Matou relocated to Farato, a place she described as offering freedom. This move marked a significant shift in her life, providing a sense of liberation she had not experienced before. She recounted an incident involving a goat, stating, "It ate one entire wrapper." Matou further elaborated on the aftermath of such an event, noting, "The husband blamed the wife," adding, "And the goat blamed nobody because goats have no shame." Her interactions were often direct and inquisitive. She engaged in conversations, asking, "Heard what?" and asserting, "It cannot." When questioned about certain observations or statements, Matou would inquire, "What do you call this then?" and specifically, "About goats?" She also declared, "I didn’t ask them to come," a statement reflecting a strong sense of personal boundary or independence. Matou firmly stated, "You know nothing about queens," showing her self-assuredness. Matou predicted, "They will," and advised, "When you stop arguing with them," offering a pragmatic perspective on resolving conflicts or achieving understanding. She posed a challenge, "Say hippopotamus," then clarified, "No. No. There. You did not. You are only five," noting her playful yet firm approach to teaching and interaction. Matou offered a story, asking, "A story?" and setting a condition: "Only if you sit properly. You are upside down." She concluded the tale, stating, "…and the rabbit looked at the lion and said, ‘Strength is useful, but wisdom travels farther than muscles.’" Matou observed, "The lion became angry," but noted, "No. Because by then the rabbit had already disappeared," emphasizing the rabbit's cunning and the ephemeral nature of strength without wisdom.
A New Rhythm of Life
In her father's compound in Farato, Matou experienced a profoundly different relationship with household tasks compared to her time in Bakau. In Bakau, every chore Matou did was expected and measured, a routine often accompanied by unspoken pressure. Here in Farato, the work felt to her like an act of love, imbued with a sense of purpose and communal contribution. The daily rhythm of the household was managed by Yerro's wives, Borogie and Nenneh Dado, who took turns running the household. Borogie typically prepared meals, a central and vital task, while Nenneh Dado handled other chores, ensuring the smooth operation of the compound. Their roles switched naturally, reflecting an organic and cooperative division of labor that kept the household functioning efficiently.
Matou, eager to immerse herself in this new way of life, learned various cooking techniques from Borogie. Borogie, a seasoned cook, demonstrated how to measure ingredients with an innate skill, without the need for specific tools or precise measurements. Her method was intuitive, guided by years of experience. Borogie explained her unique approach to Matou, stating, "My hand tells me." When Matou expressed a natural skepticism about this unconventional measurement system, Borogie added with a gentle smile, "It has been speaking longer than you have been alive," conveying the deep wisdom embedded in her practical skills. Borogie further elaborated on this wisdom, explaining, "When you have cooked for enough hungry people, your hand remembers before your head does." This noted the muscle memory and deep understanding that comes from dedicated practice and service. She cautioned against precise measurements for certain ingredients, particularly salt, saying, "No, no! Unless you wish to preserve the family like smoked fish," a vivid and humorous warning about the dangers of over-salting.
Nenneh Dado, another central figure in the compound, loved conversation while performing chores. Her tasks, often involving cleaning or sorting, became opportunities for connection and storytelling. She would often share village stories and local gossip, keeping Matou informed about the daily happenings and the intricate social fabric of Farato. She would initiate discussions by asking Matou, "Have you heard?" Matou, ever curious, would respond, "Heard what?" to which Nenneh Dado might reply with a juicy detail, such as, "They say Binta’s goat has started eating washing from the clothesline." When Matou, perhaps incredulous, asserted, "It cannot," Nenneh Dado insisted, "It can," often with a knowing look. Matou recounted a related incident from her own experience, "It ate one entire wrapper," confirming the goat's mischievous nature. Nenneh Dado then inquired, "What happened?" Matou explained, "The husband blamed the wife," and Nenneh Dado added, completing the familiar narrative, "The wife blamed the goat." Matou concluded, with a touch of humor, "And the goat blamed nobody because goats have no shame." Nenneh Dado once observed to Matou, with a twinkle in her eye, "You enjoy gossip," but when challenged by Matou, "What do you call this then?" Nenneh Dado maintained, "I educate," framing her storytelling as a vital form of cultural transmission. Matou questioned, "About goats?" and Nenneh Dado responded, "About life," emphasizing the deeper lessons embedded in seemingly mundane village tales. Through these conversations, Matou realized that half the village's history lived inside Nenneh Dado's memory, a living archive of community life, traditions, and interpersonal dynamics.
During the rainy season, the natural environment of Farato took on a distinct character. The darkness that enveloped the compound and the surrounding village was characterized by a symphony of sounds: the persistent croaking of frogs and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. This nocturnal chorus, while often peaceful, was occasionally punctuated by the presence of snakes, reminding inhabitants of the wilder aspects of their natural surroundings.
