With Femi Peters Jr. (Chelsea)

‘You think we could pull this off?’ Jermaine asked, tugging some more at the Compton hat on his head. ‘Are my braids showing?’

Tapha looked at him.

‘Yeah, we will pull it off for sure if you take that I’m-heading-for-the-chair look off your face. It is not a jailable offence last I checked…’

‘And when was the last you checked?’

Tapha sighed.

‘Listen, J. I’m just trying to save us some money, okay? Matter of fact, it ain’t even about the money. It is just for the thrill of it. You in or not?’

It was Jermaine’s turn to sigh.

‘Let’s do this.’

Tapha grinned.

‘That’s the Jermaine West I know,’ he exclaimed, offering his fist in a seal-the-deal type approach but his best friend ignored him.

‘If this goes belly up, I will skin you alive. A promise, not a threat,’ he warned, eye balling him.

‘Deal as I know I won’t be de-skinned anytime soon,’ Tapha leaned back.

They were in the back of a chartered taxi heading for Banjul for a sight seeing trip.

Tijan’s work commitments meant he could not drive them around so they hired a taxi, which belonged to a pal of Tapha, who was quite prepared to do it for free.

‘What are friends for?’ Modou had protested but Tapha wasn’t having it.

‘Mo, you got a family to support. I’m not going to let you drive around all day for nothing. You either do it for a fee or we take another driver.’

Modou considered it, holding his chin in his hand.

‘I really cannot take your money,’ he said flatly.

‘Okay, you can take mine,’ Jermaine whipped out his crocodile skin wallet and took out 7 D100 notes.  ‘Here you go. Let’s move it.’

That settled it.

The day before, they had gone to Africell head office on Kairaba Avenue and got two sim cards from Sheikh Nyang, a childhood friend of Tapha, who was a manager of some sorts. He was a small, wiry guy whose gravel-coloured shirt and tie hung loosely on his bony frame. His hair was cropped so low it would have passed off as a bald head.

He had a square-shaped face and what Jermaine calls an ‘Islamic beard’ made up the lower end of his face. It must have been something he fondly grew as he couldn’t keep his hands off it, constantly stroking it the whole time they were there.

He welcomed them in his medium-sized office which consisted of a swivel chair, three visitor chairs and a mahogany desk that took up most of the space.

‘So, how are you enjoying the smiling coast, Jermaine?’ he asked after he offered them a can of splash each.

‘It is okay, thanks,’ Jermaine replied. ‘I’m enjoying every moment.’

‘No culture shocks yet?’

Jermaine grinned.

‘Just one. Seeing the ram slaughtered on Tobaski was a bit of a shock. That was the only bit I didn’t prepare for.’

‘What of the dust, heat, mosquitoes, open drainage systems and all that?’

‘I had been schooled on those bits. Got exactly what I expected.’

They left after a while as they were clearly eating into his work time judging by the amount of times his land line and mobile shrilled.

‘Come for dinner before you leave,’ Sheikh suggested and Jermaine nodded.

‘Thanks. Will do.’

‘It will be Benechin.’

Jermaine laughed.

‘I will show up for sure.’

They bough D100 scratch cards down at the reception and slotted it in.

Both chose the quiet of the reception to make calls back to the UK.

‘Gosh, Jenny said it is cold as hell in London and that forecasters are saying it will be harshest winter since records began,’ Tapha told Jermaine, who snorted.

‘Those damn forecasters have been saying that all the time. They all a bunch of Michael Fishes if you ask me. Whatever the case is, I’m glad I’m here with ample sunshine to dry fish!’

‘How are Susan and little Tapha doing?’

‘They good, she says. Says Mrs Ellis has been keeping her company down at the lobby and at the door. You and I know she got no choice.’

Tapha laughed.

It was when they left that Tapha came up with a daring plan.

‘We go sight seeing tomorrow, innit?’

‘Yeah,’ Jermaine nodded. ‘What, you got something else planned?’

‘Technically, yes.’

‘Like what?’

‘Okay. Listen to this. You know tourists pay double at the Arch 22.’

‘Yeah, you told me. So?’

‘Well, you know you look like a Fula lad. All you gotta do is tuck in your braids, don’t say a word and you will pass off as a Gambian. And pay less.’

‘Nah, I’m not feeling that idea, mate. I’m here to have a good time not flirt with the law.’

‘We could pull this off, I’m sure of it. Just work with me here.’

‘You know money is not an issue here. It’s not like it will hurt me paying tourist prices.’

