Lamin stood under the scraggly neem tree in his family’s compound, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. The sun began to set and from here, it cast a hazy golden glow over the dusty streets of his village. Lamin had watched the sun set like this thousands of times, yet tonight, it filled him with a heavy sense of restlessness and despair. At 23, Lamin was tall and lanky, with a sharp, quiet gaze that always made people think he was wiser than his age. But Lamin felt far from wise. He felt stuck, caught in a web of poverty that had kept his family in the same place for generations. His mother, Fatou, moved quietly behind him, sweeping the dry earth with an old, tattered palm tree broom. She was the anchor of their family, strong but worn down from years of struggle. His father had died when Lamin was only eight, leaving her to raise him and his three younger siblings alone. Life in The Gambia was hard. There were no jobs, no prospects, just day after day of trying to survive on the little money she made selling vegetables in the market.
Lamin finished school, but what was the point? There were no jobs in his village or even in the bigger towns and cities. Every young man he knew dreamt of something more, but every year it became clearer that the only way to break free was to leave. Some boys had tried, setting out on the “backway” journey through Senegal, Mali and up through the treacherous deserts of Niger to Libya. Others had gone through Mauritania and Morocco, risking detention, beatings, or worse. Lamin heard terrible stories of people caught and sent back, of others who disappeared into the sands or fell victim to smugglers in Libya, but the stories didn’t stop him from dreaming. Lamin wanted to take that risk, to reach Europe, to one day send money back home, to pull his family out of poverty. His best friend, Abdou, left a few years ago. Abdou’s journey took years, filled with hardships that tested his determination. When Abdou finally reached Italy, he called Lamin immediately. His voice had been full of excitement and hope, but the journey to get there had been brutal. Abdou had been detained in Libya for months, enduring overcrowded detention centers and being forced to survive on what little food and water the authorities provided. The conditions were harsh, and Abdou often described the fear and uncertainty that gripped him. But eventually, he made it to Europe. He posted a photo from Lampedusa, standing next to a blue Lamborghini Huracán, under the warm Mediterranean sun, a smile on his face, looking like a man who had truly made it. The image sent a ripple of excitement through the village. Abdou had made it! Lamin wanted that too. No, he needed it!
But Lamin’s mother had begged him to stay. “Lamin, this journey is not for you,” she said, her voice breaking as she held his hand. “If anything happens to you, what will I tell your brothers and sister? You are all they have left.” Every day, the weight of her words settled on him, but so did the weight of watching his younger siblings go to bed hungry, of seeing his mother dying in poverty, of feeling like his future was slipping away one slow day at a time. Lamin made up his mind. He didn’t tell his mother, but he secretly sold a small piece of family land to fund his journey. He would leave without saying goodbye. He said to himself, it would be easier that way but promised to call when he reached Europe. He would tell his mum it had all been worth it. Lamin’s journey began with whispers, late night meetings and the exchange of rumpled dalasi bills in the shadows. Faburama, a local smuggler notorious for organizing routes to the Canary Islands, arranged a boat that would take them from the Gambian coast toward the Spanish archipelago. Lamin had heard about Faburama for years, the man’s trips were infamous. Most knew someone who had made it and just as many knew of others who have disappeared on the way. But Lamin couldn’t afford doubt. When he met with Faburama under the cover of darkness, he felt the thrill of hope, fear and the stark finality of his decision.
They were set to leave on Thursday night and Lamin spent his last day at home quietly. His mother thought he was just visiting old friends. He promised himself not to say goodbye. But as he watched her struggling to prepare their simple dinner of rice and pepper soup, his determination to succeed was clear. Every line on her face seemed to tell of years of struggle and sacrifice and Lamin felt a pang of guilt that lodged in his chest. She was losing him now too, though she didn’t know it yet. That night, he slipped out. The rendezvous point was a hidden stretch along the beach, far from the usual fishing grounds. When he arrived, he saw small groups of boys and young men, most of them familiar faces from nearby villages, all standing nervously in the shadows. Each had packed lightly including a few pieces of clothing, some bread, a bottle of water. Lamin clutched his small bundle, thinking about how little he was bringing for such a long, dangerous journey. But there was no turning back. Faburama’s associates ferried them out in small fishing boats to where the larger vessel waited offshore. Lamin’s stomach dropped when he saw it. Their boat is a Senegalese pirogue, brightly painted with faded colors but old, patched over in places where it had clearly been broken before. It was far from the sturdy image he had in mind and he wondered how this rickety boat could carry them across the brutal waters of the Atlantic oceans.
