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.
