FAMARA THE GAMBIAN REBEL: A TRUE STORY. BY THE WATCHMAN
FAMARA THE GAMBIAN REBEL: A TRUE STORY. BY THE WATCHMAN
FAMARA THE GAMBIAN REBEL: A TRUE STORY.  BY THE WATCHMAN
 
On a sunny morning in July 1981, the young Watchman woke up to an astounding array of noise and what he presumed to be fireworks. He was confused because there were no holidays to celebrate this time of the year in Banjul. From his vantage point, the house window, he could see people running for cover and screaming for kids to stay inside compounds. He knew something was terribly wrong and no sooner had he come to that conclusion than he heard family members talking about a coup to oust President Jawara from power. Gambian society up to that time was relatively “blissful.” Underneath this peace however was a powder keg of dissatisfaction waiting to explode. In dissecting the real life character that is Famara the rebel, the Watchman aims to show how despite all the brouhaha about who has what or who gets what, the common denominator for success in relatively still young African states is development. In his 1998 Nobel Peace winning work, Development as Freedom, Amartya Sen, the Indian economist, outlined the idea that development is the key to unlocking the greatest economic and social potential that has eluded the less endowed entities that could be found in mostly Africa, Asia and South America.
 
In the years before the coup attempt in The Gambia, the route to getting work was petty feudal and connection driven. One entered the Field Force with inside help, one got to work at GPMB through personal links, one got to be an employee of Banjul Breweries with the assistance of an insider and one definitely had to know a person of influence to land a place in the civil service that was headquartered at the Quadrangle opposite McCarthy Square. In Banjul, a lot of compounds were composed of Wolof, Aku and Hausa landowners who leased quarters to Mandinkas, Fulas, Manjagos and Serers who were land and house owners  back in their hometowns but had no recourse but to rent once they got to the big towns of Bakau, Serrekunda and so forth.
 
This melting pot allowed all these different Gambians to see each other’s lives up close and personal and while there was a mostly very amicable interaction between citizens, the material imbalance instilled a sense of aspiration and frustration on the part of tenants who lived with their families in compounds owned by original Banjulians. Famara was one of them. He was the oldest son of a Mandinka laborer who had an intensely difficult time finding work due to his lack of connections. Now some might say, Mandinkas were in power and this scenario could not be possible but these simplistic statements fail to underscore that more so than tribalism, nepotism also occurred frequently and had an intra-tribe trickle down effect.
 
Every week, Famara would get into an argument with his parents over the fact he was in his late 20s, unmarried, unemployed and still lived at home. In return, Famara would lash out saying he had given it all he had and for some reason he keeps getting told to “come back next week.” He played with his younger siblings most of the day, went around looking for work, would get an odd job here and then but he could never make things work on a stable and permanent basis vis-à-vis employment. His 2 sisters were getting an education he did not have, at Mohammedan and Albion primary schools respectively and seemed to have a brighter future ahead than he had.
There were times when Famara would disappear for days and everyone wondered where he was holed up. It also became apparent that his favorite social pastime was watching the women dance during NCP rallies held at the wide street of Sam Jack not far from the seat of government. Famara liked Sheriff Dibba and later revealed that in addition to really enjoying the women display their artistic skills during the political events, he really paid attention to the words of the formerly staunch opposition stalwart.
 
It didn’t take for us to know what Famara was up to because on that sunny and bloody July morning, he proudly walked back to his parent’s home with an AK 47 slung over his shoulder. Famara was now a rebel allied with Kukoi Samba Sanyang , the leader of the uprising. His father asked him if he had killed anyone and warned that taking a life was not in accordance with family values not to mention Muslim tenets. Famara couldn’t look at his Dad in the face but with a bowed head said no. Actually, as the battle raged on in Banjul between loyalists and insurgents, one thing became clear. Famara didn’t even know how to operate the rifle he wielded in his new found power as a rebel. It was very darn useful though when it came to looting, because at Maurel Prom, located at Buckle Street, he was able to bring home a couple of TVs and a small refrigerator simply due to the fact that he was armed and other looters made way for him. During the chaos of the coup, Famara brought so many looted items from his forays to downtown Banjul stores, his parent’s small home couldn’t contain the material windfall. So he started giving the excess goods to friends and neighbors.
 