They crammed on board, over 300 people in a vessel meant for perhaps half that number. Mothers held small children close to their chests, young men leaned heavily on their arms, their eyes hollow with a mixture of determination and resignation. Faburama, unconcerned by the overloading, pushed more and more onto the boat, ignoring desperate pleas and warnings from the captains. Lamin and the others huddled close, trying to find space, knowing that each additional body lessened their odds of survival. “This isn’t the time for complaints,” the captain snapped. “Hurry up, guys, make room for those coming. I’m leaving now before the navy spots us.” And with that, they were off. The first few days on the sea were manageable, albeit uncomfortable. Lamin barely slept, pressed between strangers, inhaling the salty, humid air as they drifted under the unyielding sun. People shared what little food and water they had, passing around small pieces of bread and sips from plastic bottles, hoping to stretch their provisions. They fell into a numb routine, alternating between fear and fragile hope as the boat made slow progress toward the Canary Islands. But by the fifth day, the cracks began to show. The waves grew larger, tossing the boat side to side, soaking everyone on board. The food ran out and the last of the water had been rationed down to a few drops per person. People began to vomit from the churning sea, weakened from dehydration and hunger. The women slumped in their seats, some fading into silence, while children cried themselves to sleep.
Lamin’s thoughts went to Abdou. He pictured him smiling in his photo near sports cars and the promise of a new life. That dream was the only thing that kept him going, as he clutched the side of the boat, his knuckles white with fear. But the waves kept rising, relentless, and the strain was showing on the old, patched hull of the boat. The nights were the worst with the pitch-black darkness with nothing but the sound of the crashing waves and distant murmurs of prayer as people called on God to deliver them from this endless sea. On the sixth night, as the waves grew higher, the boat began to sink lower. The water was coming in faster now, trickling up past their ankles, and then their knees. Panic spread like wildfire. People screamed, clawing for something to hold onto, but there was nowhere to go. Some prayed aloud, others wept and some, defeated, simply held each other and waited. Lamin looked down and saw his friend Muhammed from his village, struggling to stay above water as the boat took on more. They had grown up together, played soccer on dusty fields, shared the same dreams. Now, Muhammed’s face was pale with exhaustion, his eyes unfocused. When he slipped beneath the water, Lamin reached down instinctively, but Muhammed was gone. The weight of loss sank into him with brutal clarity, he had just lost someone who had known him better than most. For a moment, Lamin felt the will to survive flicker inside him, nearly snuffed out by the overwhelming fear.
