Echoes of Fuladu 3: Home remembers who we are

The compound settled into its familiar rhythm as the sun climbed steadily above the neem trees. Morning in Farato did not rush.

It unfolded. Like a prayer. Like smoke rising patiently from damp firewood. Like porridge thickening slowly over a gentle fire. By the time Matou finished feeding the chickens and watching the goats scramble impatiently for fresh leaves, the smell of breakfast had spread through every corner of the compound. Borogie lifted the heavy cooking pot from the three stones with practiced ease while Nenneh Dado stirred one final time into another smaller pot filled with sour milk that would accompany the porridge.

Yerro emerged from his hut freshly bathed, his beard still damp from ablution.

He greeted everyone before settling himself quietly beneath the neem tree.

Nobody needed telling what came next.

Nenneh Dado disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned carrying a beautifully carved wooden gourd reserved only for him.

She knelt respectfully before placing it beside him.

Inside was thick millet porridge, still steaming, enriched with sour cow’s milk and a generous spoonful of honey Borogie had bartered from a beekeeper only the previous week.

The rest of the family would eat together from a large communal calabash.

Such was the custom. Nobody questioned it. Nobody resented it.

A man who tilled fields from sunrise until dusk required different strength from those who remained within the compound. Yerro looked at the large family bowl being placed nearby before turning towards Matou.

“My daughter,” he called gently, patting the woven mat beside him. “Come.”

Matou hesitated.

“Baba, should I not eat with Mama?”

“You have been eating away from me for long enough.”

His eyes smiled before his mouth did.

“Today you shall eat beside your father.”

Borogie laughed softly as she sat with Bubel.

“Go,” she encouraged. “You have become his guest.”

Matou crossed the yard and settled beside him, folding her legs neatly beneath her wrapper.

Yerro pushed the gourd slightly towards her.

“Taste it.” She looked uncertain. “But it is yours.”

“It is ours.”

She dipped the wooden spoon carefully into the porridge.

It was warm. Sweet. The millet carried the unmistakable taste of home. She closed her eyes briefly after swallowing.

“I forgot food could taste like this.”

Yerro chuckled.

“The Owens do not feed you?”

“They feed me very well.”

“Then?”

She searched for the right words.

“It doesn’t taste like Mama.” That answer pleased everyone. Borogie laughed so hard she nearly spilled Bubel’s porridge. “Listen to this child.”

Nenneh Dado nodded knowingly.

“No matter where you travel, nobody cooks like the woman who carried you.”

Just then Bubel abandoned his own bowl and wandered over, carrying his little calabash with both hands.

“I want to eat here too.”

Yerro looked at him sternly.

“You already have your place.”

“But Matou is here.”

“So?”

“I missed her.”

The old farmer tried unsuccessfully to maintain a serious face.

Finally he sighed dramatically.

“Very well.”

“But only because your sister has come home.”

Bubel grinned triumphantly before squeezing himself between them.

His tiny shoulder pressed against Matou’s.

She wrapped one arm around him instinctively.

The three of them ate quietly for a while.

Only the scraping of wooden spoons against the smooth calabash broke the silence.

After breakfast Yerro leaned back against the neem tree.

“So…” He looked towards Matou. “Tell me.”

“What shall I tell you?”

“Everything.”

She laughed.

“Everything would take until next Ramadan.”

“We have time.” He folded his hands over his walking stick. “Begin where you wish.”

Matou thought for a moment. Then, almost unconsciously, she began with the happiest memories. She spoke of Bakau School. Of learning multiplication. Of reading English stories aloud. Of the day Mr. Bojang praised her handwriting before the whole class. She demonstrated how Haddy Garjo laughed whenever she lost at hopscotch, making Bubel laugh simply from watching her imitate her friend.

She described Samba Bah’s endless gossip and exaggerated the way he walked, causing even serious Yerro to laugh aloud. “That boy truly walks like that?”

“Worse.” Nenneh Dado wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.

“And what about Yassin?” Matou smiled. “She still argues with everybody.”

“Even teachers?”

“Especially teachers.”

Yerro laughed deeply.

“I would like to meet this Yassin.”

“You would either like her or send her home after five minutes.”

“I think I would do both.”

The compound erupted in laughter again.