One afternoon during the attempted putsch, Famara ran like a scared antelope being chased by ferocious cheetahs and headed straight home. Upon arrival, he screamed at his parents to tell anybody that bothered to ask that he was nowhere to be found and then proceeded to hide under their bed. After 6 hours elapsed, he crawled from under his refuge and with bloodshot eyes, proceeded to tell his family how he had caught a glimpse of the legendary Tambajang and wanted nothing to do with the defender of The Central Bank and other points of regime functionality. Famara exclaimed that he saw the look  in Tambajang’s eyes and came to the conclusion that the guy was no joke. A decade after Famara said this about Mr. Tambajang’s eyes, I was a guest at his residence and after looking into his eyes when he wasn’t smiling I agreed wholeheartedly.
 
After Famara had stopped shaking in terror due to his unfortunate encounter, the young Watchman asked him how to operate the AK 47 and Famara just smiled sheepishly. Again, young Watchman asked him how to operate the weapon and Famara, pretending to know what he was doing, pulled the gun from safety and accidentally sprayed bullets at his parent’s house. Everyone screamed in terror and hit the ground, young Watchman included. Young Watchman’s Grandmother limped as fast as she could, grabbed Famara by the ears and asked him to leave the compound in the name of God. All the while, Radio Gambia kept uttering the now infamous words of that  unfortunate episode in the country’s history: “Long Live the Revolution!!!” Famara left but came back at night to drop off a BMX bike he had stolen from a young man at gun point. There was tension between Famara and his mother because he kept bringing small refrigerators and radios that could only be powered by electricity and their home had none. He promised to look for a generator but came back with a motorboat engine instead.
 
It was obvious Famara’s shenanigans caused a lot of consternation for his family. They did not know what would happen to them if the coup failed and were unsure what future a Gambia without Dawda K. Jawara would be live. They lived in agony because as much as their son was part of a movement that sought to overturn the glaring inequalities that existed in those times and still do to an extent, they were unsure of who would come out the victor. So they waited and waited and avoided their neighbors’ stares, embarrassed by the fact that they were deemed guilty by association with  son who was complicit in the deaths of many they personally knew. Famara could be heard some night during the chaos telling his parents he never killed a single soul but was tired of being laughed at and disrespected by people who labeled him a big loser. He kept shouting “I’m a man!” and “No one disrespects me!” to anyone who would listen to him.
 
Upon hearing that Senegalese troops were summoned to aid a Gambian government under duress, Famara immediately changed his tune. He dumped the AK 47 he couldn’t use and acted as the guardian of the compound he lived. When some bloodthirsty rebels ventured to his home, he convinced them everyone inside the structure supported them and persuaded them to move on without any bloodletting. He led prayers at the local mosque down the street and attended funerals of some coup victims. This attempt at rehabilitation was short lived, however. People had seen Famara sauntering down the street with a group of insurgents and had taken note.
 
The endgame suddenly came with the success of the SAS ( British Special Air Services) in thwarting the strategy of an utterly amateurish rebel movement and the gallantry of the interventionist Senegalese troops whose actions led to the establishment of the SeneGambia Confederacy. After the conflict ended, Famara did not flee like most former subversives and spent most his free time napping. One after while deep in slumber, he had a rude awakening courtesy of government security forces that were rounding up all known participants in that debacle of a take over and was detained for a short period. After the extent of his role became known, Famara was released within 3 months. He was not tortured, humiliated or had his family harassed. In other words, the Jawara security apparatus treated him with dignity, unlike the circus workers of the NIA.
 
After his release, Famara’s father insisted that he go back to the home village in Badibu and think  over what he course he wanted to take in life because the previous path was deadly and God had given him a second chance. He left Banjul with the help of all his neighbors. His Aku landlord gave him money to start all over again, his Serer co-tenants gave him groceries to sustain him for the first couple of months, the Fula shop keepers loaned his parents soap, bags of rice and oil to possess in his quest to marry and start a family, his Wolof neighbors invited him for a prayer session at their mosque to confer Allah’s blessing upon him, and one of his friends who was more fortunate and had a great government job took  him to a corner and told him even though their lot in life was different, he still respected and thought highly of  Famara. And so on a misty November morning 1981, Famara left for the car park located near Grant Street for his journey back home. His mother and sisters cried as his Father held the hands of his brothers and wished him luck.
 
And a young Watchman was right there. Watching everything.
 
Gambiaswatchman@gmail.com
 

Posted on Monday, April 21, 2008 (Archive on Tuesday, April 29, 2008)
Posted by PNMBAI  Contributed by PNMBAI
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