But he clung on. Somehow, by a miracle, the dawn broke, and as the sun rose, the faint outline of a coastline came into view. The Canary Islands. Lamin and a handful of others had survived, though barely. The Spanish Coast Guard found them hours later and pulled them from the wreckage of their shattered boat. They were brought to shore, shivering, weak, more dead than alive. Lamin collapsed onto the sand, the dream of a new life tainted by the memory of what he had endured. In the weeks that followed, he discovered that Spain was not the paradise he had dreamed of. He was taken to a shelter, given food, a thin blanket, and a mat on the floor. But with no language, no papers and no prospects, Lamin quickly found himself adrift once more. Days turned into weeks, and hope slowly eroded. Jobs were scarce and locals looked down on him and others like him. To his friends back in The Gambia, though, he seemed to have “made it.” Abdou had told Lamin the same lies. Europe was not the dream they thought it would be. But he couldn’t tell them that, couldn’t let them
As Lamin’s days in Spain stretched on, the weight of loneliness and despair began to eat away at him. It was hard to focus on anything but the uncertainty that lingered over his future. But back home in The Gambia, Lamin’s cousin, Alieu, was a few years younger than him. Alieu had always been a quiet, introspective boy, his gaze fixed mostly on the future. He was in his final year of school when Lamin left for Europe, and while Lamin was fighting to survive, Alieu had just begun to carve a path for himself. Alieu was smart. He had dreams of becoming a doctor, of lifting his family out of poverty not through escape but through education and hard work. He wanted to make his mother proud, to prove to everyone that even a boy from a small village could rise above his circumstances. But Alieu had friends, friends who looked at the world with different eyes. They saw the dreams that Lamin had, the images of success and wealth and the opportunities that came with leaving the country. To them, staying in The Gambia was a sentence of a life bound by struggle. The future, to them, seemed unreachable unless they went abroad. They weren’t looking for a way out through education or hard work, but through what they believed was the quick road to success, which is the dangerous journey through Libya, across the Mediterranean to Italy or endure the seven-day boat marathon to Spain.
One evening, as the golden sunset bathed the village in a soft glow, Alieu sat with his friends under a large mango tree near the edge of the village. They passed around a small bag of nuts, talking about the rumors that the backway was now safer. Some claimed to have seen social media posts of young men who had made it, smiling proudly in front of cafés in Spain, Italy and Germany. Flashing money and expensive clothes. They said that even though there were dangers along the way, it was worth it. Alieu listened, feeling the pull of their words, of the promises they made, of the “new life” that awaited them if they were brave enough to take the risk. Alieu’s father, his grandfather, and all the elders in his family had warned him about the dangers. They had seen boys come and go, some returning with nothing but scars, some never returning at all. They had begged him to stay, to finish his studies and become the man he was meant to be. But the allure of something better, the vision of a life filled with luxury, overwhelmed him. He was young, and he had always dreamed of more. He wanted to be like the ones who left and came back changed; rich and successful.
It was that peer influence that clouded his judgment. Slowly, Alieu began to distance himself from his family, spending more time with his friends, and discussing about the escape that awaited. He stopped going to school regularly and when he did, his mind was elsewhere, consumed by the thoughts of a new life. His mother noticed the change but said nothing. She thought it was just a phase, a phase that every young man went through. Then, one night, Alieu made his decision. He told his mother he was going to visit a cousin in the next village. He said nothing about the plans that had been set in motion, nothing about the boat waiting to take him on the backway. The money he had saved up from working part time at the market had been given to a man from his village who promised to help him cross the desert to Libya. Alieu was determined. He thought about the life that awaited him, about the stories of people who had made it, about the riches he would send back to his family. It would all be worth it. The journey began with quiet trepidation, a sense of unease that he tried to ignore. Alieu traveled in the night, hiding from the authorities, dodging patrols and meeting up with smugglers along the way. Every step felt like a secret that gnawed at his conscience. But each step forward was also a step closer to the dream he had built in his mind. He met others along the way, young men like him, each with their own reasons, their own stories. They all told each other about the dream of Europe, of riches, of starting over.
When they crossed into Niger, the horror of it truly began to set in. The land was barren, the sun was brutal and the vast stretches of desert seemed endless. The group of young men became more disoriented and exhausted each day, pushing through the unforgiving heat and thirst. The food ran low and water became a scarce commodity. They were packed into old trucks, bouncing along dirt roads, their bodies sore, their minds clouded with doubt. Alieu’s determination to reach Europe started to crack. He wasn’t sure if the journey was worth it anymore, but it was too late to turn back. But he kept it together, enduring the pain, until they finally crossed into Libya. Once in Libya, the situation grew more perilous. Alieu and his group were forced to work for smugglers, unloading cargo, cleaning facilities or sometimes even engaging in dangerous activities just to stay alive. The detention centers were overcrowded, filthy and brutal. People were treated as animals, their hopes dashed with each passing day. Alieu thought about going back, but the promise of something better in Europe kept him going. He clung to the belief that, despite everything, it would all be worth it. Weeks passed in the camps, the conditions growing worse, the men growing weaker and Alieu’s body began to show signs of malnutrition and exhaustion. His clothes hung loosely from his body and his skin had taken on a pale, sickly hue. But despite the toll it took on him, Alieu remained determined, convinced that this path would eventually lead to the future he had dreamed of.