Then Matou’s face brightened even further.

“I saw Khadjel.” Everyone became quiet.

“At school?”

“Yes.” “She goes to Bakau Nursery.” Borogie clasped her hands happily. “Did she know you?”

“Immediately.” “She ran to me.” “I took her sweets.” “I visited every break time afterwards.”

Borogie looked towards the sky.

“Alhamdulillah.” “My daughters have found one another.”

Yerro nodded slowly.

“That pleased me.” He rarely spoke about emotions directly. That one sentence was enough.

After breakfast everyone returned naturally to work. Nobody assigned tasks. Everyone simply knew what belonged to them. Matou fetched the long grass broom and swept the compound once more, although Borogie insisted she rest. She enjoyed watching the neat lines appear in the sand.

She straightened sleeping mats in the bedroom. Folded wrappers. Hung blankets outside to catch the morning breeze. Opened every shutter to invite fresh air inside the huts. The work felt different here. Not imposed. Shared. Done with love rather than expectation.

Later Nenneh Dado called her.”We need onions.” “And pepper.” “There is no dried fish left.”

She handed Matou a small woven purse containing a few dalasis.

“Go to the market.”

“I’ll come.”

The walk into Farato village filled Matou with quiet delight. People greeted her father by name even when he wasn’t there. Children smiled shyly. Old women stared before recognition slowly dawned upon them.

“Is that Yerro’s daughter?”

“It is.”

“The one who went to Bakau.”

Borogie was already at her vegetable stall when Matou arrived.

Fresh okra. Garden eggs. Pumpkins. Sweet potatoes. Bundles of spinach. Everything arranged beautifully.

Her mother looked up and immediately beamed.

“There she is!”

Before Matou realised what was happening, Borogie was introducing her proudly.

“This is my daughter.”

“The one staying in Bakau.”

“The school girl.”

Women abandoned their customers to greet her.

One elderly vendor let out a joyful ululation that echoed across the market.

Another followed.

Soon several women were ululating together.

Matou covered her face shyly.

“Mama…”

Borogie laughed.

“Let them.”

“You have come home.”

One woman embraced her tightly.

“You have become beautiful.”

Another pinched her cheek affectionately.

“Your mother talks about you every market day.”

A third said proudly,

“Our daughter has become educated.”

Matou felt her face grow warm.

No one had ever welcomed her like this.

Certainly not because she was simply herself. The feeling settled deep inside her heart.

It cost nothing. Yet it was priceless. She bought the onions. The pepper. The dried fish. A little salt. Then hurried home, eager to help prepare lunch.

“I’ll pound the pepper,” she announced cheerfully after placing everything inside the kitchen. Nenneh Dado looked at her as though she had said something outrageous.

“You?” “Yes.” “You came yesterday.”

“So?”

“You are resting.”

“I’ve rested enough.”

Nenneh Dado laughed.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“I can help.”

“You will help tomorrow.”

“Today you are still our visitor.”

Matou folded her arms dramatically.

“I am not a visitor.”

“You are.”

“I live here.”

“You do.”

“But you have just returned.”

“So today…”

Nenneh Dado gently turned her towards the doorway.

“…you shall go and play.”

Matou laughed.

“I am too old to play.”

From outside Bubel shouted immediately,

“No, you’re not!”

He appeared holding a broken slate and a tiny pencil.

“Come teach me.”

Matou looked helplessly at Nenneh Dado.

Her stepmother only smiled.

“Go.”

“The teacher has been summoned.”

Within minutes the compound became a classroom.

Bubel sat proudly on an overturned bucket.

Matou drew letters in the sand.

“This is A.”

He copied.

Crookedly.

“No.”

She laughed.

“Like this.”

Patiently she guided his little fingers.

Soon they were making words.

Drawing birds.

Counting chickens.

After lessons they fashioned a kite from a worn paper from one of her books, thin sticks and string pulled from a rice sack.

When the afternoon breeze finally lifted it above the compound, Bubel screamed with delight and ran laughing across the open field.

Matou followed.

Laughing just as loudly.

For that afternoon, under the wide Farato sky, there was no foster child.

No homesickness.

No loneliness.

Only a sister.

A daughter.

A teacher.

A child.

Home had remembered exactly who she was.