20 January 2012 - The Independent - Christopher Wakling
Children rarely scream at the sight of me. My own offspring, faced with my anger, might quiver a bit. But I'm not often that cross. I therefore didn't understand the terrified wailing when I first saw it in The Gambia. I was in a small village called Tubakulam, just north of the river which gives the country its name. A local mechanic, Ousman Camara, had kindly offered to show me around.
We had a cup of brutally strong green tea with his uncle, Nuha Darbo, while sitting on a wall and watching the sun dip towards the scrubby football pitch. Then we entered his family compound. Gambians mostly live together in communal extended-family groups: "best social security", Ousman explained. I met his sister, mother, aunts and assorted nephews and nieces.
All were astonishingly welcoming. I was invited to pound some rice, forgiven when I tired comically quickly in the heat, and – to change the subject, as much as anything else – shown the luscious cassava planted in the back-garden-field. The older children clustered around me yelling "Toubab!" ("it means white man, or tourist, in a nice way") and tried to hold my hands. I felt special. But the youngest child took one look at me and burst into tears.
I crouched down and smiled. The toddler screamed louder and buried his face in his mother's arms. She thought this very funny and thrust the child at me again. When he refused to calm down I beat a retreat.
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