Jeneba paused from sweeping the red dust from her porch and looked up at the familiar sound coming from the dirt road. It was the dry season, making the dust more relentless as it hit the hot evening air after another push from her broom. The rebellious swirl of the soil annoyed Jeneba; she was determined to have a dust-free porch that would only become tainted again the next day. It was the town crier making his way through the village. His tall, lanky figure swayed with speed; one arm swinging back and forth and the other resting on top of a small drum tied to his waist. He beat the drum at the top of each new announcement, repeating in rhythmic cycle, the evening news.

Prompted by the crier’s impending approach, Jeneba’s mother, Ramatu, joined her on the porch. She stopped and opened the front door again to toss a few insults at the house girls inside.

“You no de clean well! Don’t even bother showing up tomorrow!” She sucked her teeth and slammed the door.

Jeneba looked at her mother in disbelief. “Mama, why are you always harassing those girls? I don’t need you running them off like you did those two boys. I need the help!”

Ramatu grabbed a second broom that was leaning against the far end of the porch that was decorated with two black metal chairs. “That’s the whole point. Even though the girls are supposed to do the cooking and cleaning, you still need help.!” She joined her daughter in the sweeping battle, soon taking over with her high energy and strength. Her 80-year-old full frame defied any sign of aging.

The town crier interrupted their conversation, now passing in front of Jeneba’s porch. “The Sesay family has welcomed a baby boooyyy!” He slapped the drum to break out another announcement. “The thieves, oh! Beware of the thieves who continue to disrupt in the night!” 

Ramatu put her hands on her round hips, shaking her head. “This is ridiculous! Those thieves have been here at least two times now.”

By this time, other residents of the village had gathered in front of their homes, watching and listening to the town crier as he marched by. They chatted amongst themselves, concerned about the warning of the thieves. One couple, Jubal and his wife Isatu, who were close friends of Ramatu’s family, made their way over to Jeneba’s porch. Their faces, especially Isatu’s, were washed with concern.

“But what is all of this?” The neighbor, Jubal held his hands out, waiting for an explanation to fall out of the sky.

“Did you hear the crier, Ramatu? The thieves are coming back, oh. They will attack those they didn’t attack the last time!” Isatu, the wife of Jubal, was near tears. Her voice trembled.

“Nonsense,” snapped Ramatu from the porch. “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of those fools? Let them make the mistake of coming back here!”

“These thieves are relentless,” Jubal said. “The last time, they stole all of Pa Santigi’s crops. I even heard they took one of his goats.”

“Both of you make your way back to your house so that you can crawl under your bed and cry,” Ramatu replied. “I don’t care what they took, they will learn a big lesson if they try to come here again.”

Jeneba chimed in. “It’s simple. We will be vigilant, and we will also pray.”

Ramatu delivered a cold look at Jeneba with her slanted eyes. “Please, don’t start talking that nonsense. We have the protection of our ancestors. That’s why they didn’t attack us.”

“Mama, I know you don’t like hearing about God, but it is true. Our prayers to Him will provide protection.”

“You and your silly husband, talking about this God. In fact, he should be here with you now, preparing to deal with those stupid thieves, but instead, he’s running around with those pale-looking missionaries.”

The back and forth between mother and daughter continued, with the neighbors, Jubal and Isatu, fueling the conversation with their own fears. The evening wore on into the early part of the night. Then, everyone retreated to their homes and slept incident free.

The next morning, the thieves continued to be the hot topic of discussion, with the elderly Ramatu leading the conversation, gathering fresh crops to deliver to family and friends around the village. “Even when Suleman was alive, you think I waited for him to protect me?” Ramatu reminisced about her late husband with Jubal, who had stopped by in the late morning.

Jubal laughed. “I think Suleman had to worry about protecting himself from you more than anything.”

While they continued to reminisce, Jeneba and one of the local missionaries made their way to Ramatu’s yard, where she was still sorting the crops as Jubal looked on.

“Mama, you remember Sister Catherine?” Jeneba then turned to the small-framed woman with sharp blue eyes. “Sister Catherine, you remember my mother Ramatu and our family friend Uncle Jubal.”

Sister Catherine gave a huge smile, the wrinkled sides of her mouth and eyes on her vanilla-creamed skin gave way. “Ramatu, so nice to see you again.” She nodded her head at both Ramatu and Jubal. “I wanted to stop by and thank you all for your support. The Bishop and I are so excited about the new church that’s being built. We’re hoping to see you all at this Sunday’s service.”

