from the wraps of her woven cloth and added its contents to the water, turning its colour to a muddy brown. That must be the saafara Papa Jumai had brought in last night. I could still hear his voice in my head, as he gave Mama and Bajen Kumba instructions on how to use it. I sat on the stool and Bajen started chanting in rich Wolof that I fairly understood. A shiver ran down my spine as she sought protection from the evil djinn and spun an invisible cloak around me, to keep me safe from the evil eyes and tongues that would surely be in our midst. I sat still as she proceeded to scrub every inch of my body, chanting in low tones, and ending her ritual by pouring the remaining contents of the bucket over my head. As she tried to pick out the twigs caught in my hair, we heard voices in the main yard, as the rest of the family stirred.

Back in my room, I was dressed in Mama’s favorite serri rabbal and a beaded top my grandmother had gifted me for the special occasion. Bajen had already woven matching beads into my hair, knotting the fluffy ball at the top of my head. The elderly women, who had started pouring in from the neighbourhood, dropped in briefly to see the new bride. Each one rained compliments on me, praising my ancestors. They harped on about how radiant I looked and how lucky my husband was to have a bride as beautiful as me. Could they not see? Were they blind to the fear in my eyes, the look of dejection I had? How could they be so oblivious to the deathly look on my face and the absence of my once-radiant smile? Deep furrows lined my forehead even as Bajen urged me to smile as it was the happiest day of my life. Each time she said that, my eyes would well up with tears I dared not shed. When she was satisfied with my appearance, she went out to help the other women with the cooking. Bai had killed his prize cow, proudly declaring that he was sending off the first bride from his house. I, aged 14, still hoped he would walk in and tell me it was all a mistake. Wasn’t I his princess, his taaw, his proud Linguere, his ourusi ngalam?  The tears finally fall, blurring my vision and taking me back to that warm evening, a week ago…

…I ran into the courtyard, my satchel flying behind me, and the skirt of my uniform going higher up my legs. I paused to catch my breath as all heads turned in my direction. The family sat on the large raffia mat Bai had brought home from his last trip to Guel Tapé. I could easily make out a few strange faces. As expected of every child in my town, I shook their hands, kneeling infront of each one before running off to Mama’s room. My chest was bursting with the happy news I had brought, but I had to wait for the visitors to leave. I was too caught up in my excitement to notice that something was amiss. That evening, as soon as the whispering strangers had left, I ran out to meet Bai and Mama. My younger siblings sat around them waiting for the evening’s Leebun loupane session. Greeting them again, I sat down and proudly gave them my news. ‘Some government officials came to the school today and after evaluating our work, have selected me for a scholarship in one of the schools in the city’, I said with great excitement. Mama broke into a smile and my siblings crowded around me, each one asking for a detailed narration. Bai watched silently as I launched into a long explanation, simultaneously encouraging my younger ones to work harder and surpass my achievements. He retreated to his room and after a few minutes, called for Mama and me. Thinking he wanted to discuss my scholarship, I ran into his room and sat just beside his feet. He rubbed my hair gently and waited for Mama to sink into the chair beside him. After much clearing of throats and an exchange of looks and nods, Bai spoke.

‘Njillan, sama taaw bi’, he began. ‘I have known from your birth that you were meant for greatness. You continue to make me proud at all times and for that I’m grateful. Your scholarship is no surprise to us, for you’ve worked hard for it. However, I have the offer of a better scholarship for you…one that would provide you with better life lessons and prepare you to take up your position as a full woman’. I stared wide-eyed, willing him to continue. What scholarship could be better than the one I had just been awarded? I turned to Mama, who simply smiled and fumbled with the edges of her malaan. Bai’s voice drew my attention back to him.

‘Njillan, we’ve accepted a proposal for your hand in marriage. In a week, you shall be sent out to Ngayen, where you shall begin a new life with your husband, Sengan’. I ceased breathing, letting the news sink in. I stared at Bai and Mama, wishing it was all a joke to control my earlier excitement. The looks on their faces gave nothing away and I held on to Bai’s feet, begging him to rethink his decision. I couldn’t afford to quit school. I wasn’t ready for marriage. Didn’t they see I was only 14 and was just getting used to the changes in my body? How would I take care of another, when I was still being cared for? Wild images flashed through my mind and I sat staring at my parents. I felt let down, but the disgust in my look would do nothing to change their minds. The decision had been made and I would be married off in a week…

