By Bongolistically,Mallam O.
It was one of those evenings I’ll never forget. I must have been about eight years old at the time. The sun was setting over Warima, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I had been playing near Pa Sorie’s house when I noticed the elders gathered there, as they often were in the evenings. They were talking and laughing, their voices blending with the crackling of a small fire.
Pa Sorie was the village headman. His house was a place where everyone came to share stories and wisdom. That evening, the elders were there seated. Ya Kadie was shelling groundnuts, her hands moving quickly as she spoke. Pa Lansana leaned forward, his strong hands gesturing as he made a point. Ya Fatu sat gracefully, fanning herself with a piece of cloth, while Pa Lamin, with his walking stick propped beside him, gazed thoughtfully into the fire. Ya Amie, as always, sat upright, her voice firm and commanding.
I remember standing somewhere close, clutching a small wooden toy in my hand. I had heard them talking about school and education, and I was curious. So, I waited for a pause in the conversation and asked,
“Pa Sorie, Ya Kadie, why do you all care so much about school? You didn’t go to school, but you always tell us to study hard. Why?”
The elders turned to me, their faces lighting up with smiles. Pa Sorie sat up, gesturing for me to come closer.
The Elders’ Responses
Ya Kadie was the first to speak. She put down the groundnuts she was shelling and looked at me with her kind eyes. “Ah, little Osman,” she said, “when I was your age, there was no school here in Warima. My parents couldn’t send me even if they wanted to. But I always wondered what it would be like to read a letter or count money without help. I don’t want you to wonder, my child. I want you to know. Education is like a lamp in the dark—it will light your way where we could not see.”
Pa Lansana leaned forward, his deep voice resonating with authority. ”Osman, my boy, look around you. See these fields? We grow cassava, rice, and groundnuts, but no matter how hard we work, we barely have enough to eat. Do you know why? Because we don’t know how to make our work better. But you, when you go to school, you will learn these things. You will help us make Warima better. That’s why we care about your education—it’s not just for you, it’s for all of us.”
Ya Fatu smiled gently and added, “My dear Osman, do you know what it feels like to watch your child suffer and not be able to help? That’s how we feel when we see our children grow up without opportunities. But when your father built that school, it was like he gave us all a gift. We may not know how to read or write, but we know that if you learn, you will never be helpless. You will always have a way to take care of yourself and your family. That’s why we support you—because we love you.”
Pa Lamin, who had been quietly listening, spoke next. “Osman, let me tell you a story,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “When I was young, I traveled to Freetown once. I saw people there who could speak English, who could work in offices, who could drive cars. I realised then that the world is big, and there are many opportunities out there. But without education, we cannot reach them. We are like birds with our wings tied. We want you to fly, Osman. We want you to see the world and bring back what you learn to help Warima.”
Ya Amie, her voice firm and commanding, said, “Listen to me, Osman. We women in this village work hard—we farm, we cook, we take care of our families. But because we don’t have education, people sometimes don’t respect us. They think we don’t know anything. But I know that if you and the other children learn, you will grow up to respect everyone, no matter if they are men or women. Education will teach you to be fair and kind. That’s why I want you to go to school—so you can be better than those who look down on us.”
Finally, Pa Sorie spoke. “Ah, my little Osman, you are like a seed,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Right now, you are small, but if we plant you in good soil and give you water, you will grow into a big, strong tree. Education is the water, and we are the soil. We may not be educated, but we can give you what we have—our support, our love, and our prayers. One day, you will grow tall, and your branches will shade all of Warima. That is our dream for you.”
—
I remember standing there, listening to their words, feeling the weight of their hopes and dreams. The firelight flickered on their faces, casting shadows that danced on the ground. I didn’t fully understand everything they said at the time, but I knew one thing: they believed in me. They believed in all of us. And that belief, that love, stayed with me as I grew older.
Now, as I look back on that evening, I realise how much their words shaped me. They may not have had much, but they gave us everything they could—their wisdom, their support, and their unwavering belief in the power of education. And that, more than anything, is why I am who I am today.
