Royal Victoria Teaching Hospital

One of the items in my bucket list while in The Gambia was to visit the main hospital in Banjul, RVTH. It is public knowledge that the hospital is in shambles, but I wanted to see it myself. We have all heard of the horror stories and chances are you or your family members have a dreadful story to tell about RVTH. Luckily for me, I was invited for a private tour of the hospital by one of the doctors there. After exchanging a few text messages to try to coordinate a date and time convenient for both of us, we finally met at the main entrance of the hospital building on January 8th 2018. 

While we were exchanging pleasantries at the main lobby area, I could not help but be distracted by the pile of junk sitting there all dusty. Then I looked up and saw the terrible condition the ceiling was in – water stains, hanging and missing pieces of the ceiling. The ramp in the lobby area looked jaw-droopingly filthy and the walls looked tired and the paint chipping away. As we made our way up the ramp headed upstairs, I took the opportunity to express my reproachful feelings about the lobby area to the doctor and asked what was being done about it. He looked at me and said "guess what? The First Lady just left about a half hour ago prior to your arrival." Apparently, the First Lady (bu hess) has been frequently going to RVTH with her entourage and making endless promises. I didn't see her there that day, but I can imagine her in the middle of her entourage sporting her Prada sunglasses inside the hospital wards. 

After we landed on the upstairs balcony, I took a quick minute to take it all in. I moved close to the balcony railing for a bird's eye view of the hospital grounds. I don’t remember the last time I visited the hospital, but I do have vivid memories of sliding down the ramp in the lobby as a boy for fun; it was squeaky clean and had a sensitized smell then.  To my immediate right, there was a group of people congregating by the fence and there were two other separate groups further down. So out of curiosity, I asked the doctor what the deal was with all the different groups of people assembling around the hospital grounds. As it turned out, they were all there to pick up the corpse of their loved ones to take back for burial. 

The doctor did not mention, but I assumed they were from far away and huddled up to figure out how they were going to transport their corpse back home for a burial. I could not help but wonder how many other people were there on that day to pick up the corpse of a loved one. I knew right there and then, that I had to emotionally prepare myself for what lies ahead for the tour. Since most people who go to the hospital were probably there to visit a sick friend or family member,  they are usually emotionally preoccupied and focused on the situation of that particular patient, but my case was different. I was not there to see any particular patient and didn't have the luxury to be emotionally preoccupied, and that left me more emotionally vulnerable compared to those there to see a certain patient. 

We first walked into the women's ward. There were only a few beds scattered around and almost all of them looked like they were on their last leg. They appeared old and tired and some looked like they had been doctored many times before. Everything in that ward was old and murky. As I try to make sense out of the scene, I overheard sounds of discomfort (moaning and groaning) towards the end of the ward. I looked over and saw a naked woman lying on her side on the last bed next to the back door. One of her legs was amputated at the shin, the other right above the knee, and her back was burnt. My heart sank and I was hit by a tsunami of emotions. I felt an urgent need to leave the ward immediately, I was getting overwhelmed. So I started gravitating towards the back door, which led to an open hallway. That was my way of signaling my "guide doctor" that I wanted out of there, as I got emotionally consumed.  

On our way through the back of the ward onto the open hallway, we went past the bathrooms. The sight was horrific and the smell hazardously poignant. Through that open hallway we made our way to the "On Call" room for doctors, which was located in the next block. There are two "on Call" rooms and they are right across from each other. One for the male doctors and the other for the female doctors. When doctors are on call, the rooms are used for waiting and relaxing. It makes good sense of proximity – right there in the hospital. At a closer look at the doors, you can tell the locks have been changed multiple times; you can see  the numerous holes where nails once held in padlock brackets. There, we found the doctor on call on his laptop, I got introduced to him by my "guide doctor". He told me that he studied in Venezuela and we spoke a little Spanish (I had to jump on the chance). The room was tiny and had two small beds right next to each with little space in between them. The bed sheets were thin and appeared to be the wrong size. Our conversation centered on the massive challenges they face there at the hospital and the lack of responsiveness from the current and former administrations. To me, It  sounded like they were being asked to make water flow uphill. Impossible! 