The day went by with great festivity. Mama and Bajen Kumba fussed over me, while the family guewel sang praises and told stories of the great women in my family. Everyone was excited…but me. While the crowd feasted on the abundant meals Bai had financed and danced to the traditional sabarr, I sat forlorn, wishing the day would end, taking the bitterness and pain with it. Night came and the old women got ready for the muur. Mama looked proud as I crawled between Bajen Kumba’s legs, after going through the ritual bath, sitting atop the inverted mortar.  I reluctantly accepted and poured out the handfuls of rice I had been given, muttering amen to the prayers. The old women went on to instruct me on my responsibilities in my new home. They spelt out the attributes of a perfect wife, leaving me worried about the life of submission I’d been condemned to. My husband would always be right and I always had to give in to his demands, even if they were against my wish… like the night I was ushered into his room, crawling on the coarse floor and covered in white cloth.

He sat there, smiling like he’d won a golden trophy. Wasn’t that what I was, being one of the most beautiful and well-mannered in the town? After much talk and well-wishes, the elderly women spread out that white cloth I’d oft heard about. That cloth, which was to bear the mark of my purity and either render my family proud or have them hanging their heads in shame. I cringed. Mama had asked earlier if I was ‘okay’ and I had nodded. I was certain they would all come dancing in the morning, singing dirty songs and accepting me into their circle as a full woman. That wouldn’t mask my fear and the disgust I felt at having to give out my pride to one for whom I felt nothing akin to love. My husband was a stranger and our first meeting would be on a bed, covered in white cloth, keeping alive a tradition that could very well have been extinct.

My entourage finally departed, having watched Sengan and me fight over a warm bowl of laakh, giving them the joy of predicting what our first child would be. I lay in my underclothes, balled up in a corner of the bed. My husband stared at me with hungry eyes, ready to pounce on and devour me. I trembled, even as sweat trickled down my body. Without warning, he joined me and groped around for the knot in my wrapper. He deftly undid it and heaved his body upon me. I closed my eyes as he lowered his lips to kiss me, tears rolling down my cheek. Ignoring this, he went on to touch…to rub…to squeeze, with inconsiderate force. I felt I would break down, as my body could not handle the pain. Satisfied with his work, he whispered into my ear, ‘I’m taking you now’. I braced myself for the contact, but no one had warned me of what was to follow. He forced himself into me, breaking into my tight chamber and making a smooth passage he would eventually frequent. He rammed into me and unable to handle the pain any longer, I screamed…

Ten months later, I was still screaming. This time, I was surrounded by unfamiliar faces, helping me onto an iron bed. The pain was excruciating and I was blinded by the white light in my head. The voices around me grew louder, urging me to hold on, asking me to push harder. I had no strength and unconsciously called out to God for help. With one last look ahead me, I closed my eyes and used the last of my strength to bring you forth. A moment later, I heard you cry. It was the last sound I would hear. My body grew numb and my chest stopped heaving. Everyone was busy cooing over you to notice me take my last breath. Later that day, I was dressed all in white again and taken to yet another new home. There was no celebration as I was taken away, this time by the men. Isn’t it interesting how everything differed from the events of my wedding night? That home would be peaceful, albeit lonely and I constantly prayed that you’d be well taken care of.

I have watched you from a distance, my son, and I am content with what you’ve become. In a few years, you will be the head of your own family. It is my wish that your bride be a willing one, and not one forced into your hands. My plea is for you to be considerate of her feelings. Treat her like a queen and stand by her when she brings forth your progeny. When you finally have that daughter, give her a chance to blossom. Love her like my father loved me, but protect her even more. In you, I hope she’ll see the characters of a great man. Finally, give her a chance to grow, to learn and to love. Some actions can never be reversed and I would hate to see her become another statistic, like her grandmother. Mam Olof always told us ‘su ham don jiitu, rechu dou am’. Thus, I take the time to let you know and understand, hoping the regret etched on Bai’s face as he lowered me into my grave stays a mystery to you. This, my son, is my plea to you as I continue to keep watch over you from the heavens.

******************************************************************************************************

The world celebrates the first ever Day of The Girl Child today and the focus is on early marriage and the impact it has on the lives of young girls forced into maturity and denied things as basic as education. The story above may be fictional, but it sadly is a reality for millions of girls all over the world. Take a stand to end the practice and create a safer haven for our girl children, for they deserve a present and a future that supports their dreams and molds them into great leaders.

