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With Rohey Samba
The morning sun rose warm and golden over Jeshwang, and Borogie’s heart brimming with purpose. Today, she would plant not just seeds in the earth but the roots of a new future for her children. With Yerro’s blessing, she resolved to seek out land where she could work, provide, and lift her family. She hummed quietly to herself as she cleaned her room, her mind drifting over each little step toward this dream.
She swept out dust and cobwebs, real and imaginary, her hands busy with familiar tasks that now felt like rituals of hope. Her clay water pot, dull and worn, needed a thorough scouring. Once the pot gleamed in the morning light, she poured the water her daughter, Nata, had fetched from the well, straining it carefully through a fine cloth to rid it of grit or insects. The well had no cover, so these little precautions had become a habit, a small but constant act of care for her family.
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Family meant everything to Borogie, but from a young age, family had also meant responsibility. Her mother had been sickly for as long as she could remember, leaving Borogie with the weight of caring for her siblings—all boys. She never felt like a child herself, often thinking she was older than the other girls her age. Their lives felt light and free, filled with play and laughter, while Borogie’s was a life of giving, caring, and endless work.
This sense of duty had shaped her character and her spirit. She became fiercely self-reliant, finding a rare pride in her ability to provide and protect. As a young girl, she had often risen before dawn, setting out into the fields to gather firewood or draw water from the distant well. While her brothers slept, she worked. These small routines grew into larger habits, the kind of resilience that would later be the foundation of her life. Even now, as a wife and mother, she believed that anything worth having was worth working hard for—worth her own sweat and toil.
Trusting her instincts and doing things herself were second nature to Borogie. She could not imagine depending on anyone else for sustenance, least of all her husband, even though her community held a different view. In her society, men were expected to provide for their families. It was their duty, their pride. But Borogie had learned long ago that promises and traditions did not put food on the table or clothes on her children’s backs. She felt a deep, visceral need to build something she could trust—something that couldn’t be taken away or denied.
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It was not that she distrusted Yerro; rather, her independence had been ingrained so deeply that relying on others felt foreign, even dangerous. She respected her husband, valued his role, but she couldn’t ignore the part of her that insisted she create a life of her own, a future that no one else could decide. She wanted her children to look at her and see a mother who could fend for them, who could grow food from barren soil and shelter them against the hardships of life. And for that, she needed to rely on herself, just as she always had.
It was this spirit—unyielding, steadfast, and quietly defiant—that she carried forward every day, her heart beating with the memory of all the mornings she rose before dawn, all the nights she stayed up in despair, mending clothes, worried about her children’s tomorrow. She knew that with each act of strength, she was carving out a life of resilience, one that would be hers and hers alone.
Later that morning, Ousman Bah, Yerro’s uncle, arrived with a bundle of vegetables he’d gathered for the family, a small but generous offering that Borogie accepted gratefully. She immediately set about preparing lunch, drawing her children into the process. Matou, thrilled by the novelty of helping, eagerly pounded crystals of salt mixed with black pepper and a bit of spicy paprika, while Nata carefully sliced the onions—new, rare treasures to their household. Khadja Bobo sucked her thumb, watching over baby Buba, nestled in a shallow pan padded with cloth to keep him safe and snug. Amidst the hum of the children’s laughter and the rich smells of cooking, a rare warmth filled Borogie’s heart. She was beginning to feel the strength of community, of family ties bolstered by resilience and shared dreams.
As the sun rose high over the compound, casting warm light over the clay walls and straw roofs, Borogie found herself alone with Neneh Dado, her co-wife. They had shared years together, managing the ups and downs of married life with Yerro. Though they had their differences, they shared a deep, unspoken bond, one formed by shared sacrifices and the quiet understanding that came from loving the same man. Their love for Yerro was as different as their personalities, but they both wanted what was best for their family. That alone gave them a kinship neither spoke of often but both felt.
The older woman looked at Borogie, her expression softened with something close to admiration. “I’m glad you have this dream,” Neneh Dado said quietly, her voice unusually soft. “Gardening and rice cultivation may not be for me, but I know what it means to you. And I know you’ll give it everything you’ve got.”
Borogie felt the warmth of her co-wife’s words settle in her chest, an unexpected surge of gratitude washing over her. She reached out, placing a gentle hand on Dado’s arm, feeling the quiet strength in the elder woman’s skin that had always earned her respect. “Thank you, Dado. I know it won’t be easy,” she replied, her voice steady but softened by the bond of shared experience. “But I feel it in my bones. This is the way forward for us—for the children, for Yerro, for everyone.”
There was a time when Borogie could have allowed resentment to fester, to feel a bitterness over the parts of her husband’s life that she couldn’t claim. The nights Dado chose to eat alone with him, leaving Borogie and her children in the shadows of their own hearth, could have planted seeds of anger. But she’d come to accept that her co-wife’s choices were not meant to exclude her—they were simply Dado’s way of holding onto her own slice of security. And Borogie understood, as few others might, what it felt like to fight for one’s own.
After all, she had been her brothers’ keeper. When her mother’s health had withered like leaves at the end of a dry season, Borogie had stepped into a role far beyond her years. She had scrubbed floors, toiled rice fields and gardens, cooked meals, and mended clothes while her mother lay in her sickbed, weak and distant, until the day her final breath left them all motherless. Borogie had learned to carry her burdens alone, with a stoic resilience that rooted her firmly to the ground. She had become both parent and provider, learning that reliance on others, even on her husband, was a luxury she’d never been afforded. This life, with its shared husband and divided home, was all she knew. She couldn’t wish for another, nor would she. She only knew how to make the best of this one.
Borogie let her gaze drift across the compound in silent contemplation, her eyes finally returning back to meet Neneh Dado’s. They both knew that the work ahead was heavy, but Borogie could feel in her heart that this was the path she was meant to walk. A flicker of understanding passed between them—a recognition that while they might walk different roads, their destination was the same.
Dado nodded, her own pride glimmering in her eyes. “Then go with all your heart, Borogie,” she said, her smile breaking gently across her face. “For the children, for all of us. The land will be good to you if you work with it, and you were made for this kind of work.”
Borogie smiled in return, a quiet strength settling over her as she felt Dado’s blessing embrace her. As they stood there in the warmth of the sun, Borogie felt a surge of strength course through her, one that came from knowing that she wasn’t alone, that even in their separate lives and ways, they were united by their love for their family. Her own eyes full of determination, she promised, “I won’t disappoint.”.
Dado gave her one last nod, filled with pride. “I know,” she said simply. Then she turned, her figure moving gracefully away across the compound, her shadow long against the golden light.
In that moment, Borogie felt a renewed sense of purpose, a feeling that every step forward was a step not only for herself but for all of them, for her children, for herself, and for Yerro.
To be continued.