‘I know, I know. You and I know you look like a Fula. How about we put it to the test and save a bit at the same time.’

Jermaine hesitated and Tapha went on, ‘Forget about the money. We just need an outside opinion if you could pass off as a Fula or not. It ain’t a crime, I can tell you.  You think I will bring you all the way here to place you in a four by nine? I don’t hate you that much…yet!’

Jermaine laughed at that.

‘Okay, will take your word for it.’

However, twenty four hours later, with the Arch 22 looming in sight, Jermaine was having goose bumps about the whole save-some-money, can-i-pass-off-as-a-Fula scheme.

‘Where is that East London approach, mate?’

Jermaine laughed nervously.

‘This ain’t the east end, silly.’

‘If you can survive the mean streets of the east end, this is small change. Come on, let’s do this.’

Jermaine tucked his Compton hat further down his head and checked in the front mirror.

‘My braids are not peeking at the back, are they?’

‘No, they are well hidden. Come on, let’s go.’

The taxi pulled up by Gambia Senior Secondary School and they got out.

‘This was the alma mata of the current president,’ Tapha explained to Jermaine.

‘That makes it the best high school in the country, I guess. It churned out a head of state.’

‘Nah, it ain’t. The best high school is the one down the road opposite the King Fahad mosque. We will get a good aerial view of it when we go up there,’ Tapha insisted and Jermaine grinned.

‘A buck gets ten that was your alma mata.’

‘Is the Pope Catholic?’

Tapha asked and spoke to Modou. ‘You could pick up some passengers and be back in an hour if you like.’

Modou shook his head.

‘No problem, I will wait.’

They crossed the road and Jermaine looked up at the structure.

‘This is Gambia’s answer to Arch de Triumphe, I guess.’

‘You could say so. It was built in 1996 at a cost of approximately D10m.’

‘Would you say it has recouped that amount over the years?’

Tapha shrugged.

‘Let’s put it this way. The average Gambian has something better to do than get a good view of the city at a price. Hell, he could do that from the top of a four storey for free. To answer your question, I don’t think so.’ He held Jermaine’s hand. ‘Don’t say a word like we agreed. Leave it all to me, ait?’

Jermaine nodded.

They got to the one of the pillars of the structure where an ebony skinned lady with loud lipstick on and chomping on gum manned a desk top at a makeshift office.

She reeked sharply of incense.

Tapha nodded at her, spoke in Wollof and pointed at Jermaine, who had his hands in his Makaveli Branded jeans pocket despite the sweltering heat.

His ticker was threatening to jump out of his rib cage and it was thumping so loud he thought the lady would hear it. However, he posed nonchalantly, trapping both lips in his mouth and looking as disinterested as possible. He could have done the opposite but he was petrified.

The lady nodded, still working on her gum, issued two tickets and Tapha placed a D100 note on the table, winked at Jermaine and led the way to the lift.

‘We pulled it off,’ Jermaine exclaimed and added, ‘but then the way that woman was abusing that gum, she won’t be able to find her own nose with a mirror, me thinks!’

Tapha laughed.

‘I told her you were Lamarana from Basse and had always wanted to see the Arch 22 all your life and can’t speak a word of Wollof. From that moment, you put her off.’

‘Why?’ Jermaine wondered as the lift pulled up at the first floor.

‘Banjulians don’t find it acceptable when someone can’t speak Wollof. It is unofficially the national language in these parts and for another fellow Gambian to not know how to speak it is a felony. She looked at you and all she saw was a starry-eyed up country Gambian whose sole ambition in life was to visit the Arch 22!’

‘So she just proved that I just need to brush up my Wollof, cut the braids, go by the name of Lamarana and I’m home and hosed,’ Jermaine pointed out and Tapha chuckled.

They went to the open bar and bought a tall decanter of made-on-the-spot banana juice each as they soaked in the aerial sights of the city.

‘That’s the main mosque and opposite it St. Augustine’s, this country’s best high school. That Eiffel Tower-like mast over there is a telecommunications mast outside Gamtel’s main office.’

 ‘I can see there are no really uprisings. It is almost all a flat terrain of some sorts,’ Jermaine noticed, sucking at his drink through a straw.

‘Like I told you, the Central Bank is the tallest building with five storeys. You can’t see it from here, though,’ Tapha explained. ‘Banjul is really a small city. It is so small it only has north, central and south constituencies. East and west is taken up by the river and swamps. We are in Banjul north at the moment and that place,’ he pointed, ‘is Tobacco Road Estate. It is literally on the edge of the swamp and run over with mosquitoes, obviously.’

