DIFFERENT ROUTES, ONE BEGINNING
With Binta Njie
Foni Bintang was the kind of town that raised children with dust on their feet and hope in their chests. The sun always rose early there, and so did the children. Among them were four boys, Lamin, Sanna, Ebrima, and Musa. Bound together not by blood, but by hunger, sweat, and shared dreams.
Before they knew the weight of adulthood, they knew the weight of firewood. They fetched it together, balancing heavy bundles on thin heads, laughing even when their necks ached. They walked long distances to the farms, hoes over their shoulders, helping their mothers plant groundnuts and maize in stubborn soil. When the dry season came, they dug garden wells with bare hands in deep dangerous holes, so their mothers could water vegetables that kept hunger away.
School was never easy. Their uniforms were old, torn, and faded, but every evening the four boys sat together, patching sleeves and stitching hems, determined to make them good enough for another day of learning. They were serious boys, focused, disciplined, though not saints. Sometimes, they dodged lessons to watch football matches, cheering like professionals under mango trees. Other days, driven by hunger and childish mischief, they stole goats when the village emptied for farm work, only to later run breathless from angry owners and harsher consequences.
Still, they dreamed.They swore under the moonlight that one day, they would all make it.
But life, as Foni Bintang would later teach them, never keeps such promises in straight lines.
When the Roads Split, time passed, childhood loosened its grip, one by one, the boys left Foni Bintang not together, not equally, not fairly.
Lamin became a respected civil servant, known for integrity. Sanna found success in business, his name whispered with admiration.Ebrima rose through education, earning degrees the village once thought impossible. And Musa! Musa worked just as hard, sometimes harder, but doors closed for him. Opportunities slipped away, promises broke. Each failure stacked on the next like stones on his chest. While his friends moved forward, Musa felt stuck, running but not arriving.
At first, he smiled through it, then the smiles faded. Slowly, Musa’s heart changed, and slowly, pain turned poison. He attended celebrations but left early. He stopped answering calls, he began to whisper things that surprised even himself.
“They used rituals.” “They bribed their way.” “They forgot where they came from.” People listened
and talked. Soon, what was once the strongest friendship in Foni Bintang became village gossip. Some exaggerated the stories, others added lies. A few enjoyed the drama more than the truth. The town watched as four inseparable boys became a warning tale.
However, Lamin, Sanna, and Ebrima never abandoned Musa. They defended him when he wasn’t there, they sent help when he refused to ask, they spoke his name with love even when he spoke theirs with bitterness, but pain is loud, and patience is quiet.
One evening, Musa sat alone outside his compound, watching the sunset burn the sky red. He had never felt so empty, that was when Lamin came and sat beside him. No accusations, no lectures, just silence.Then Lamin said softly, “Do you remember the wells we dug for our mothers?”
Musa nodded, tears forming, We didn’t all finish digging at the same time Lamin continued, but every well eventually reached water.That night, Musa broke, he cried for the years he wasted comparing his journey to others. He cried for the lies he told himself, he cried for the friends he nearly lost, not because they failed him, but because life tested him differently.
With time and relentless support, Musa rose, not suddenly or dramatically, but honestly. A small opportunity came, then another. He worked humbly, learned patiently, and healed slowly. Years later, Musa also made it, not louder than his friends, not richer, not more famous, but whole.
At a gathering in Foni Bintang, Musa stood before the same people who once whispered about him.
“I blamed fate and my friends,” he said, “but the truth is, I was just early in pain and late in success.” He turned to Lamin, Sanna, and Ebrima.
“Thank you for not giving up on me when I gave up on myself.” This left a Lesson Foni Bintang still tells.
Today, elders tell the story of the four boys not as gossip, but as guidance. Because in life, We may start from the same place, but we do not arrive at the same time. And bitterness delays destiny, for life is not a race or a journey measured by speed, but by faith, endurance, and grace.
As Jizzle said “Everything in life is turn by turn”
Ju’muah Mubarak from Binta Siro
THE QUEUE BEFORE DAWN
Every morning, before the first call to prayer finished fading into the sky, the queue would already be there. It started quietly one man leaning against the wall, a woman pretending to adjust her wrapper, a boy holding a folded paper with a phone number written on it. By the time the sun rose, the line stretched like a question no one wanted to answer.
They stood outside the offices of Bafoday Kinteh and Ya Kombeh Sey, two people the town loved to call lucky.
“Allah has blessed them,” people said. “Bafutuwo,” some whispered. Their parents suffered for this. Others nodded knowingly and added, “Manta-bengoh.”
Bafoday used to laugh when he heard it, Ya Kombeh used to smile.
Inside their offices, the chairs never stayed empty.
“Just fish money,” someone would say. “School fees only this once.” “My mother is sick.” “There is a funeral.” “There is a naming ceremony.” “You know we are counting on you.”
They always knew Funerals, Ba Foday’s name was mentioned before the corpse was washed, Naming ceremonies etc. Ya Kombeh was called even before the baby cried properly. Any rumour of profit in town, new contracts, new tenders, new deals, someone would run to tell them first.
They were called kind, generous and successful.
No one ever asked how.
Bafoday once tried the “normal channel.” He studied, struggled and worked honestly, At the end of the month, his pay could not even silence one queue, let alone satisfy it. People looked at him then with quiet disappointment.
“So you are still here?” they asked. “You should try harder.” “Men your age are building houses.”
Ya Kombeh’s story was the same. She woke before dawn, slept after midnight, and still came up short. People shook their heads.
“She is intelligent, but lazy.” “Maybe she likes comfort too much.”
It was society that taught them the shortcut without naming it.
The day Bafoday finally took it, he told himself it was temporary, just one deal, just enough to breathe. The queue got shorter that month, and people clapped for him.
“See, Hard work pays.” “Luck has found you.”
Ya Kombeh followed her own shortcut, wrapped in silence and shame. She told herself it was survival, not sin. People admired her clothes, her phone, her confidence.
“She is enjoying life,” they said. “She knows how to hustle.” the queues grew longer, then trouble came, as it always does.
One morning, the office doors stayed closed,
Ba Foday was arrested, Ya Kombeh was exposed,
the same mouths that once praised them changed shape.
“For Ba Foday,” people said, “women destroyed him.” “He was wasting money on girls.” “He didn’t have discipline.”
For Ya Kombeh, the verdict was sharper.
“She was living a flamboyant life.” “What did she expect?” “A woman like that cannot last.”
No one mentioned the queues, no one mentioned the funerals no one mentioned the fish money, no one mentioned the endless expectations that sat on their shoulders like unpaid debt.
Their phones went silent, their offices emptied, the people disappeared.
Months later, the queue returned, not to their doors, but to someone else’s.
Another Ba Foday, another Ya Kombeh.
Society does not like mirrors. It prefers stories of luck and blame. But the truth is quieter and heavier,
when honest struggle is mocked, when shortcuts are celebrated, when generosity is demanded and never protected, people don’t fall, they are pushed, and when they finally break, we call it their fault and walk away clean.
This is how a town eats its own children and still asks why there are no honest people left.