MaDemba

Source: postnewsline.com

For weeks, the villagers talked about only one thing. From the wells to the vegetable gardens, one could hear the excited chatter of the women folk as they put together plans for the great day. The young ladies were busy creating colourful outfits using the beautiful hand-woven serr . For them, it was an opportunity to display their beauty in the hopes of catching a suitor’s eye. Word had spread to all corners of the country and prominent guests were expected. Mothers busied themselves in mixing up herbal concoctions to enhance the beautiful black skin of their daughters. The men spent the cool evenings under the great baobab tree, drinking attaya, after a hard day’s work at the fields. Between servings, they would engage in predictions and debates on the forthcoming event. With each cup, their energy would soar and their zeal heighten. The little boys spent the mornings singing and hitting on their make-shift drums of pots and buckets, accompanied by the inexperienced, yet graceful dance steps of the girls. The sun rose and set for a fortnight and finally on that beautiful Saturday, the people of Ndayaan trooped to the grand arena. MaDemba Cham, pride of Ndayaan, was set to wrestle Passy’s Ngorr Mack!

At the Chamen family home, the women rose as early as the sun and set about erecting tripod stands on which huge pots of benachin were to be cooked. A few neighbours came over to help, bringing vegetables as gifts to the family known for producing the finest wrestlers Ndayaan had ever known. Behind the main hut, a group of men sat in a circle, the elders on raffia benches and the young ones cross-legged on the floor. In the middle of this circle, MaDemba sat, clad only in an old pair of knee-length trousers. His robust chest, covered in amulets of different shapes and sizes rose and fell as he drew in deep breaths. Around his head, two white strings knotted at different lengths can be seen. His wrists, arms and ankles are equally bound with similar chains. His Serign stood over him, showering his head with strange  liquids, uttering equally strange words. Often, he’ll break into a dance, prompting the younger men to join him in the frenzy. As the savory smell of the benachin wafted over their circle, their excitement grew. The women walked in with huge trays laden with rice, meat and vegetables, enough to feed the whole village. Most homes had forgone the daily cooking of lunch, as word went round that all were invited to feast at Chamen. Small calabashes of water, baobab drink and wonjo went round and when everyone had their fill, the men retreated to their circle. The hour was near and the entourage practised their final dance steps.  They were not only going to snatch victory from Ngorr; they were set to wow the crowd with their amazing dance steps accompanied by the soulful bakka and drumming from the village’s cultural troupe.

Distant drumming could be heard as the opponent and his entourage made their way to the village square. They made sure to let their presence known as the slightest intimidation could lead to undesirable results from their mbeur. The drumming also served as a signal to the Chamen camp that the time was nigh. The wind carried over excited voices from the arena, which was already packed full. MaDemba was led into his father’s hut where the village elders got him dressed in a black ngemba, tucked with more amulets. He slipped his feet into his usual plastic sandals and knelt before his father for his final blessings. The old man recited several verses from the holy book followed by other incantations, to which the rest murmured ‘Amen’. With a final spitting movement over MaDemba’s head, he rose and led the group out of the compound. At the main gate, he poured a cup of cold water and ordered his son to walk over it. The rest followed and he bade them good luck before retreating to his hut, where he would be engaged in prayer for his son’s victory. Alhaji Tamsir, himself a one-time favourite in boreh never watched his son’s fights, emulating his own father.

Meanwhile, MaDemba and his entourage sang and danced as they made their way to the square. The family guewel, Ya Youma, could be heard chanting songs of praise for the young wrestler.

Cham babel Demba Cham, borom neni waas

Ngemba ga sa mam tekki, takkal sa baye Tamsir

Mom leniou la takkal teye Cham

Kon dor moussa nyaaw

The singing went on, filling MaDemba with great pride, while reminding him of the task ahead. This victory was finally going to secure him the revered place of greatest wrestler in the seven villages that made up Jaamagen. Upon arrival at the square, he was welcomed with tumultuous applause from the crowd. Kids ran behind him chanting his name, while the women danced to the  heated sounds of the sabarr. His opponent rose and the two teams met in the middle of the arena. Standing on opposite ends, they both displayed their dance moves with great bravado. Muscles gleamed in the setting sun and the young men were covered in sweat as each camp tried to outshine the other. The drummers got more excited and one could hardly see their hands as they hit on the towering combination of the nder, the thiol and the xiin. The sound grew deafening and the air was so tense, one could cut through it with a blunt knife. Suddenly the referee sounded his horn, failing at his attempt to drown out all other sounds. It took another series of blows and hand movements to calm the crowd and get the wrestlers ready for their encounter.  Another display of mysticism sprouted, as the Serigns ran around pouring libation, counting their beads, tying more amulets to the wrestlers’ bodies and getting them to chew on different leaves. As the last rays of the sun shone their light on the crowd, MaDemba Cham of Ndayaan and Ngorr Mack Faye of Passy faced each other, ready for the battle, each one alert and ready to emerge victorious.