‘Can’t they move out or something?’ Jermaine asked, draining his drink.

Tapha shook his head.

‘Why give up to the mosquitoes when they can co-inhabit easily? A bed net, Bop spray and a couple of mosquito coils which we locally called moon tiger is all you need to fend them off.’

‘But that’s like a daily battle which would get worse in the rainy season.’

‘So too is life which is a daily battle.’

Jermiane shrugged.

‘Fair enough. Where is the seaport?’  

‘That’s in Half Die, south of the city. Matter of fact, the south is the business district. There was a time all the banks were housed on one street, Buckle Street. That has changed but they still all in the south. All but one primary school is in the south and the main market.’

‘What of Banjul Central?’

‘It is mostly packed with your people, the Akus,’ Tapha laughed. ‘Especially on Grant, Pignard and Long Streets. It is easy to disguise an Aku compound. The gate is always locked!’

‘Maybe they crave privacy,’ Jermaine smiled.

‘No, they feel they are a rung above everybody. I will show you an old Aku woman going to church on a Sunday morning and tell me what you think.’

‘Okay,’ Jermiane laughed and looked at his watch. ‘We’ve been here the best part of half an hour. Let’s check out the other floors.’

They took the lift to the top most floor and the view was even better.

‘Why is this road called Independence Drive?’

‘Don’t know, you know. Must have something to do with Independence, I guess.’

‘Let’s leave now before our cover gets blown as I’m dying to take off this hat.’

They left and Modou drove them down Independence Drive via Gloucester.

‘That’s the National Assembly where parliamentarians make decisions pertaining to the running of the country,’ Tapha pointed and Jermaine remarked, ‘I’ve come to accept that everything in Gambia is small. That place looks like a mini villa and less like a place where a country is being run from, so to speak.’

‘That’s how it goes, mate,’ Tapha replied and pointed to another complex. ‘This is Poly clinic. It is where minor illnesses are treated and prescriptions given out. Come rainy season, everybody and their granny are here thanks to Malaria.’

‘But where are they admitted?’ Jermaine asked.

‘You will see. This is Banjul City Council offices. City hall, if you like.’

‘Loud paint though. Whoever is in charge of decorating needs to be told yellow paint on a public building don’t fly one bit,’ Jermaine exclaimed and Tapha laughed.

‘That is the last thing on every BCC worker’s mind, mate. All that matters is wages come month’s end not how snazzy the building looks. Down the road is the morgue which we aptly call death house. People walk fast past it as if the grim reaper will claim them if they slow down! I know as I have done so.’

Jermaine laughed.

‘Are you lot scared of death like that?’

‘Um, yes, we are. We give it a wide berth. This is RVTH, Royal Victoria Teaching Hospital formerly RVH. Every Banjulian was born here. Every Banjulian seriously sick gets hospitalized here.’

‘Looks like a big complex.’

‘Yeah it is. There are four places every Banjulian can get to blind folded. The Arch 22, RVTH, State House and Albert Market. Everyone knows where it is.’

‘Given the size of the place, everyone should know where everything is,’ Jermaine quipped and Modou laughed.

‘That’s very true.’

‘This is St. Mary’s Cathedral. It is an Anglican church and I have a couple or so friends who go there. We will have to come here and you assess old Aku women one Sunday.’

‘Damn, what’s up with you and old Aku women? You seem their biggest fan.’

‘I just find it hilarious how they comport in themselves. What’s funny is, those a generation or two below them don’t do so.’

‘Lay off them a bit, mate. What’s that open space out there? Football pitch or a stadium of sorts?’

‘Technically, it is. That is July 22^nd Square, formerly called Maccarthy Square. It was used for cricket back in the day but now it is an unofficial all-purpose sports centre. Football, basketball is held here. You got swings and slides for the kids but, for some reason, those things never last long.’

‘Either the kids are on a rampaging spree or the swings are not sturdily built. Where are we heading now?’

‘To Albert Market and a surprise,’ Tapha replied, grinning.

‘And what’s the surprise?’

‘Let’s not ruin it now, shall we?’

Modou drove as far as Russell Street before Tapha gave him a D100 note.

‘Get yourself lunch. Let’s meet here in an hour.’

Modou was all set to protest but one look from Jermaine zipped him up.

‘If you are so allergic to money, you could stay home, you know,’ he suggested. ‘And to be honest with you, I’m getting tired of seeing you treat it like it will kill you. It is only a piece of tendered paper you could exchange for anything at a point of exchange if you have the right amount, in case you didn’t know. So take it when he offers it to you. It’s not detrimental to your health. Ait?’