From there we went to a couple of other wards and briefly stopped by at the sluice prior to heading to the ICU. The sluice room is where used disposables such as incontinence pads and bedpans are dealt with, and medical and surgical instruments are sterilized and disinfected. The room looked like a disaster! The entire room was layered with dust, there was a broken table with broken chairs on one side of the room, and the sink was soiled. As I stood there listening to the doctor explain the condition of that room to me, I was paralyzed by a feeling of deep concern and could not help but think of the infinite possibilities of infections. With unsanitary conditions being a major cause of infection even in advanced countries during surgery, I could only imagine what the rate of infection would be with the condition of the sluice I saw at the RVTH. The risk of surgical complications increases dramatically when doctors work in unsanitary conditions. 

We then proceeded to the ICU where I was met with the shock of my life! They had no monitors or the most basic material to work with. The used incubators that were donated to the hospital by diaspora Gambians were all destroyed due to the erratic electricity situation,  The two I saw there were barely working. The story was the same with the oxygen concentrators. The ICU hardly had any equipment in it, and most of what was left there was purely for decoration so that the room wouldn’t look empty, but they serve no other purpose. A hospital with not a single X-Ray Machine, a Radiant heater for new born babies, or a ventilator, is appalling! I was also taken into a room where a woman with cervical cancer was sitting by herself. According to the doctor, it could be treated either with radical hysterectomy or chemotherapy and the drugs are not available in the country, only in Senegal or Europe. "Cervical cancer can often be found early, and sometimes even prevented entirely, by having regular Pap-smear tests. If detected early, cervical cancer is one of the most successfully treatable cancers." I found this on the American Cancer Society's website, but I wonder what the chances for survival are for that woman. 

Not long before my visit, I was told that the Permanent Secretary visited the ICU with Momodou Max Jallow, a Gambian origin and a Swedish law marker, who was very much angry with them regarding the situation of the ICU because they lack the most basic material to work with, yet they are busy travelling, attending endless workshops, and driving luxury vehicles while leaving ordinary citizens who put them into office to die. The tour took me to so many places in the hospital that I could not even keep track. By the time we got to our final destination, the Accident and Emergency (A&E) ward of the hospital, my head was almost saturated with information; I had been trying to retain and compartmentalize the vital materials from the visit for future reference. I thought I had seen it all prior to walking into the A&E, but what I saw was even more shocking. Actually, it's more like what I didn't see there that left me even more stunned. 

The ward was bare and there were no equipment in sight! I was introduced to the doctor on duty, and of course, a conversation about the hospital and the enormous challenges they face ensued. Hearing from the doctors was tough because you can sense the frustration and desperation, and that can potentially affect the quality of their work. I could only imagine how they felt as doctors working in such impractical conditions. The hospital had no medicine and people have to buy their own medicine from private pharmacies. In certain cases, if a patient couldn’t afford to buy the medicine they needed for them to perform a critical procedure, the doctors called outside private pharmacies to guarantee the patient for a purchase on credit, and if they default, then the doctors are on the hook for it. What a tough situation for a doctor to be in!

Although I have been in emergency rooms before and have an idea of what they do in there, I still wanted to look it up and here is what I found. "An emergency department (ED), also known as an accident & emergency department (A&E), emergency room (ER), emergency ward (EW) or casualty department, is a medical treatment facility specializing in emergency medicine, the acute care of patients who present without prior appointment; either by their own means or by that of an ambulance. 

