On the morning that we left for Mattru Jong, we loaded our backpacks with notebooks of
lyrics we were working on and stuffed our pockets with ca**ettes of rap albums. In those
days we wore baggy jeans, and underneath them we had soccer shorts and sweatpants for
dancing. Under our long-sleeved shirts we had sleeveless undershirts, T-shirts, and soccer
jerseys. We wore three pairs of socks that we pulled down and folded to make our
crapes* look puffy. When it got too hot in the day, we took some of the clothes off and
carried them on our shoulders. They were fashionable, and we had no idea that this
unusual way of dressing was going to benefit us. Since we intended to return the next
day, we didn't say goodbye or tell anyone where we were going. We didn't know that we
were leaving home, never to return.
To save money, we decided to walk the sixteen miles to Mattru Jong. It was a
beautiful summer day, the sun wasn't too hot, and the walk didn't feel long either, as we
chatted about all kinds of things, mocked and chased each other. We carried slingshots
that we used to stone birds and chase the monkeys that tried to cross the main dirt road.
We stopped at several rivers to swim. At one river that had a bridge across it, we heard a
pa**enger vehicle in the distance and decided to get out of the water and see if we could
catch a free ride. I got out before Junior and Talloi, and ran across the bridge with their
clothes. They thought they could catch up with me before the vehicle reached the bridge,
but upon realizing that it was impossible, they started running back to the river, and just
when they were in the middle of the bridge, the vehicle caught up to them. The girls in
the truck laughed and the driver tapped his horn. It was funny, and for the rest of the trip
they tried to get me back for what I had done, but they failed.
We arrived at Kabati, my grandmother's village, around two in the afternoon.
Mamie Kpana was the name that my grandmother was known by. She was tall and her
perfectly long face complemented her beautiful cheekbones and big brown eyes. She
always stood with her hands either on her hips or on her head. By looking at her, I could
see where my mother had gotten her beautiful dark skin, extremely white teeth, and the translucent creases on her neck. My grandfather or kamor—teacher, as everyone called
him—was a well-known local Arabic scholar and healer in the village and beyond.
At Kabati, we ate, rested a bit, and started the last six miles. Grandmother wanted
us to spend the night, but we told her that we would be back the following day.
“How is that father of yours treating you these days?” she asked in a sweet voice
that was laden with worry.
“Why are you going to Mattru Jong, if not for school? And why do you look so
skinny?” she continued asking, but we evaded her questions. She followed us to the edge
of the village and watched as we descended the hill, switching her walking stick to her
left hand so that she could wave us off with her right hand, a sign of good luck.