A Diary From Home
By Tijan Nimaga, Bronx New York
Witness the chaotic scene at the Barra Ferry Terminal
The amazing and wonderful journey, which I had been yearning for nearly two decades, began from New York’s beautiful John F. Kennedy International Airport and ended on the densely populated streets of Banjul. When Delta flight DL128 touched down and gently taxied to an impressive halt on the runway in Dakar on that cool March 30th morning, a kind of joy and happiness, which I missed all the past years, gripped my soul. When I got off the plane and started to walk towards the bus, which carries passengers to the Immigration and Passport Control office at Leopold Sedar Senghor International Airport, I breathed the air deeply just to feel the same air I had breathed since childhood.
However, my happiness was sometimes interrupted when I literally began to reflect on the month of March per William Shakespeare’s play Julius Caesar. I would then murmur to myself, hoping that my much-anticipated homecoming would not be like the Ides of March. As I continued to walk on the beautiful floors of the airport, I noticed that my feet had so much strength in them, a kind of strength which ironically convinced me that I was really at home. It was at that moment I realized how long I was away from home. Every little corner of Leopold Sedar Senghor International Airport has been refurbished. Some of the paintings on the dilapidated walls that I saw in the opening of the 1990s enroute to New York had all been removed. As I continued to look, a charming voice of a young Wollof speaking lady stopped and politely enquired if I needed help to fill in the arrival forms. I thanked her and then told her I could do it myself. When I finished filling in the arrival form, I proceeded to the Immigration officer who was sitting in a half-glass half-wooden booth and when I handed him my passport, he diligently examined its shiny pages, stamped it and with a smile, said, “welcome” in French. I pulled my luggage and headed towards the garage where I boarded a seven-passenger van bound for the Gambian border village of Amdalaye.
On my way to The Gambia via Senegal, we came to a very famous Region of Senegal- Theis where I sensed evidence of some kind of democracy at work. The parliamentary elections were just around the corner and I saw a huge crowd of people demonstrating on the streets. Some with banners printed with words, slogans and effigies critical of the ruling party. With my identity concealed, I did not ask anyone but one die-hard supporter of the Socialist Party founded by the late Leopold Sedar Senghor started to express how happy he was. Rambling about socialism in a Senegalese perspective I looked at him with so much interest. Being a socialist myself I had to join the conversation in Wollof. His perception of socialism was totally different from what socialism is all about. I did not waste time to explain the little I know about socialism and at the end of our conversation he thanked me for telling him something he was often misinformed about. I was happy that I was able to help someone who claims he did not know what socialism was all about and had been relying on hearsay. As we continued on talking, traffic suddenly came to an abrupt halt as security forces from the Senegalese Gendarmerie and the Riot police drove past with sirens flashing, followed by military trucks. We were caught in this traffic nightmare for about an hour. As things got better, our van rolled slowly and I saw scenes of political violence, stones and broken bottles, burnt tires, projectiles and all sorts of plastics paraphernalia on the road measuring about a mile or so. Despite the presence of security forces, angry demonstrators were still persistently cursing and yelling castigating the Wade government for incompetence, nepotism and malfeasance.
When we finally maneuvered through the crazy situation and drove for about half a mile, our chauffeur stopped for a drink at a local store. As we waited, my newly found socialist comrade, a very unhappy man in his late 50s had to find out what really happened at the scene in Theis. I could audibly hear the young man he asked saying in Wollof “he was lucky we didn’t kill him.” The subject in questions was President Abdoulaye Wade’s son, Karim Wade. According to the information we gathered from the youthful fellow, Karim Wade was there on a meeting and started to tell the people of Theis that the region of Theis belongs to his father’s party a message that apparently angered die-hard socialists who saw it as offensive and insulting to their conscience hence the chaotic scene described above. The young man admitted that Karim was lucky they did not get him due to the heavy security. When our driver jumped behind the wheel, we began the enduring journey to The Gambia on a road where every meter is replete with dangerous potholes.