The emergency department is usually found in a hospital or other primary care center." The tour ended, but our conversation did not. My "guide doctor" walked me to the car and we stood there and talked for another half hour, dissecting and analyzing the hospital's condition and the predicament of the doctors and patients. My final question to him was this "with all I have seen here today and everything you have told me, why are you still here?" And he answered "when I see patients I have treated in the streets or at gatherings and they thank me and show appreciation – that's what is keeping me here." Ndeysan,  suma yaram daw sisassi! I could not help but think to myself – only if he had everything he needed to be able to better exercise his passion for healing the sick - passionate but disabled! 

Finally, I was in the car and driving back with all the hospital images circulating in my head. It was like a flash flood, the kind that consumes everything, choking the life out of anything in its relentless path of destruction. The visit had been emotionally draining and very discouraging, but I was glad I chose to go. Too often, I hear dreadful stories about the hospital, so it was good for me to see for myself and get firsthand information. Later that evening, after retiring into my silent corner, I could not help but ask myself whether RVTH was a hospital or a hospice, given what I saw and the information I gathered, to me, a hospital is a health care institution where patients go to seek treatment, and a hospice is where chronically ill, terminally ill or seriously ill patients go to live in the last months and days of their lives. With the number of families going to RVTH on a daily basis to pick up the corpse of their loved ones, one could easily argue that the RVTH is more of a hospice than a hospital, without the comfort of attending to the emotional and spiritual needs of patients, which is the essence of a hospice. 

Now this brings me to my landing point – the GARD strike. We are all aware of the explosive accusations of theft of medicine and equipment by the doctors, from the Minister of Health in the presence of other doctors from the region, which I believe was the straw that broke the camel's back. The minister said “When we talk about corruption in the health system, we all know how it is. These young doctors will just go and practice pharmaceuticals and some of them will open pharmacies with the resources that we have. I am very sure of what I am saying because I was the PS." That statement coupled with the frustrations of their working conditions, some of which are highlighted in this piece, led the doctors on strike. 

As a Permanent secretary, the Minister claims she knew but did nothing about it? And now as a Minister, she was making a public accusation without providing a single documented case – it begs the question. Furthermore, why would the ministry even issue licenses to doctors working at the hospital to open pharmacies? That's a huge conflict of interest! Maybe the ministry should revisit their pharmacy licensing policy? I would suggest for them to give all the pharmacies a ninety-day-notice prior to revoking their licenses and have them re-apply, this will be a good way to screen applicants and avoid the conflict of interest, in an effort to correct the system. 

Regardless of your status or financial health, as long as you live in or frequent The Gambia, you are a potential victim of "A Dead Health Care System". If you suffer a major medical emergency there, they might not be able to stabilize you prior to flying you out, and that may significantly diminish your survival chances. So it is incumbent on all Gambians to demand from the government the healthcare we deserve. No country can succeed without a healthy population, and the recent death rate is alarming.    

Life Is What You Make It

A couple of weeks ago, I attended a happy hour memorial for a  legal executive who seemed to have had it all (the big house with a pool, luxury car, exotic dogs, and multiple fancy trips), but he hung himself in his hotel room while on vacation. He was only 39 years old.  

Life has taken me to a few places and I have met many people who know a lot of things about a lot of stuff. Some of these people exhibit all this knowledge at parties, work functions, or any other gatherings whenever the opportunity arises. They often talk about the highbrow schools they graduated from and will quickly articulate their accolades and qualifications. Many unwittingly live a life of adulation and of silly affectation. Then there are the folks who gossip all the time about who is doing it with who along with why, when and where.

Life is funny that way. You have flaunters bragging about the stuff they have, or gossipers chirping about who, why, when, where and how. And although I may not have the same pedigree or either a clue about what they are going on about; I am alert. I continue to learn and grow and I can experience many things in my own unique ways. And the best thing about it all is that, well, I can write about it!

Of course, there are the “live tojal” video “makers” and “watchers” types too now; they subscribe to all the rumor on Facebook and enjoy hasteh ak tojal. They want to pull you in to watch with them by sending you invites. Yes I ignore the notifications when I get them and I decline to watch those “tojal ak hasteh” videos when they are forwarded to my inbox - because I refuse to consume garbage! I sit in wonder during these interludes of eavesdropping or casual encounters of small talk because sometimes I have no clue exactly what these people are aiming for. Things somehow find their way into my ears, but I chose not to consume it when it gets me too lost, especially when it has no real nourishment for me.