The referee blew his horn and the crowd fell silent. All eyes were glued on the two mbeurs as they advanced , hands reaching out to the other. Ngorr throws a punch and MaDemba ducks. The hand movements start again and the two move in a steady circle, each one devising a technique to floor the other. Suddenly, MaDemba charges forward and grips Ngorr’s ngemba. The latter does the same and the crowd jumped to their feet. The women screamed and the men urged their champions to fight harder. The young men in their entourage could be heard shouting out tips, which only fell on deaf ears, as the two could only see and hear each other. Suddenly, MaDemba turns Ngorr over and attempts to bring him down on all fours but failed. Ngorr swiftly escaped his grip and the referee called for a timeout. Both mbeurs were now tense and one could almost see their muscles threatening to burst open. When the referee blew his horn again, they both charged at each other. Like bulls locking horns, one could hear their grunts as they both let out all their force. In one swift and fast movement, Ngorr wrapped his right foot around MaDemba’s, pushing him on the chest and with all the strength he could muster, brought him down. MaDemba lay on his back, his vision hazy. The drums had stopped and the crowd was silent. As if suddenly hit by the realisation of what had happened, the people of Passy broke into hysterical screams, rushing into the arena to carry their champion home, shoulder-high. Ngorr Mack Faye had finally beaten MaDemba Cham, son of the famous Tamsir Cham, and unmatched wrestling champion of Jaamagen.

The people of Ndaayan quietly left the square in pairs or in small groups, their heads hanging in disappointment. The girls and women cried, wringing their hands and using their colourful cloth to wipe their noses. The old men walked in silence, each one headed to his hut. This was one day the people of Ndaayan would never forget. MaDemba still lay in the middle of the arena, with a few members of his entourage crowded over him. The rest had left to save themselves the taunting and mockery of the Passy crowd. The grand wrestler rubbed his face in disbelief and his eyes welled up with tears. His best friend Assan wrapped his hands around him and whispered ‘Cry not, our Champion. Remember your mother’s song. Cry not, MaDemba.’ His thoughts blurred and the voices at the arena faded. All he could hear was his late mother’s voice, singing to him. She sang a song that had always given him the courage to rise above his failures. Ya Ndateh’s voice grew louder and MaDemba sang along;

Kouye laal MaDemba

Sabarr ga cha Ndaayan, kouye laal ndaat saaye

Kouye laal sama doom jee, ayoo beeyo beeyo

Sama dom, sama sopeh, dounda meuta nyaano

Moom laye nyaan, dom doundal

Sor doundeh benga maaga, feral saye rongonj

MaDemba rose, and wiping the tears from his eyes, he headed home. He may never have known defeat, but he shall rise again to claim his crown as Jaamagen’s greatest wrestler. He, the son of Tamsir Cham and Ndateh Mbye; he shall wipe his tears and rise again.

Linguere Untitled: A Mini-chronicle

   So I started writing this story but still haven’t found time to complete it. What did I decide to do then? I’ll post it up here in parts. You know, in a chronicle sorta way. It’s based, but not entirely, on a true story. I had to imagine some parts and fix it up with the actual story. Might get cheesy at some point, but then, it’s just my imagination at work. We might get up to five parts depending on how long I wanna keep it. I haven’t even found a title for it so we are just gonna call it ‘Linguere Untitled’. Et c’est parti pour PART 1
**********************************************************************************************************I met Masamba in University. I was in my third year, majoring in Development Studies and he was writing his thesis for graduation. He majored in Economics and Finance. From our very first meeting, there was a strong attraction. We eventually got round to seeing each other every day of the week. As such, our relationship was just spontaneous…no eternal courting, no official acceptance. Just spontaneous. We believed it was a relationship ‘made in heaven’. Everyone on campus knew we were an item and they called us the lovebirds. A common name, but we still loved it when people used it on us. When not in our respective classes, we would always be seen together holding hands,with broad smiles on our faces. We both lived far from the University so we opted for on-campus housing. In the evenings, we would meet in either of our rooms to study, eat, watch movies or just get ourselves engaged in some other ways. *wink*
We spent some weekends trying out restaurants and fast-food joints, as we both had a weakness for good food. Other times, we would go shopping or just visit the park. Either way, we always had something to do together. Each one was always there for the other, in good times and in bad. Now, isn’t that what love is supposed to be?  When schoolwork became unbearable, one could always count on the other for moral support. We were from different departments, but always found a way to table out solutions for each other’s problems.

