by Tamba E.A. Kamara
It was Thursday. I was going home when school was over. I met my friend Foday on the road, and he said, “Let us go and steal mangoes this afternoon.”
I asked him what type of mangoes and he said kerosene mangoes.
I said, “Where?”
He pointed and said, "Down there."
I said, “That man is a very wicked man. If he catches anyone in his garden, he will take the person to the Kabala Police station and your mother and your father will spend a lot of money.”
My friend said, “That man is my uncle.”
I said, “OK. You are already giving me confidence if you say that man is your uncle. Let’s go now, but before I go I must change my uniform and put on other clothes. When we are going, both of us must take a bag to put the mangoes in. Did you inform your mother?”
He said, “No.”
I said before I go I must tell my mother and my father. If I spend too much time there, they will search for me all over the places where I go.
When I told my mother, she said I could go but to tell my father. "If he says you can go, you will go."
When I told my father, my father agreed and he said, “Don’t spend too much time there.”
I said, “OK.”
When we were going, we didn’t take bikes. We walked on foot, because the place was not even one mile. It is about a half mile. When we were about to steal the mangoes, we looked everywhere to see if there was anybody there. When we climbed up the tree, we picked about a half bag. But how to come with the mangoes down the mango tree? We didn’t want the mangoes to get soft.
While we were up there the man saw us, but we didn’t see him at that moment he saw us. The man came running behind us with a stick. When we saw him, we jumped down. He caught the two of us, and he asked us, “What is your name?”
I said, “My name is Tamba and my friend’s name is Foday.”
The man said, “What are you coming to do in my garden?”
We said, “We came to pick mangoes.”
The man said, “Now I am taking you to the Police Station.”
When the man caught us, I felt so sad. I asked him a question. "My friend says he knows you."
The man asked him, “What is my name?" My friend refused to answer the question. The man said, “Shall I take you to the police or shall I flog you here?”
Then my friend said, “Take us to the police.”
I said, “You are a fool! Before the man flogs us, you say take us to the police? He's not just threatening! He will take us!”
While we were talking, my friend ran away and left me in trouble. We searched for him, but I didn’t find him.
The man said, “You are going to be left in trouble. Do you know him?”
I said, “Yes.”
He said, “Let us go to their house.” When we went, we didn’t find him. The man said, “Let us go to your house.” When we were going, my mother saw me and told my father, “Look at your son.”
My father asked, “What is it?” and I explained.
My father begged for me.
At that time I was often in trouble.
Tamba was a member of the SRWP Young Writers club at Ahmadiyya Muslim Agricultural Secondary School in Kabala
My Younger Sister
by Fanta T. Sawaneh
I was resting.
My mother said, “My stomach is aching. I need help.”
I called my elder sister, Adama and said, “Mother’s stomach is aching,” and my elder sister ran and called our father.
“Mummy needs help!”
But before Father came, Mummy had given birth to my younger sister.
In one week’s time, they gave a name to the baby. They said the name of the baby is Kadiatu. They called the name three times. The man who called the name of the baby was Mr. Foday. He split the kolanut on her head and they gave rice, water, drinks, and flour to the people that came to the ceremony, or the pul na do.
After the pul na do, they scraped the baby’s hair off. The woman who scraped Kadiatu’s head was Aunt Fatu. My mother dressed in Bamakor and the baby wore green.
I felt happy on that day because now I had someone to call me Elder Sister.
Fanta was a member of the SRWP Young Writers club at Loma Secondary School, Kabala.
I went to my aunty for my lunch money this morning. But she was not around so I went back to school.
I waited until lunch time. When I went back there, I did not see her but her sister said I should come again, maybe she would return soon.
I went back to school. I waited for her to come back home. When I went to her house I did not even see her at all. So I went out and looked for her until I found her coming and I went and met her and said to her, “Since this morning I have been looking for you. I even went to your house.”
We walked on the road and came home but she said I should wait there for her, she would be coming to give me the money. But she did not come. So I went home.
Even when I went home I did not eat anything at all until 4:00.
So when my mother came home I told her everything about what had happened today to me. I started explaining everything, and she told me, "Go on, talk."
Davida was a member of the SRWP Young Writers club at Sussex Junior Secondary School, Sussex.
My First Day on the Road
by James M. Kamara
The road that comes to our village near Kabala is very long. We travel on it by foot.
My first day on the road was a Sunday. I was in my village when they came with our report cards. I wanted to take the report card to my mother. But before I went, my grandmother said, "Please don't go if you do not see anybody else on the road."
I saw a man going to her village and I told the man, "Let me go with you."
He said, "Okay, let us go." The man said, "But I am not going directly."
I said, "Okay." I went with the man. When we were going, the man stopped.
I started walking by myself. There was nobody. I walked to Yerifa village under Mandrilfeh section. That morning, I ate. Then I continued going to my mother, Bomba Yanka. Before I arrived in my mother's village, I passed some villages. They were very small.
In front of one of the villages there is a very big rock in the road. Before I passed that rock, my head started aching me. My body also was warm. I started to ask myself, if I died on my way, how could my mother know that I am here? I started crying. A woman came with a child.
I said to them, "Please help me, my sister."
She asked, "What is your name?"
I said, "My name is James M. Kamara."
She said, "You are my friend's son."
I said, "Which of your friends?"
She said, "Bomba."
I said, "Yes, that is my mother."
When I arrived in the village, my mother cooked for me.
Then she said, "I want to see your report card." Then I gave the report card to her and my mother was happy with it.
James was a member of the SRWP Young Writers club at Ahmadiyya Muslim Agricultural Secondary School in Kabala.
|Last Updated on Thursday, 11 August 2016 21:16|
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