Modou laughed sheepishly.

‘Okay.’

They hustled their way through the heaving post-Tobaski crowd.

‘Safe to say every Banjulian is here this moment,’ Jermaine remarked, side stepping a woman all of four foot and neatly avoiding upending the basket she balancing on her head.

‘This is the ‘wanterr’ crowd. Wanterr is our version of the sales and everything is sold at knock down prices hence this crowd. After all, who turns down a bargain?’

Thanks to the crowd, what would have been done less than five minutes took close to fifteen.

It reminded Jermaine of commuters heaving forward, a step a minute, to catch the last tube to their destinations before a London Underground staff strike kicks in. The only differences were the sun was out and there was not a long face in sight.

‘What you smiling at?’ Tapha asked.

Jermaine shrugged.  

‘Just loving life, that’s all.’

They finally made it to the main entrance of the market and down a side road that was almost free.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You will see.’

Tapha led them down an alley of garments, shoes and down another of hand me downs. Worn jeans, shirts and trousers were arraigned on a mat made out of stitching rice bags together on the floor, letting off a strong, indescribable smell. It wasn’t off putting; it was just too loud.

‘That’s the price you pay for second hand clothing locally called ‘foga jai’. It translates as dust and sell,’ Tapha explained. ‘To get the smell off, you need to literally boil them in hot water with bleach and soap. Lots of it.’

‘You seem to know the process well, mate’ Jermaine grinned.

‘Course, I do. I was once a patron. Infact, finding a Gambian who has never worn ‘foga jai’ in his or her life is like looking for an Englishman who has never had a cup of tea in his life. Not impossible but not close to possible too, either.’

‘Picture you in the kitchen boiling clothes. Priceless!’ Jermaine laughed. ‘For the fun of it, why don’t you buy a pair of jeans and shirt and re-do the process all over for me?’

‘No. I don’t have a pot to spare and my mother will skin me alive if I use hers.’

 ‘Whose pot did you use back in the day?’

‘Hers but she didn’t know about it so don’t go snitching on me, okay?’

‘Will think about it.’

‘Jermaine!’

‘Ait, chill, mate. Gosh, you think she will eat you up for a crime as simple as you using her pot to smell good, literally?’

Tapha chuckled.

‘You so crazy.’

They entered another pathway and Jermaine almost fell over a beggar sitting legs akimbo on a worn out mat by the wayside. The scraggy man was in a haftan that was blue a life time ago but was caked with dirt. Positioning himself directly under the sun didn’t help as he was perspiring buckets and letting off a body odour Jermaine reckoned would knock an elephant over.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled and dropped a crumpled D100 note on his mat. The beggar’s dirt-creased, sunken faced lit into a wide grin, revealing four missing teeth and the rest in dire need of a long toothbrush session.

Whatever was coming out of his chapped lips must have been a prayer, Jermaine reckoned so he said amen a couple of times and made off with Tapha.

‘Blimey, one more step and I would have hospitalized him for a long spell,’ Jermaine muttered. ‘Good thing I saw him quick.’

‘That was the most alms he has ever received from a passer by,’ Tapha said. ‘Did he say so?’

‘No, he didn’t, silly. Think of it, has any beggar on Liverpool Street had £100 thrown at them? Even £50? That only happens in movies.’

They turned another corner and Tapha entered a shop selling bales of cloth. The place was packed to the ceiling with it and the smell of poplin hung strongly in the air.

Tapha shook hands with a white-bearded, small wizened man in a dirt-brown coloured haftan. He had a high forehead with a distinctive black mark on it and prayer beads round his neck. He held onto Tapha’s hand a bit longer than necessary saying, as far as Jermaine was concerned, the same thing over and over again.  He reckoned this had gone past greeting. After what seem like an eternity, he was introduced.

‘This is papa Yusupha, Assan’s dad. Papa, this is Jermaine West, my friend from London.’

‘Nice to meet you, sir,’ Jermaine took the hand offered and was secretly relieved his best friend’s friend’s dad didn’t keep it longer than necessary.

‘Me too. How are you finding our country?’

‘Exactly what I have been told, sir. Warm and exotic.’

‘Nice, nice. You want something to drink? Tapha…’

‘I’m good, thanks,’ Jermaine cut in hastily. ‘Had a drink earlier, sir.’

At that moment, Assan materialized from behind a door.

His bald head was shining with perspiration. He was in a grey Nike tee, ragged jeans and Reebok trainers.