The school year came to an end and Mas(as I fondly called him) graduated with honors. Boy, was I proud? He was over the moon and I was a little above that(lol). It felt like my own graduation and I resolved to live up to the standards he had set with his great results. We both believed I could do it; and do it, I shall. During the holidays, I got busy with research for my own thesis while Mas launched himself into the professional world. Finding a job was not very difficult for him, and soon he was working with one of the grand financial firms in town and found himself pocketing a handsome salary at the end of each month. He moved out of campus obviously into a small, but decent apartment nearby. Yes, we didn’t want him living far from the campus and thus making our meetings inconvenient. Thus I spent the bulk of my holidays in the apartment, studying, cooking our meals and keeping it clean(when he didn’t). I do not how how to explain this, but eventually, I ditched my campus accommodation and moved in with him when school started. He would drop me off in his new car. I tell you life was good for my man; even better than we expected for a fresh graduate. What joy I felt when he opened the door to let me out and then proceeded to plant a kiss on my forehead. Each day, he would wave me goodbye with this favorite phrase ‘Go get those grades and make us proud, my love’. Now who needs any more inspiration? Not me :-). With a slightly exaggerated smile on my face, I would walk off to my classes with so much grace, knowing he still had his eyes glued on me.

One night, he got back form work a little later than usual. When he got in, I was all set with the perfect words for a heated confrontation. I wasn’t having my man staying out late without me. Surprise! He walked in with a bunch of twelve white roses in one hand and a parcel in the other. I immediately forgot ‘the battle’ and flashed my wonder smile. He got on with his usual game of getting me to guess the content of the parcel. As usual, I got it wrong. I love it when he does that, as it adds a bit more excitement in our relationship. I pounced on the parcel, pulling at its strings like a hungry lioness. Inside was the most beautiful dress I had set my eyes on(I exaggerate). I rushed into the bedroom to try it on . Mas stood transfixed, staring at me. The dress fit like a glove. The bust hugged at my full breasts and showed just enough cleavage. The fine satin material clung to my skin, accentuating my curves in all the right places and finally letting the hemline drop off glamorously just above my knees. Its deep red color drew more attention to my smooth dark skin and equally red lips. I looked at my image in the mirror and twirled. I looked PERFECT! Well, almost. I released my hair from the tight knot above my head and let it fall lazily on my shoulders.

Mas walked in quietly and stood right behind me. I smiled at his reflection in the mirror. The twinkle in his eye told me he was pleased with what he saw. He fastened a silver chain with a heart pendant around my neck, letting his hands linger on my shoulders, rubbing them gently. My heart raced and I could feel the heat engulfing me. His hands traced the outline of my body, resting first on my bosom , then the curve of my waist and finally on my hips. I stepped back and spooned into his body. He turned me slowly and our gazes locked.  I could see the hunger I felt reflected in his eyes. I closed my eyes and felt him draw his face closer. His lips touched mine and I felt the pressure of his tongue trying to pry my mouth open. I let him in and could feel the heat in his body being transferred to his lips, which pressed hard against mine. A kiss so intense and yet ,so passionate. The world closed in on me and all that mattered at that moment was my Mas. With one hand, he pulled down the zipper of my dress, letting the rich material fall to my feet. Then he undid my brasserie and took my B-cups into his strong, yet gentle hands. We both fell upon the bed, me underneath him; and somewhere before that, his clothes had come off too. We lay there kissing and exploring each other’s bodies with a desire so strong, it could build bridges. A bridge, it did build. I felt him come into me with a gentleness that made me secure with him. His rhythmic thrusts sent us both into an unknown world…a world filled with moans of pleasure and grunts of delight. We were one for those moments and then we descended, together, intertwined, not letting go of each other. We lay still, me in his arms and the both of us breathing heavily. He stroke my hair and I played with the silky curls on his chest. At that point, nothing mattered to us than the bridge we had built together. A bridge that led us to our sleep, with smiles glued to our faces and hearts filled with lots of love. …

To be continued… 🙂