Companionship and Connection
Matou quickly developed close companionships with the animals in the compound, a testament to her gentle nature and adaptability. This included the ubiquitous goats, the placid sheep, and the clucking chickens, all of whom seemed to gravitate towards her. Yerro, her father, observed a particularly unusual event one day when five sheep followed Matou towards the mango tree as she carried cassava peels, a common feed for livestock. Yerro, a long-time resident and farmer, stated that the sheep had never followed him in twenty years the way they followed Matou, noting the unique bond she had forged with them.
Matou also became something of a mentor, and at times, bossy, with Bubel, a younger member of the household. She took it upon herself to correct his pronunciation, ensuring he spoke clearly, and guided his counting, helping him grasp numerical concepts. She even corrected his pencil grip, a foundational skill for learning to write. Bubel, with the typical resistance of a young child, once tried to argue, stating, "My fingers don’t listen," to which Matou, firm but understanding, responded, "They will." When Bubel, seeking a timeline, asked, "When?", Matou clarified, "When you stop arguing with them," suggesting that cooperation was key to progress.
Matou frequently told Bubel stories, a cherished activity for both. Some of these narratives she invented on the spot, drawing from her own imagination, while others were drawn from Ladybird books, a collection of classic children's tales. These stories featured a delightful array of characters: talking rabbits, adventurous trains, noble princes, and fearsome giants, transporting Bubel into worlds of fantasy and adventure. She once playfully challenged Bubel, "Say hippopotamus," leading to several attempts by Bubel before he successfully pronounced the long word. Bubel, proud of his achievement, then claimed, "I knew it already," which Matou countered with a knowing smile, "You did not." Bubel, undeterred, insisted, "I was testing you," prompting Matou to gently remind him of their age difference, "You are only five." Bubel, with youthful cheek, humorously responded, "I can still test teachers," demonstrating his budding wit. Borogie, who was known as the storyteller of her family, a role she cherished and performed with great skill, expressed profound pride upon hearing Matou share these narratives with Bubel, recognizing Matou's emerging talent and the continuation of a cherished family tradition.
Echoes of the Past
The knowledge of her origins made Matou feel whole for the first time in many years. This understanding of her roots provided a profound sense of completeness and belonging that had long been absent. Yerro, her father, maintained a meaningful tradition of gathering dry branches for a bonfire within the compound after Maghrib prayers, the sunset prayer in Islam. These evening gatherings were not merely for warmth or light; they fostered deeper conversations among the family members, creating a sacred space for sharing and connection.
Discussions around the bonfire moved from everyday matters, the mundane details of daily life, to more profound and personal topics. Family members shared personal childhood experiences, recounting formative moments from their youth. They spoke of accounts of past drought seasons, illustrating the hardships and resilience of their community. Stories of Fuladu's history were woven into the conversations, connecting the family to a broader historical narrative and their ancestral lands. Details of marriages, both joyous and challenging, were shared, offering insights into family lineages and relationships. Reflections on forgiveness, its importance and complexities, also found a place in these intimate discussions, noting the values and moral compass of the family.
Matou listened intently to these narratives, absorbing every word. She felt as though these stories were threads sewing her back into her family’s fabric, mending any gaps in her understanding of her identity. She recognized that by hearing these stories, she was actively learning about her origins and where she truly came from, gaining an invaluable education in her heritage. The bonfire ritual, therefore, became a central point for understanding her heritage and solidifying her sense of belonging within the community, a powerful symbol of her reintegration and the strength of family ties.
Roots and Self
The knowledge of her origins made Matou feel whole for the first time in many years, a feeling of completeness that resonated deeply within her. Her father, Yerro, maintained a tradition of gathering dry branches for a bonfire within the compound after Maghrib prayers, a daily ritual that anchored the family's evenings. These evening gatherings fostered deeper conversations among the family members in Farato, transforming simple evenings into profound moments of connection. Discussions around the bonfire moved from everyday matters, the practicalities and routines of their lives, to personal childhood experiences, offering glimpses into the past of each individual. They recounted accounts of past drought seasons, sharing collective memories of hardship and survival, and stories of Fuladu's history, linking their present to a rich ancestral past. Details of marriages were discussed, weaving a complex tapestry of family relationships and alliances, alongside reflections on forgiveness, a recurring theme that showed the importance of reconciliation and understanding within the community. Matou listened intently to these narratives, feeling as though they were threads sewing her back into her family’s fabric, creating a strong and unbreakable bond. She recognized that by hearing these stories, she was actively learning about her origins and where she truly came from, solidifying her sense of belonging and rooting her firmly in her identity and community.