By Enuma Chigbo
. . . slept well. I woke up in the middle of the night though. I think Ndidi may have been partly responsible. She had woken up quite a few times. I think she said she was feeling poorly. Well this is one of the downsides of having to share a room. The major one I have to admit is having to refrain oneself from doing the most natural thing- you know, when your systems are all messed up and you just have to relieve tension. Yes, you may come out feeling better but there is usually an offensive smell which lingers on. Having released a couple of times the normal gentle amiable Ndidi started to send out very stern signals. I had to weigh my options – either to hold my peace or get another room. Now, with Ndidi, it’s easy to just let the maggots grow… things get organized. I am usually a very organized person, but my friend is many steps ahead. Things get done. The room is organized. She jumps to answer the door even when the person at the other end is looking for me. And I just do nothing. Truly I am spoiled rotten. So for this reason, I hold my peace as uncomfortable as it may be. I hold it. We go down for breakfast at 9am. A lavish buffet awaits us. I really want to eat healthy so I go for fruits and veggies. I look out for yoghurt and I see none, and then behold, I look even harder and voila…there it is, right next to the chopped water melons. I fill my cup with the locally made Gambian yoghurt and pile on the chopped water melon in a different saucer. Ndidi meets me back at our table with a plate of salami and cheese. I tell her how refreshing the yoghurt is. As I do so, I put in the chopped water melon. Indeed my joy is complete. I finish off breakfast with a salad – cabbage, carrots, lettuce and tomatoes, topped with a nice vinaigrette dressing. Ndidi meets me back at the table with her ham omelet. It looks divine. We round up on breakfast and hit the streets immediately. First on the agenda was the Albert Market, but before that we went to the gift shop. I see beautiful post cards of the Gambia and I buy six. In fact there was one of an older white woman and a young Gambian boy. They were lovers. She loved the boy, he loved her money. Ndidi was right. This is a sex town. I buy six post cards and give the shop owner a few Mary Slessor post cards I brought with me and a brief talk on Mary Slessor’s role in the stopping of the killing of twins back home. I also give her a copy of our very own Carnival Calabar Queen magazine. My shoulders are sore and I say that much to Ndidi before we leave. That was where the pleasant young man massaged yesterday. He said I was very tense. I didn’t realize how tense I was. I make up my mind to have a full body massage much later today, but it will be done by a lady. This is a sex town. Anyway, we head off to the Albert Market in the company of our tour guide whom I’ll call Adam. He is a twin. His twin brother passed on a while back. He tells me his Gambian name but I forget. The same way I forget his twin brother’s name. Anyway, I will remember tomorrow. I was of the impression that his Gambian name is very popular and synonymous with twins, reminiscent of our Taiwo and Kehinde back home. I ask him if he’s heard of Mary Slessor. He says no. I tell him she was instrumental in stopping the killing of twins back home. He sounds impressed. Albert Market, Banjul is not far, so we walk. Indeed, it’s been a very long time since I did anything like this. I recall decades ago when I would walk round Tejusoho market in Lagos for at least two hours looking for the right fabric. Those were the days…naaah…but anyway, I was a wakabout back then and the markets in Lagos where I resided just seemed to beckon at me. In one day, I would do Tejuosho, Tinubu and Alaba markets, which were at the opposite ends of town. Perhaps now, I am like Okonkwo in literary legend Chinua Achebe’s book, Things Fall Apart, who remembered the times of his suffer-head days with a slight shiver down his spine after he became a successful farmer. Anyway, we walk round Albert Market, our tour guide shows us other significant land marks as we walk. Gambian food is interesting and slightly different from ours. The okro, according to my friend, Ndidi, can be best described as purple and green fingers. We saw red coloured smoked catfish, purple egg plant, popularly known as garden egg back home, and bitter tomatoes. We bought stuff – traditional beach dresses with matching sarongs, I’m contemplating converting my sarong to a table cloth when I get back to good old Calabar. We go through the meat market and see a bit of art and craft. It is lunch time and we stop at this quaint little restaurant. We have to go by taxi. Yet again another of those Ndidi’ taxis. On our way to this taxi, we see two oyibo women dressed in African outfits. They look ridiculous but happy, and I guess that’s all that counts. We finally get to a taxi ramp and I see this nice Mercedes Benz taxi. Ok finally a comfortable ride and I express my happiness to Ndidi. “This will definitely be too hot,” she said. “It’s been parked out here for a while and it seats are covered with nylon.” She opted for a crappier looking one behind. Darn…this woman is such a spoil sport! At lunch we sit at a table opposite this nice looking oyibo family. “Those people dey stay for our hotel,” said Ndidi. Oh yes, I remembered them. I remembered because of their two daughters who had cornrows braided all the way backwards from the crown of their heads. Again, they looked ridiculous but happy and I guess that’s all that matters. Our hotel is indeed very interesting. We are the only black lodgers. Everyone else is white. Apart from us, you will find black p e o p l e a t t h e r e c e p t i o n , w a i t i n g o n tables and cleaning…interesting… The manager of the restaurant like the average Gambian is very black and very friendly. He recommends the local Gambian soft drink – Youki. I order the pineapple flavor, Ndidi orders the grapefruit. Not too long after, lunch is served. Shrimp in onion garlic sauce for me and chicken in peanut sauce for Ndidi. Actually that sauce has a local name but yours truly has forgotten yet again. Ndidi is asleep right by me and I dare not wake her. We order dessert after, which I am truly ashamed to write down…let’s just leave this as it is. Anyway, we go on another walk. To get to see the whole of Banjul, you have to get to the top of the national monument, which is a gate into the city. You walk up the very long, narrow and windy steps or take the elevator. I opted for the former as punishment for my gluttony. Ndidi and Adam get into the elevator and meet me on the other level.