On the high way to The Gambia I curiously looked to see some of my favorite trees, as the vehicle moves on. The beautiful tropical savannah made me feel as if I have been reborn again. When I sighted two of my favorite trees, the silk cotton and baobab trees, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia but all along I did not even have the slightest fear of either the Gambian government nor the security forces because I know whatever I had written on the pages of The Gambia Echo were my rights as a citizen of The Gambia. When we arrived at Amdalaye, the Immigration officers inspected our luggage (or do I say searched) and then examined our passports. It took just a little time and our passports were stamped and the journey continued. It was at this moment that I realized how much money The Gambia government invested on national security. The police force and the military were all over the place. When we arrived at a military checkpoint just few miles off the coast of Barra, a young Lands corporal searched our vehicle and after his search, he asked us to proceed. At the Barra Ferry Terminal, I was surprised at the changes. Barra Ferry Terminal did not have a mosque before and public latrines are new to its life. When I stood and looked towards Banjul, 7 sea miles off Barra, I did not notice anything different, it was the same imposing skyline, along the beautiful blue, mighty Atlantic, a relic of British colonial architecture. Everything looked just the same. The buildings and the ferry terminal all looked just the way I left them. The ferries still have no control, they are still overloaded with humans, animals and vehicles. Despite the powerful waves and sea breeze, the stench and ordor from the animals and burnt-out fuses and fuels were offensive to say the least. It was only when I docked at the Banjul Ferry Terminal that I realized that some modest changes had been effected in the waiting area.
My greatest disappointment was when I walked down Wellington Street and turned on Buckle Street. I was going to my uncle’s home, the late Alahagi Grigara Njie. When I got at the corner of Buckle I looked at the area where his store once stood now seized by The Gambia Ports Authority and shook my head as streams of tears began to run down my cheeks. Then the greatest blow was at the point when I came at the very spot where our house stood. We used to joke, play and have our meals there and it is now gone. I felt I was homeless. I could not spend the night in Banjul but the late evening breeze and the biting of the mosquitoes reminded me things are still the same. While deciding what to no next, I walked into a mini-store owned by a Mauritanian. Just as usual, I opened his fridge and took a can drink, walked to the counter and gave him a five Dalasis note. As I walked out of the store, the shrewd shopkepper called at the top of his voice. “Hey, come here!” I did not argue with him because I knew it might be about the money I gave him. What’s wrong I asked? “The drink is not five dalasis”, he replied politely. I am sorry I apologized. Then he remarked, “Your looks and curiosity about commodity prices, suggest you must have been away for a long time.” I nodded my head in agreement and then I asked how much the drink was. “Twelve Dalasis”, he said. I paid him the difference and walked away. It was at this point that I realized how expensive things have gotten in The Gambia. When I was leaving The Gambia, a can drink was about five Dalasi and that was what I had in mind.
At Gamtel House on Half Die Street, I began to think of my interview with Gilberto De Santos, a World Bank representative based in Dakar who revealed to us that the World Bank was not responsible for the sale nor did it force The Gambia to sell it’s only telecommunication facility. I smiled at myself and hurriedly walked to the nearby taxi garage where I booked one to Serekunda .On the Banjul-Serekunda dual highway, I could clearly see even in the semi-darkness, imposing pictures and portraits of Yahya Jammeh on electric poles and huge metal plates. A famous advertisement from Gamcel, the cellphone company at the mercy of the President’s much-feared electric broom, reads “YAAYE BOROM” while the beautiful billboard advertisements of Sabena and many other Airlines that I knew as a school boy at The Gambia High School are all extinct.
At Denton Bridge I looked at each corner of the thick mangrove swamps and began to wonder where Yahya Jammeh and his rebels lay hiding during the 1994 coup. The mangrove trees along either side of the road added more to my anxiety especially, when I tried to recall some chapters from Samsudeen Sarr’s arresting book, Coup d’etat.
While I continued to wonder, in my state of suspense, the taxi surprisingly pulled to a standstill at our compound in Serekunda and as he smashed the horn signaling the arrival of a returnee, my family members ran helter-skelter, welcoming me with kisses and hugs and when I sipped the sweet, mellow water of The Gambia from a special cup, I thanked God in Arabic and I knew the long anticipated journey had finally come to an end.
In my next article I will disclose what I saw about the police, the civil servants, the condition of our roads and how President Yahya Jammeh travels and his evil deeds against our fellow journalists.
Therefore, brothers and sisters let us never allow fear to overcome us. The Gambia is our country and if we want to remain ever true to her as stated in our National Anthem, we must not allow fear to overcome us. I went to The Gambia convinced that it was the right thigh to do and God willing, I will continue to go there. It is my home and I am also well prepared to defend my self for the worst. For our own brothers and sisters seeking political asylum, please be honest with yourselves .We at The Gambia Echo are not accusing President Yahya Jammeh of unfounded allegations, we are telling the truth and informing those who depend on us for information from home. Again, I went home and I came back but there was never a single day during which I was asked about the articles I wrote. Whatever was done was done at the checkpoints and that is a process, which everyone traveling within the country must go through.