‘Hey, Jermaine, nakam?’ He offered a hand he wiped quickly on a hand towel.    

‘Fantastic, I guess,’ Jermaine shrugged. ‘And yourself?’

‘I’m good thanks,’ Assan grinned and ran the towel over his head. ‘Raka, nakam?’

‘So, so,’ Tapha replied. ‘All set?’

‘Yes, let’s go.’

Assan said something in Wollof to his dad and avoiding eye contact which Jermaine took for respect as surely Assan can’t be petrified of his dad at his age? His dad nodded, made a head gesture to them and went to the back room.

They followed Assan down an alley. He was a sort of a people person as he exchanged greetings with as many as five people and introduced them all to Jermaine.

They all had one thing in common: they were genuinely glad to meet him and the smiles that lit up their faces reach their eyes, unlike the forced, make-it-what-you-make-of-it smiles Londoners flash at one another daily.

‘Bet you forgot the name of the first guy we met, eh?’ Assan asked and Jermaine blushed.

‘I’m terrible with names, you know. When I met you lot at Badara’s place, I had to go by your personalities to get your names etched up there,’ he tapped his head.

‘Meaning what?’ Tapha and Assan asked together and both laughed.

‘Well, you were the bald headed one, Ebrima was Prince Charles, you know,’ he touched his ears and Assan laughed.

‘Will have to start calling him that. Thanks for the tip.’

‘As long as you don’t snitch on me, it’s okay,’ Jermiane grinned. ‘Yous is the gym master and Badara made it simple for me right after I met him. He is Raul.’

‘That’s a rather smart way of breaking it down,’ Assan remarked and pushed at a screen door and entered a place. The others crowded in after him. It was an eatery of sorts.

There were roughly eight tables on the floor and half of them were occupied with customers working on plates of food.

There was an L-shaped counter at the far end manned by a heavyset, light skinned woman, working a chewing stick between her lips. Despite the heat, she had on a leaf-green head-tie that matched her dress. Both wrists were lined with bangles just like Fanta’s and jangled just the same.

There were two life sized cooking pots behind her. Both were steaming and emanating a familiar smell.

Jermaine turned to Tapha.

‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asked, wrinkling his nose.

Tapha grinned.

‘You are going to try Senegalese benechin, which they called chep. She is Kumba and she is the reason Assan ain’t in a hurry to marry.’

‘Why, they dating or something?’

‘No, he lunches here daily!’

Assan walked up to the counter and gestured Jermaine over, grinning.

‘It is not only you who has a benechin girlfriend. This is mine. Meet Kumba Cham. Kumba, this is Jermaine, a guest of ours from London. Look after him.’

‘How are you?’ Kumba said haltingly and offered her hand. There were bits of chewing stick in her mouth but she won’t look out of place in a dental ad.

Up close, he noticed she wasn’t light skinned but bleached.

‘I’m good thanks,’ he smiled at her, already liking her, thanks to the pots behind her.

‘Welcome to here…no,’ she shook her head. ‘Welcome to my restaurant. Me look after you, d’accord?’

‘Okay,’ Jermaine said, still keeping the platinum smile on.  On another occasion, he would have dragged the okay in an and-so-what mode. But he has learnt something from Jack Reacher: you don’t peeve off the cook. Keep her happy and you get well fed.

‘Smells good,’ Jermaine sniffed at pointed at the pots.

Kumba’s face lit up a smile that would have brighthen a darkened room.

‘Very nice, you see,’ she replied and turned to Assan and spoke some Wollof. He said some back, put some money on the table and led Jermaine to a table where Tapha already sat, going through his phone.

‘You’ve charmed Kumba, I guess?’

‘You don’t rub someone feeding you the wrong way,’ Jermaine replied, sitting down and cracking his knuckles. ‘You only get the very worst of the grub.’ He turned to Assan. ‘Did you just paid for the meal?’

‘Yeah, you on my turf. When I come to London, I won’t be reaching for my wallet,’ he replied.

‘Fine with me,’ Jermaine sat himself properly and looked around the place. ‘This place reminds me of a West Indian eatery in Peckham Rye. The differences are the aroma and location. Here comes my latest girlfriend,’ he said and moved the salt and maggi liquid tasters off the table.

Sure enough, Kumba was meandering her full figured frame between the tables holding a tray packed with three steaming plates; that smile never fading.

She gingerly placed the tray on the table and expertly placed a plate each before them.

Jermaine looked at the contents on his plate and grinned, rubbing his hands with glee.

