| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Momodou |
Posted - 17 Aug 2026 : 12:04:04
Perhaps I Am Just Lucky
By Mmajiki Saidy-Barrow
Perhaps I am just lucky. Lucky that, from the beginning, life placed me among communities that taught me to see the humanity in all people. Though I was born in Kiang Kaif, my earliest memories are of Perseverance Street, Banjul, where we lived in a tenement yard with people from different corners of the colonial space. The memories are faint now, but one thing remains clear: I never once heard my mother or father speak ill of anyone we lived with, nor of the owner of the compound we rented. Alongside Mandinka, Wolof was the first language I learned. As a child, my mother took me to Niani Karantaba and Demba Wandu. We stayed in her home community of Sandu Kuraw, returned often to Kaif to visit, and passed through communities like Fuladu Chakunda. Without knowing it then, I was being introduced to the idea that identity should never be a wall. It must always be a doorway.
Then came Bundung, the place that made me. In Bundung, where I grew up, my friends were as diverse as the neighborhood itself. My school friends were Alfusainey Sanneh and Malick Gaye. In the neighborhood, there were Wuyeh Sambou, Mamoudou Jayju, Abdoulie Bah, and his brother Pa Modou, the late Bakary Tanja, and several others. I learned to speak a bit of Jola because my neighbors were Jola. Later, I would become friends with Lamin Kalley, Modou Yaya Jallow, Omo Tunde Davies, Hamidou Babou, Idrissa Jammeh, Pa Lowe, Alagie Lette, Alieu Jeng, Lang Marong, Musa, the late Pa Chandeh Faal, Dukureh, and Pa Gibrill Jobe. Across the street, Balla Njie, in whose home we all gathered to watch a small 15-inch black-and-white television, was my buddy. That circle also included Lie Jawneh, Yankuba Fadera, Pa Samba, and Lie Gotteh (Sillah). Looking back, I realize Bundung did not merely give me friends. It gave me the country I long for, in miniature.
In Bundung, I learned to play Jola drums. Those who were shocked by the video of me taking drums away from kids playing Agugu and rocking it will be pleasantly surprised when they see me rock Jola drums. I learned to Mbostan, attended Narr music ceremonies, and watched dancers rise high in ecstasy. I watched Group Rakaju rehearse and fell in love with the halam. I followed traditional Fulbe musicians as they somersaulted and struck the calabash with their heads. The haunting flute became my favorite sound. If you know Kibili, who used to live in Sanuwo Kunda, Bundung, and is still alive, ask him about my skills on the Kutiro! If I were in government, one way I would fight this tribal nonsense would be through music education. Music does more than entertain. It restores people to their full humanity in the eyes of others. It is a language through which we learn to recognize one another, and once you have truly recognized someone, it becomes harder to reduce them to prejudice or contempt.
My luck did not stop with growing up in Bundung. I went to Basse for high school. I lived with Saihou Badjan of Bondali, if I am not mistaken. My older brothers were Pa Matarr Ndure, Ebrima Tamba, and Ansumana Touray. We slept in the same room for two good years. My friends in Basse were Joe and Musa Ndow, the Jaiteh brothers, my Tom Alagie Sey, our Kotor Momodou Sey (MS), Careca, and his brother Old Pa. In the earliest days, we had George and several others whose names I can no longer recall. Later, I would be roommates with Musa Jammeh (Falcons). In Basse, I would fall in love with Binta Lally and Petit Yero. I would spend time in Mansuanka Kunda and come to appreciate their way of life. In Basse, I would learn to speak the other half of my ancestors’ language, Halpulaar, though my ability to speak it is nothing to write home about. I would go to Wulli and visit my father’s home community of Jah-Kunda. Sheriffo Makalo, Ali Wally, and Modou Jallow were my buddies. I would sleep in Kuwonkunding, spend time in the Fulbeh community right across the road, pass a night in Touba Woppa, home of Noperu Sowe, and spend time at the Lumo in Yero Bawol. Reminiscing on these travels, I am reminded that the Gambia I used to know was not one story. It was many diverse stories learning to live beside one another.
Years later, I would travel deep into Futa in search of my ancestry. Nothing attracts me more than a person who knows who they are. Unfortunately, my journey was aborted because Sandikereh, the village my great-grandfather migrated from in present-day Futa, had long been abandoned. Still, the journey taught me something. I have always been a student of myself, always seeking to know who I am and where I come from. For how can you truly appreciate another person if you have not done the work of understanding yourself? Prejudice, in many ways, is the failure of self-knowledge. To despise another, one must first be a stranger to oneself. Appreciating yourself and who you are only helps you appreciate others. Pride in your tribe, culture, or traditions is only strengthened when you educate yourself about the cultures and traditions of others. The more culturally insulated you are, the more you are susceptible to tribal bigotry.
So again, perhaps I am just lucky. Perhaps if I had grown up in a closed society, where people interacted only with those most similar to themselves, I too might have become one of those tribal bigots. Perhaps if I had not lived among so many different people, I too might have been quick to reduce whole communities to negative stereotypes. Perhaps if I had not been exposed, I too might have remained one of those ignorant people who attach themselves to a political leader simply because they share a tribe. But I was lucky. I am lucky to be able to exchange greetings in Manjago. To say hello in Sarahulleh. To know there are Mankangnes, Bainounkas, Karoninkas, and Papels among us. To be curious about their culture. To know more about them.
Perhaps I was lucky to have sat with Mansuankas. Lucky enough to recognize the voices of Vieux Diouf and Simon Sene. To be moved by the golden voice of Yandeh Codu Sene. To own Groupe Le Fogny’s music. To share Binta Laly’s music with a young nephew who had never heard of her. To still feel something when Petit Yero sings Mawlonan. To know who Boucounta Ndiaye is. To know all the songs on a Njagga Mbaye album. I am lucky enough to appreciate Badou Jobe and his genius. Musa Ngum. Abdel Kabirr. To know Ndiriri yayo Njie, nyungma ndirray si mbarr Njie. To know Jung woo Jungjung Jarra Jung woo. To listen to Manna Oz’ Yai and shed tears. To listen to Oboy and wish I were half as good. I am lucky enough to have heard Butay Boy from a young age. To have attended Demba Conta’s concert and memorized every song on his album. To know who Bakary Marong is. To cry at Landing Kinteh Ba's religious songs. To be moved by Ngoyan. Perhaps I was just lucky to have attended a wrestling competition in Basse, where most of the regions in the area were represented. To have fetched water for wrestlers representing their tribes at Arena Babun Fatty. I am lucky to appreciate the genius of Salif Keita and Ma Kouyateh 1 and 2. To appreciate Tata Dingding and like Mass Lowe. Perhaps I am just lucky. Or perhaps luck is what we call grace when we finally understand what it has saved us from becoming.
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