Jeneba smiled at Sister Catherine, then looked at her mother and Jubal for a response. Ramatu, focused on separating the remaining crops, sucked her teeth and chucked a freshly picked yam into a pile, ignoring everyone around her.

Jubal decided to give a response to break the awkward silence. “Well, Sister Catherine, we are happy about the work you and the other Catholic officials have been doing. You’ve helped us build schools, taught us English, and helped us make good relations with the nearby towns and villages.”

Sister Catherine gleaned at his response. “Oh, Jubal, we are more than happy to provide in any way we can!”

Jeneba looked at her mother out the side of her eye. Ramatu refused to make eye contact, focusing on her growing piles of crops. After more small talk, Sister Catherine and Jeneba finally left, leaving Ramatu to finish her project. All the crops were assorted for nearby family and friends with whom she took turns growing and sharing fruits and vegetables. This late morning was her turn to dispense the crops. She recruited the house girls, distributing wooden baskets full of assorted crops amongst them to deliver as instructed. She grabbed one of the baskets and walked over to Jubal and Isatu’s place. She walked up the stairs, banged on the door and went back down the stairs. Isatu let out a sharp scream from inside.

“Crazy woman, what are you screaming about? It’s me!” Ramatu stood at the bottom of the front porch stairs, with one hand around the full basket and another on her hip.

Isatu came outside, her eyes bulging from her face. “Are you trying to kill me, banging my door like that?”

“But what is wrong with you? I always bang on your door. Anyway, here’s your portion from the garden.” She gave the basket a quick and hefty toss, sending the crops all over Isatu’s porch.

“Eh, Ramatu! Why must you always deliver our food like this? We never do that when it’s our turn. Why don’t you let me use the basket?”

“Agh agh! You will take the basket and I will never see it again,” Ramatu replied, waving her finger with disapproval. Walking away and heading back to her house, she turned back and looked at Isatu, who was now gathering the crops with a scowl on her face. “You need to relax, oh. You’re jumpier than usual because of the news of the thieves. We must be prepared, not scared…silly woman.”

That Saturday, two evenings later, the village carried on with their usual routine of cleaning up, gossiping, and chasing down the children for their baths while an underlying nervousness floated from house to house. It had been two nights of quiet and no thieves, but this encroaching night felt different, especially with the elderly Ramatu.

“As I told you all, those thieves better not make the mistake of coming here.” Ramatu was sounding off on her front porch, in the company of Jubal, Isatu and Jeneba, who was braiding her two-year-old daughter’s hair.

“Eh, Mama. Why do you insist on looking for a fight? Let us just pray for protection. I even mentioned it to Sister Catherine the other day. They are all very concerned!”

“What is that frail ghost of a woman going to do,” Ramatu inquired. “Is she going to protect us? How is she going to do that when she can’t even pronounce Jubal’s name properly?” She turned to Jubal and his wife. “You heard her the other day, eh? ‘Gee-buh’, hi ‘Gee-buh,’” she mocked with a nasal tone.

Isatu chuckled. “Eh, Ramatu. You nah’ case!” She clapped her hands, giggling.

Jubal also laughed, then reflected on their surroundings. “Since the past two nights have been quiet, everyone is wondering if something will happen tonight.”

“I will be right here in front of this house, waiting for them,” Ramatu asserted.

“Well at least come with us to tomorrow’s service,” Jeneba requested. “All the tribesmen and chiefs will be there to celebrate the new church that will soon be finished.”

“As you wish, my child. I will be there,” Ramatu said playfully. “Even though I will be up all night, I will make sure I’m there to shake my head at those foolish chiefs making deals with those pale people.”

Keeping to her word, Ramatu was on guard, in the dead of the night. Her failed attempt to recruit people earlier to join her on the watch didn’t curtail her from her mission. She marched up and down the dirt road, listening out for any strange sounds or movements, even announcing out loud that they better not make the mistake of trying her. Everyone else was sound asleep in their homes. After a few rounds of marching and looking out from the porch, Ramatu heard a rustle coming from a bush near Jubal and Isatu’s backyard.

“Who is that,” she demanded. “Don’t make me come over there!”

After a few moments, another stir gave way. Ramatu shouted, “Jubal! Isatu! Wake up!”

