By Oumar Farouk Sesay
On New Year’s Eve, Florence Fatmata Bangura, the granddaughter of my younger brother, Abdul Hamid Sesay, and daughter of my niece, Nazra Sesay, left home to join her childhood friends and their mother in celebrating the new year. She stayed in touch with her mother while they were at church to welcome the year, but afterward, her communication ceased—no calls, no messages, just an unsettling silence throughout the day.
Concerned by this unusual silence, Nazra reached out to Madam Finda Davies, the woman who had taken Florence out along with her two daughters. Madam Finda then delivered devastating news: Nazra’s thirteen-year-old daughter, who was supposed to be under her supervision, was missing.
Immediately, red flags were raised, and an avalanche of questions followed:
– When did she go missing?
– Where did it happen?
– Why wasn’t she with her friends—your daughters?
– How come her phone is with your daughters while she’s missing?
– Why wasn’t Nazra informed in real time?
These questions hung in the air, unanswered, as the situation escalated from “missing” to the horrifying possibility of “drowning.” Another torrent of questions surged:
– When did she drown?
– Where, exactly, at Number Two River, did this happen?
– Who was present when she drowned?
– Who raised the alarm at a crowded beach on New Year’s Day?
– How is it that you and your children were safely tucked away in a hotel room, while this tragedy occurred?
– Where is her body? Where is her phone? Surely, she wouldn’t have gone swimming with it.
– Why didn’t she send pictures to her mother, as she often did, to show where she was?
Days later, Nazra was summoned to identify the remains of a child found in Waterloo. Her heart pounded with dread, but the body was not Florence’s. The police, now under mounting pressure to deliver answers, reported another body discovered on Banana Island. Yet again, it wasn’t Florence’s—it was too tall and adorned with beads Florence would never wear.
In her anguish, Nazra called upon the mothers of this land—those who have ever entrusted their children to another’s care. She appealed to those who perceived the mother of a child’s friends as a co-mother, to those who withheld judgment, and to all who could empathize with her pain. She begged them to join her in asking the question that now consumed her every waking moment:
“Where is my daughter?”
In my case, where is my granddaughter? What about you? What is your question to the authorities for many unnamed corpses popping up in our rivers and estuaries? What is your question, if Florence is your daughter? Are you reserving your voice till it’s yours?