The City Gate
The Banjul City gate has different levels. Whether you walk or use the elevator, you pay 50 dalasis. On one level is a place which used to be a restaurant, on another level, a higher one, is a museum. In this museum is a display of juju. They are used for different types of protection, said Adam. I couldn’t believe my ears. Adam wasn’t talking History. He was not talking about the past. He was talking about the present use of Juju, which he believed in so passionately. “These things are true, you need to come and see for yourself.” He showed us a picture of how one healed broken bones through juju. “If you have a broken hand for instance, the experts get a chicken and break the chicken in the same place where your fracture is. By the time they mend the chicken, you are healed.” Lord have mercy. Adam was not talking about some ancient tradition practiced by medicine men of old. He was talking about the present. Lord have mercy. From the top of Banjul City gate, we see the whole of Banjul. It is beautiful; it is divine. I feel like I could rule Banjul…tee hee hee! Anyway, we descend from the Banjul Gate after my short ‘reign’, and head back to the hotel. We plan a Roots tour tomorrow. Lord please go before us and make all crooked paths straight. It’s time to head for the hotel, put on our newly acquired beach dresses and laze at the beach. I will confess that I wasn’t looking forward to that part at all. You see for reasons best known to God, He had planned that He would deprive others of bountiful bosoms just to give me plenty. As the years go by, and weight piles on, I have a lot more than I can manage. So for that solitary reason, I ensure I am well covered at all times. Then I see oyibos, whom the Good Lord may have chosen to bless more than me in this regard in skimpy bathing suits and all my inhibitions are thrown out of the window.
The Beach
So beach, here I come! Ndidi and I get two deck chairs order mocktails and laze around in the beach. Even the stray dogs realize how important this is and laze round too. I recall some silly human trying to get this particular dog to budge but to no avail…who no like beta thing? Another dog comes and sits by my deckchair. I am not amused but somehow I grin and bear it all. We relax under the tranquility of the clear blue skies and brilliant blue waters.
Gambians are indeed very friendly – perhaps a little too friendly. I cannot even begin to count the number of them who just come up to us, say hello and ask our names. Now coming from Nigeria, where things like this hardly happen, it was a bit of a surprise to us. “In Nigeria, person go ask for name…wetin the person wan take the name do?” Ndidi joked. “Indeed, Nigeria must have traumatized us in one way or the other,” I said to her.
The stray dog moves away from me to a more amiable oyibo family. They stroke it tenderly and it clings to them like a magnet. Hmm…finally, a family to call its own. “Na only oyibo wey go play with dog wey dem no know,” said Ndidi. I agreed with her. The silly Gambian young lads will not let us be. One of them asks Ndidi if she will take him back to Nigeria. “And what will I tell my husband?” She asks him. Never mind that we both know she doesn’t have a husband yet. They bombard us with questions – “Are you American, Are you Jamaican?
Did you come from England? What are your names?” When they finally get to know we are Nigerian, one of them tells us he knows P Square. He claims his grandfather is from Nigeria, but somehow I really don’t believe him…
Anyway, we want to get our feet wet. The one who claims he has Nigerian blood offers to walk us to the waters. “I will take you there because those people there will hassle you.” He referred to some more young men playing football by the beach. We said he could be our escort. I let my feet get wet. “Indeed, I am blessed by waters of the River Gambia,” I said. The young lad agreed with me. Perhaps Lord, the scripture, “Wherever the sole of your foot shall tread, you shall possess,” may jolly well come in handy here. Another young lad joins us. Actually he had tried to make conversation while we lazed around. Ndidi chatted with him a bit and he met us by the waters later. The two young lads walked us to the hotel – the swimming pool area. Again, we were asked our names.
“Aunty Didi to you boys,” said Ndidi. “Why do you want us to call you Aunty,” asked one of them? “This is Africa. In Africa, you don’t call people who are much older by name. Perhaps those words went in one ear and out the other. Or perhaps this whole sex town matter had eaten deep into the hearts of the young lads who saw older women as a stepping stone to greater heights. “Bye Didi,” I heard. “What did you call me,” she said. They laughed and took off.
We go back into our room and have a shower. I have my massage – subtle but intricate movements that finally release tension all over my body, and yes all this was done by a young girl. This is a sex town.