A stern thud came from the side of their house, sounding like something fell to the ground. Then, the light of a lantern came from the couple’s bedroom. Ramatu made her way to the noise, demanding once again, “Who is that?”

Then, the sound of panicked voices. A figure dashed back into the thick bushes that led to the village’s deep forest, then another one quickly followed suit.

“The thieves!”

Another rumble rose from the side of their house, followed by a clashing sound. Isatu screamed from inside. Jubal raced out his back door, picking up a big stick that was used to build fires for cooking.

Out of the darkness from Jubal’s yard, a young boy, whose face was painted with fright, sprinted from the side of the house toward Ramatu.

“Come here, you!” Ramatu attempted to grab the boy’s arm as he ran past her. He freed himself from her grip and pushed her to the ground before taking off into the bushes.

Ramatu, now on the ground, let out a sharp cry. Her left hip took most of the fall. Jubal came racing to her rescue. More lights were turning on, and people now stood in front of their homes trying to figure out what happened. A small crowd gathered around Ramatu, then Jubal and one of the other neighbors helped her to her feet. Jeneba burst out her front door and ran to her mother.

“Mama! Mama! What happened? Are you okay?”

Brushing the dust off while being escorted to Jeneba’s porch, she said, “I told you they were coming and that I would be ready for those fools. Their mission failed!” She paused from dusting herself and stood staunch, looking at her daughter.

Jeneba’s eyes widened. “The thieves were here? They could have hurt you!”

“But they didn’t,” Ramatu declared. “They ran off like the cowards they are.”

“You stubborn old woman,” Jeneba fumed. “This could’ve been a lot worse. Only God protected you!”

“Yes, the god of our ancestors protected me!”

“Mama, please. You have to let that nonsense go. There are no ancestors protecting you. All of that is rubbish. Don’t you know things are changing now?”

 Ramatu raised her hand and gave Jeneba a swift slap across her face. Jeneba stumbled back and held the side of her face in shock. The chatter amongst the villagers came to an abrupt halt. The only sound that could be heard was the heavy breathing coming from Ramatu and Jeneba.

That next morning, everyone gathered at the makeshift pavilion for Sunday services. Once everyone was situated, Sister Catherine made her way to a small wooden podium positioned in front of the crowd.

“We want to thank each and every one of you on this blessed day,” she said. “This church being built symbolizes that friendship made with the wonderful tribal Temne chiefs who have been so gracious to us, and to the families who have been supportive and sweet, making our mission here so successful.”

Jeneba sat in the front row, representing her husband who wouldn’t be back for several more days. Ramatu, Jubal and Isatu sat behind her. There was little exchange between Ramatu and her daughter since last night’s incident. Sister Catherine continued to make more announcements and give blessings before welcoming the main speaker. Ramatu was beginning to get impatient.

“But when is this foolishness going to be over?” Ramatu whispered to Jubal, who was listening to Sister Catherine intently.

“I don’t know,” he said before fixing his gaze back on Sister Catherine.

“And now, I would like to introduce to you all, King George Cummings, the Headman from Freetown!” Sister Catherine held out her hand to welcome the tall slender man who was dressed in British militant attire. His thin, wispy hair blew in the breeze as he made his way to the podium.

Ramatu nudged Jubal again. “Who is this King George supposed to be?”

“He’s representing our tribe and the Mende tribe in establishing the churches. I heard he has a big, beautiful office in Freetown.”

She looked at Jubal with surprise. “He’s representing us…in Freetown…doesn’t look like us, but he’s our representative?” Ramatu took another look at the man, looked around the room and noticed everyone’s eyes were fixed on him with admiration and excitement. She then let out a hearty laugh that rippled through the pavilion. In an instant, all eyes were on her. She threw her head back and let out an even deeper cackle, her chest jiggling with humor.

Jeneba turned around in horror from embarrassment. “Mama, what are doing?”

Ramatu, still laughing, pointed her finger at King George and Sister Catherine at the front of the room. “There they are! The real thieves!”

Musu Bangura is an established freelance writer in the Washington DC area. She recently published a short story in Brittle Paper. Her work has been featured in local and national media outlets, such as Hello Beautiful, a leading online platform for women that covers topics on health, resilience, and beauty. While connecting and supporting other writers, Musu is currently working on her novel, The Mango Tree Shade. You can find her on her website and follow her blog at musuwrites.com.