Conversely, I have also met the uneducated, the poor, the humble, and the overall genuine who also know stuff but share it differently; authentically. What I learned from them, to me, is even more valuable because it stays with me, aiding my outlook on life. I am not sure how much I know compared to the highfalutin or the all-knowing social reporters, but I remain a perpetual student of life and try to share every little thing that I learned, which I deem valuable.

Over the years, I discovered how to navigate in this world with a strong sense of street-smarts and a healthy dose of wisdom; all the while, I consistently grow, I learn and attempt to expand in unique ways: emotionally, spiritually and even intellectually.

I do not have excessive accolades nor am I dripping with pretentiousness poured into me via an advanced degree. I do not have “the millions”, but that’s not what I am interested in. Ok, I lied. I will take a couple of “the millions” purr fage aye tuti sohla, but then that’s it, I don’t want the rest of “the millions”. Maybe this sounds corny but at my core, I know that my good health, my own inner peace, and being comfortable in my own skin are worth everything, and I consider these my success in this simple Life of mine.

Baby Fatima

I boarded the bus to Dakar at the Kanifing Bus Depot at around 6:45 AM, and it was still relatively dark, as dawn was continuing to break. I walked up and down the aisle looking for a seat, but most of the seats were occupied by passengers and the few remaining had hand bags or plastic bags sitting on them. When I asked the passengers sitting next to those seats if the seats were taken, they all told me that they were holding the seats for other passengers waiting at the Ferry Terminal in Banjul. A typical Gambian thing to do (japa palass). Anyway, things were later sorted out by the bus conductor and I was given a seat. 

Amid the seating confusion, I failed to notice the woman sitting with her baby two seats up to my left, but that all changed when we arrived at the Ferry Terminal in Banjul. At the Ferry Terminal, as I was looking to buy some Senegalese CFA (currency) from a currency dealer who entered our bus, I heard the voice of a lady on my left telling me to be careful. I looked over and saw her holding her baby while the baby was standing on her lap. She told me that some of the currency dealers are cheats and she would help me negotiate a good rate. She handed her baby to the other woman sitting next to her (not sure if that was her sister, but they sure looked alike) and off the bus we went.

With her help, I got my CFA and we returned to the bus in the nick of time as the bus was entering the ferry. A few minutes later, the baby was back with her mother and I couldn’t stop but notice her beautiful smile. I waved at her and she gave me a smile full of drool and I observed the excitement in her. So I leaned over and asked the mother for the baby’s name and age. She told me it was Fatima and she was four months old. I thought the name was fitting. The name “Fatima” means ‘captivating’ in Arabic and, at this point, I was being captivated by Fatima's smile. Every time I looked over and saw her, there was a twinkle in her eyes. As the journey went along, I noticed that Fatima never fussed or cried, she was smiling, alert and attentive at all times.

It is generally uncommon to see a four month old baby so calm and observant on such long journeys. Her cheerful temperament was becoming a personal charm and pulling me like gravity. Right before we entered Kaolack, I leaned over again and asked Fatima’s mother if I could hold her (Fatima). She smiled, said “yes”, and handed me her baby. Fatima fixed her eyes on me and refused to stop smiling. Just like her mother had done, I too then had Fatima stand on my lap and I moved her to the beat of the Youssou Ndure songs playing on the bus. Soon after, she started reaching for my phone. So I gave it to her and later asked her mother if it was fine for me to take photos of Fatima. She granted me her permission and Fatima and I took some selfies (it’s the in-thing to do). From then on, every time the bus stopped along the journey to drop off passengers, Fatima and I would get off purr fuda tanka ak feehal bott, after fighting off the cashew nut and tangerine vendors storming the bus.

