Never Ask Me About My Family

I was born in Menguetah, a few yards away from the gates of the jailhouse and some sixteen years after the ruler of the time delivered his speech of independence. A speech meant to free the people of Mourabori from the foreign oppressor although it has since become a butt joke in many parts, particularly in the oppressor’s quarter.

Menguetah is situated on the highest point of the Gerni River and was at the time a bustling little town, which still bears His Excellency’s mark today. During this period efforts were made to turn the place into a strategic city. There was a conference centre, an oversized villa to entertain guests and an airstrip built to accommodate Concorde. As for me, I have no memory of the place.

My mother, Salimatou told me it was on a hot afternoon and that she heavily pregnant was on her way to the jailhouse to bring my father his daily meal. As she neared the gates, she went into labour. After three painful hours, I came into the living world a lifeless bundle of flesh. Only to recover with loud cries, alerting the entire neighbourhood. Women came running from every corner and covered Salimatou with their pagnes, our traditional wrapper, protecting this sacred act from the unwanted stares of men and children.

‘Eh Allah! What is our world coming to that a woman should give birth on a dusty road?’ Someone exclaimed.

Soon, there was a little crowd around, drawn by this more than unusual sights.

‘Where have you come from? Where is your family?’ someone asked Salimatou.

She pointed towards the jailhouse and explained that she was taking her husband meal when her waters broke. They helped her back on her feet and placed me in her arms. Afterwards, the little crowd followed her to the jailhouse where the guards, in a sudden surge of generosity let my father Sekouba out of the gates and he welcomed me, still warm and wet from Salimatou womb into his robust arms. On this occasion, there was no naming ceremony, no relatives, nor any eating, singing or dancing. Just my mother and father looking down at me, in his cell, where the guards had locked them both up for privacy. Still, I received a name, Aida.

‘Ma yé, ma sogué, is what you are to me little one.’ Sekouba said “my water, my sunshine.”

The water that quenched his thirst and sustained him throughout the six months ordeal of being locked up, for at times the meals carefully prepared by Salimatou never reached his cell. And sunshine, the exposure to which he was allowed a mere ten minutes a day and which he craved just as badly as his freedom.

Sekouba was accused of treason and jailed without trial. Treason was anything and everything that displeased the ruling family and those closely associated with them, and Sekouba forgot to turn his tongue inside his month a thousand times before he spoke. The intrigues of the time made thousands and thousands of heads roll and each disappearance from the surface of earth, took bit by bit the esteem that was still held for the liberator. Yet, fate accorded Sekouba a rare break and he was released ten weeks after I was born. The man, who showed him up as a traitor, his former boss, disappeared somewhere and no one ever heard of him again. On his day back to work, Sekouba was given a pat on his back to clear any resentment he might have held, but also as a warning. No man was safe, no man was free, and my father m