‘Okay, let’s see what Senegalese benechim is all about.’

Fifteen minutes later, he leaned back and took a long drink from a can of pineapple juice, pushing the empty plate a bit away from him.

‘Verdict?’ Tapha asked and Jermaine shook his head.

‘You didn’t cook it now, did ya?’ He tilted his head at Assan.

‘I now understand why he ain’t marrying any time soon!’

They laughed.

‘You owe me a fee, mate,’ Tapha stated. ‘I brought you somewhere you wouldn’t have found on a GTA brochure.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Jermaine smirked and deadened a burp.

The eatery was filling up with market workers coming through to have their lunch.

Jermaine noticed they are regular customers as Kumba addressed them by their names.

‘Time to move,’ Assan stood up and led the way out of the eatery when Jermaine stopped.

‘Aren’t we missing something here?’

‘Like what?’ Assan asked and Tapha grinned.

‘What, you want another helping, eh?’

‘No, silly. I mean, like a tip or something.’

Tapha and Assan looked at each and looked at him again. The way they did it you could think it was rehearsed.

‘Mate, we don’t do tips this side of the Atlantic,’ Tapha said. ‘The tip is the price you pay.’

‘I’ve been eating here for a while now and if I start tipping, I don’t think I can keep it up,’ Assan said, shrugging. ‘Like Tapha says, it is not very Gambian to tip.’

‘I see,’ Jermaine nodded and headed for the counter. Kumba saw him closing in and she bared her gnashers, face alit with enthusiasm.

‘Nice?’ she asked, nodding.

Jermiane nodded back.

‘Yes, very nice,’ he took out his wallet and put two D100 notes on the counter.

‘This is for you. Thank you very much.’

Kumba shook her head, still all teeth.

‘Assan he pay,’ she said and Jermiane nodded.

‘I know. I just want you to have this,’ he said before Assan said something to her in Wollof and she beamed.

‘Thank you very much,’ she gushed and scooped up the notes. ‘You good customer.’

‘You cook well too,’ Jermaine replied, waved and followed his friends out of the restaurant.

‘You really enjoyed that meal as you tipped her more than what the meal cost like five or so times over,’ Tapha said.

‘I just showed my appreciation, that’s all,’ Jermaine replied. ‘Before we leave, we need to re-visit again.’

‘Okay.’

They stopped by a fruit seller who had created two compartments in his wheelbarrow with a piece of carton.

One compartment held oranges and the other held tangerines.

Assan spoke to the trader, a diminutive guy with a two missing front teeth and a chewing stick sticking out of the corner of his mouth that moved comically when his thin, parched lips move.

In a record of some sorts, he peeled off oranges incredibly fast. It was on the tip of Jermaine’s tongue to tell him to slow down before he slices his finger off.

‘He’s been doing it for years so he still will have five fingers left after we leave,’ Tapha said, as if reading his thoughts.

‘Thank God.’

The fruit seller put the peeled oranges, ten of them, in a bag with some tangerines, accepted a D25 note from Assan and they moved on.

‘Here,’ Assan gave Jermaine an orange which he sucked and nodded.

‘Tastes like the orchard soil was sugared before any sowing was done,’ he said.

They got to Assan’s dad’s shop where they hung briefly before they bade him goodbye and left.

The sun was scorching down much to Jermaine’s delight.

‘Gosh, I love this weather,’ he exclaimed. ‘You better do like I do and soak in as much as you could before we go back.’

‘However much you soak in, it will all leave your system when we go back,’ Tapha replied, taking another orange from the bag.

For some reason, the ‘wanterr’ crowd had lessened and getting to the car was not much of an almost standstill task.

‘Where to?’ Modou asked, gunning up the engine.

‘Where to?’ Tapha asked Jermiane who simply said, ‘anywhere you wouldn’t find mentioned on a GTA brochure.’

‘That would be the inner streets of Banjul replete with pot holes, un-tarred roads and invisible one way signs. Let’s start in Banjul central Aku section,’ Tapha grinned.

‘That almost reeks of racism,’ Jermaine implored and Tapha laughed.

‘Almost, yes. But all old Aku women are racists. Fact. Not almost. And you know what else?’

‘What?’ Jermiane sucked on a fresh orange.

‘That’s a fact you won’t find in a GTA brochure.’

‘Yeah, about as likely as a BNP logo on a Visit Britain brochure,’ Jermiane deadpanned and Tapha choked on a tangerine.

For comments and suggestions, please swing me an email at: chelseacrazy@hotmail.com.