Sensing her precociousness, I decided to have a conversation with Fatima about New Gambia. I asked her to give me her thoughts about New Gambia, what future she wants for herself, and her impression of President Barrow. In response she said “gugugaga Barrow, gugu, eh eh eh, gaga, uh uh uh.” I have yet to unpack Baby Fatima’s statement, but it sounds profound and probably subject to interpretation. It wasn’t long after our New Gambia conversation that I noticed that Fatima’s eyes were getting smaller as sleep was creeping in, so I cuddled her into my arms and she started sleeping like a baby. This was the only time Fatima slept during the trip. I sat there and watched her peacefully sleeping in my arms, like the gentle soul that she is. She finally woke up crying right as we approached Dakar, so I handed her back to her mother. She must have been hungry at this point.

As I was busy people-watching through the window as the bus navigated the streets of Dakar, it didn’t occur to me that Baby Fatima and her crew were about to disembark, so we were unable to properly say goodbye. They got off two stops before me. I later saw the other women (who was with Fatima and her mother) at the bus depot as I was coming off the bus; she had taken a taxi to the bus depot because they left Fatima’s diaper on the bus. But somehow, it never registered to me that we didn’t exchanged contact information, so she left again and we still don’t have each other’s detail.

They say “the littlest feet make the biggest footprints in our hearts” and Baby Fatima’s feet are little and they left big footprints in my heart.

Mosque Builder

You want to build Mosques but not churches 

You want to build Mosques but not infrastructure 

You want to build mosques but not a health care system 

You want to build mosques but not feed the people 

Mosque builder give us a break

You want to build mosques but not institutions

You want to build mosques but not secure the country 

You want to build mosques but not protected the environment 

You want to build mosques but not build the economy 

Mosque builder give us a break 

You want to build mosques while hope is fading 

You want to build mosques while reforms are pending 

You want to build mosques while nothing is stabilizing 

You want to build mosques while poverty is growing 

Mosque builder help build the country and not your personal desires and give up a break

The Banjul Mayoral Race

Yesterday, I went back to where it all began for me here in Banjul, Gambia on 64 Dobson Street. I was born there. The idea was just to stand there and take it all in. But when I arrived there, I began to see my childhood memories show up. With my elephant memory, virtually everything came rushing back. The sights, sounds and smells. In my mind, I was recreating old scenes and scenarios. I could vividly hear my mother yelling “Modou Ndow torgal!” and “Modou Ndow gainal si birr bahh bi” and “Modou Ndow kai ange!” It felt literary like yesterday when I was running those streets kicking soccer balls up and down them with my friends, skilfully avoiding getting hit by cars. 

The city was relatively clean and well maintained back then - even clean enough to float our paper boats in the gutters during the rainy season. Our paper boat races were always on and my boats knew how to float in the middle and avoid hitting the side walls, even when turning corners, so win race rek! Yes, it was all in the placement. The periodical cleaning of the gutters and garbage pickup made a difference, but it now seems that such basic services are lacking. At a minimum, Banjul (or any city) must have these services regularly in order to stabilize its health. 

I then visited other parts of Banjul and vivid memories came back to me the same. Strangely though, while the fond memories effortlessly came flooding back to me, I noticed my adult feelings were different. The air in the city now thirty years later feels different; the vibe is weird. And entire neighborhoods appear even more dilapidated than the last time I visited only ten years ago. Banjul’s health clearly has been on a consistent downward spiral, and the poor situation of my hometown has gotten more severe. In reality, there are too many dejected sights here: Banjul is ailing and on life support.

Banjul is a unique city. During my childhood, it was not known for its sophistication but it did have good character, culture, and so much charm - there used to be something better in the air (an easy breeze of belonging and community). And so, Banjul will need unique solutions, some perhaps with a surgical approach. The city needs heart surgery; Banjul does not have the same pulse it used to.  Its liver (the largest solid organ in the body) is failing, clogged, and putrid.  Its kidneys are badly infected and in need of a complete transplant because based on what I’ve seen, Banjul looks almost dead.

