Na God de gi yu di pay

“We yu tun bak to yu fambul den, le yu go wit lon lef an welbodi. Fo ol wetin yu bin du naya, noto wi de pay yu – na God de gi yu di pay,” Luckman Gassama the Arabic teacher at my school told me on my second to last day in Sembehun. That sentiment had already been expressed by several people as they bade me farewell: “Na God de gi yu di pay” – It is God who rewards you.

I kept my expression solemn and willed myself not to cry. It was not that I was particularly sentimental about saying goodbye to Luckman, but the thought of leaving in general left me on the verge of tears.  I knew I could not yet cry; that would have to wait until the very end, when the taxi would pull away from the junction in front of my house.

What Luckman and the other well-wishers did not know as they promised that God would pay me for my work, was that I had already received all the payment I wanted. Our definitions of “payment” probably aren’t the same though. For me, payment is calculated in hundreds of different memories.

Even the mundane moments of ordinary life, I remember fondly.

Brightly colored lappas hang to dry in the sun. A matapensil rhythmically pounds cassava leaf, driving the scent of freshly cut grass into the air. Fati Daramy passes balancing a reddish-brown colored plastic bucket on her head.

I remember the last month in Sembehun, keeping fast for Ramadan.

I sit on the cement ledge of my veranda and share a plate of rice with my neighbor Regina. The call to nafla, the evening prayer, rises sad and sweet from the mosque. Women pass wearing beautiful embroidered prayer shawls.

I remember the moments when students so clearly understood what I had been teaching.

“If we know the area of the rectangle is 20 meters, and the width is four meters, we can find the length,” Abdul Rahman explains.

“What is the length then?”

“Five meters.”

“Is that the answer?”

“No, the question says to find the perimeter.”

“How do we find the perimeter?”

“We say two times four is eight and two times five is ten, then we add and get eighteen,” he says without hesitation. I smile, thinking that while I cannot control what happens on public exams, Abdul Rahman deserves to pass math on the BECE.

I remember the moments when students demonstrated confidence.

“Wait,” Betty Swaray says as a teacher prepares to flog her for coming to school without her head covering. “Let me explain why I didn’t come with the veil.”

“Okay, explain.”

“When we go to sit the BECE, we have to go with a different uniform and they need to add blue trim to the veils, so they gave my veil to the tailor for him to sew.”

I was proud not only of the English words flowing smoothly from her lips, but also of the poise with which she spoke. She held her head high and spoke with the certainty that she would not be beaten as long as she had the chance to defend herself.

I remember saying goodbye.

The street is filled with my neighbors and students who came to see me off. I shake their hands one by one, always raising my hand to my heart afterwards in a gesture that has become second nature. Inshallah we will meet again . . .

All of that is payment. The memories of my two years in Sierra Leone are more valuable than words can express. In fact, I am certain that I have been paid beyond anything that I deserved. Just as I consider those memories payment, it is perhaps payment also to know that I will be remembered.

“When I have a daughter,” Zakaria tells me, “I am going to name her Kenley. When people ask how she got that name, I will tell them I once had a teacher called Miss Kenley.”