The issues, hunting Banjul are chronic and complex ones that would require some robust and innovative solutions. The city’s had its share of mediocre mayors who neither had a vision nor a firm plan for the city and its residents.  Instead, they were mostly interested in being mayor for show; and Banjul’s current dilapidated conditions is a solid testament to that. 

Although not a resident, I have always fiercely advocated for my childhood town of Banjul, which prompted me to start writing a series dedicated to it.  My goal was to highlight the plight of the city due to mismanagement, poor planning, and constant neglect. Moreover, I wanted to start a conversation about Banjul in hopes that the ‘powers that be’ would act accordingly and take better actions; but I ended up culminating the series with my own suggestions on how to REVIVE the city.

With a mayoral race looming and heating up, it is vital for the citizens of Banjul not to settle for the same mediocrity that has disturbed the city for decades now. There is too much at stake, at its fast decline, the city’s life is hanging in the balance! Political parties and mayoral candidates also need to be reminded of what’s at stake here, and if they cannot deliver on their campaign promises and subsequent civic duties, then they need to drop out or step down! This is serious business that requires a vigorous plan and laser sharp clear vision. Being a mayor is a high-level position that requires certain managerial skill sets, such as critical thinking, negotiation, active listening, active learning, systems evaluation and analysis, operation analysis, articulate speaking, and complex problem solving (especially, with Banjul’s current state).

So, to the voters of Banjul, you have a critical role to play in fighting the mediocrity and mismanagement that has dragged the city into the dirty gutters and caused it to be failing and stagnant for decades. Disregard the candidates without tangible work and management experience and focus on those with a verifiable track record of these things. Cut the fat! Don’t entertain a single candidate who lacks a robust plan for revival and innovative rehabilitation solutions for the city.

No, I am not referring to myself; I am not running for anything. However, I still took time and made the effort to come up with some solutions for Banjul in my "The Final Chapter" piece. Can you say the same for some of those aspiring to be the next mayor?  Vote wisely or risk watching Banjul slip into a permanent coma and eventually die. The stakes are too high for Banjul’s life!

Love Flower

Photo Credit 

In the Spring your daylight is longer and brighter and light up my soul

Like the flower you are you bloom and your hypnotic colors shine through

Birds sing songs of freedom as they watch your magnificent walk

They spread their feathers and walk back and forth in admiration of your grace  

Your daylight is even longer in the summer as you heat up my soul

The gentle breeze you emit softer than the admiring feathers

It cools me down and sends me to a secret paradise unknown to many

Where the earth is tilted on its axis towards the joyful summer sun

I fall back to your tender loving and caring ways in the fall as photosynthesis ends

Your love leafs paint my soul with buoyant shades of yellow orange and brown

They cover me with a crisp and passionate feeling that warms my heart to capacity

From the horizon you approach to plant the fire in my heart and bring peace to my mind

As your days shorten in winter we retreat into our love cocoon to hibernate

The Acts of our play continue devoid of drama as we embark on a winter exploration

By the fireplace we will snuggle reflect and refine our perspective and passion

Pursuing to reveal who we truly are we carry each other from a place of strength and kindness  

A love flower with beautiful petals intoxicating scents and infinite sweetness

Your mind is beautiful and your thoughts are deeper than the ocean

Your soul is pure your smile radiant infectious and pleasantly comforting

You are warm vulnerable and receptive to love in all its million different forms

The Phone Call – A Tribute to Dad

It was one of those phone calls, you know, the ones that come in the middle of the night to shred your soul into pieces, pull the ground from underneath you, and dumb you into an “emotional landfill”. My phone had been buzzing on the nightstand, but I could not hear it because I had already hit the fifth gear in my sleep. I was sailing. But with every sleep, no matter how deep, there are always moments of interruption, whether from tossing and turning or snapping out of a bad dream. Mine was the former. 

It was in the middle of my toss and turn that I heard my phone buzzing. With one eye half open, I contemplated answering the phone for a minute, but reluctantly picked it up and said “hello”. The voice on the other end called out my name “Mod Ndow!”, and my heart sank right away. It was my sister, Salan Ndow. I was tempted to deny that it was me and tell her that she had the wrong number, for I knew exactly why she was calling. I could sense it in her tone. First she asked if anyone had called me, and I said no but that was a lie because I later saw all the miss calls I had, they were too many to count; others had been calling me too. But I guess Salan must have been the chosen one – the one chosen to deliver the bad news to me.

The sad news busted the doors of my memory bank and different recollections of dad throughout the years started bursting out. Dad started teaching English and Literature at Gambia High School at age 17, after graduating from Boys High School. He also taught at Armitage High School when I was a baby. Further down the road, dad became the Headmaster of Muhammedan School, and that’s how I became the Headmaster's son (dommi Master Ndow). 

He later became the president of the Gambia Teacher’s Union, fighting for the rights of teachers and the noble work that they do. I vividly remember when teachers would come from different parts of the country to see him, and sometimes to his house and knock on the door in the middle of the night with their grievances, and dad would wake up and get into his car with them to go address their issues. This was how accessible dad was. In his time at the Ministry of Education, he served in different capacities; but the position I remember the most was his role as Chief Education Officer. This role was a unique and dynamic one. The position requires careful program planning and management as well as spending a significant time nurturing external relationships. It was a position that demanded strong leadership and vision. From there, dad retired in 1995. 

But that was "retirement" just in name only, dad continued to serve as a board member on various school boards, helped set-up and ran both Bakoteh High School (SOS Hermann Gmeiner) and Daddy Jobe Comprehensive, while building his own institution - Kairaba Upper Basic and Senior Secondary School. Kairaba Upper Basic has now been in existence for 14 years. He was also a member of the initial team that was setting up the university before you know who hijacked it - Goloh. In the late 1990’s to early 2000’s, dad served as the President of The Gambia Red Cross Society. From 2003 to 2006, he served a term as the Chairman of West African Examination Council (WAEC). I remember him calling me while attending a meeting in Geneva on behalf of WAEC, and left me a message with a call-back number and his room number. I soon realized the he was staying at a motel and asked him why didn't he stay at a hotel. He said the motel was decent and in a good area and that he didn't want to waste WAEC's money by staying at some fancy hotel. Dad was that honest, simple and humble, he can sleep anywhere and hang with anyone. 

In his capacity as Chief Education Officer, President of The Gambia Red Cross Society and Chairman of WAEC, dad had access to all sorts of scholarships, but mann morm musuma giss takanderri scholarship sah! I had to hustle on my own (gortor gortor). He always felt that as his kids, we had a somewhat decent enough foundation and will be able to fend for ourselves, so he mainly focused on the less fortunate. 

For sixty solid years, dad served in the public sector, shared knowledge, developed minds, and impacted many lives. He had a passion for teaching and education, and his vision was laser sharp. He poured his heart and soul into it. He did nothing for money, and when there was a surplus, he recycled it right back into his passion – education and helping others. As an educator, he was a father to many by default, and he treated every student with care and compassion. Dad never talked much, but he said a lot. His words are silent, but his actions are loud. He never taught me anything, but I learned everything from him. He exemplifies honestly and integrity, and his wisdom was infinite. In our many Sunday two-hour beach walks while here with me, dad once told me "never compromise your values and always stand up for what you believe to be right. I have friends who compromised their values, and today they have robbed themselves of their dignity." He was admirably principled and understanding. He left some big shoes I may not be able to fill, but I will be more than happy to shine them. I can confidently and proudly say that dad did more for a lot of other people than he did for me, and I would not have wanted it any other way. He had a rich and generous spirit that will keep on giving. He will surely be missed by many.

In Loving Memory of Mr. Ousman Alieu Ndow