It wasn’t until they finally managed to board a boat. The boat was a rickety vessel with no lifeboats and barely enough fuel, this is went Alieu realized how fragile life had become. The boat was overcrowded, much like the one Lamin had been on and the waves were rougher than anything they had encountered on land. Alieu’s stomach churned as the boat began to rock violently. He had heard stories of boats capsizing, of people drowning in the middle of the ocean and in the deepest part of him, Alieu feared the same fate. The boat set sail, but the storm came suddenly, violently. The engine sputtered, and within moments, the boat was tossed by monstrous waves. Alieu’s thoughts were consumed by fear as he clung to the side, listening to the chaos around him; people shouting, crying, calling for help, as the boat began to sink. The storm was unforgiving, and despite the desperate attempts to steer the boat to safety, it wasn’t enough. The sea swallowed them whole. Alieu’s final moments were spent in darkness, his body battered by the unforgiving waves. His dreams of Europe, of wealth, of freedom; those illusions drowned alongside him, sinking into the depths of the Mediterranean, never to be realized.
Back in The Gambia, Alieu’s family received the news of his death, but there were no comforting answers, no closure. His mother was left to mourn the loss of her son, the boy who had once been so full of promise, now gone because of a dream built on the false promises of escape and wealth. Lamin, in Spain, heard of Alieu’s death through the same friends who had once talked about the “backway,” the ones who had convinced Alieu to take that path. Lamin’s heart sank. He knew the journey was dangerous, knew it could destroy lives, but he had always held onto the hope that somehow, he would make it. Alieu had been so young, so full of potential, and yet the dream of a better life had cost him everything. Lamin felt the bitter sting of guilt, the same guilt he had once carried when he thought about leaving his family behind. He wondered if, had Alieu known the true cost of the journey, he might have stayed. But now, it was too late.
Meanwhile, in The Gambia, hope was still a distant dream and despair had become a constant companion to the youth. The words of the politicians, Imams, Pastors and Alkalos echoed throughout the country but like a broken record. The Imam of Lamin’s village, who often preached about the promises of a better afterlife, advised his congregation to be patient, to trust in God’s timing and not to fall into the temptation of fleeing their struggles for fleeting promises of riches in the West. “Be content with what God has given you,” he would say, “for the journey you seek in this world might lead you to peril and what awaits you at the end might not be what you imagine.” At the same time, Pastor John of St. Andrews preached against the false dreams of a better life in Europe and cautioned his congregation about the dangers of those dreams. “The world is full of false prophets,” he would warn, “those who promise paradise but deliver hell.” He spoke of the young men and women who set off for Europe, only to drown in the sea or fall into the hands of traffickers. And then there was the Alkalos, the village elder, whose words had weight and wisdom passed down through generations. His advice to the youth was laced with bitterness but also with the truth he had seen unfold over the years. “The path of emigration,” he said, “is not a road to freedom, but a road to exploitation. I have seen our youth leave with hope in their hearts, only to return with scars that will hunt them for life or, worse, never return at all. Those who promise riches are the same ones who take your money and leave you to die in the desert and seas. There is no hope for you out there except for the one you make here.” But his voice, though resonant, often seemed to fade away in the wind, drowned out by the youth’s desperation for escape.
In the cities and towns, the reality was no different. Corruption was rampant within the government, with officials lining their pockets by embezzling the very funds meant to support their people. These funds, meant to improve infrastructure, create job opportunities and help the youth of the country, were often redirected into the pockets of a select few, leaving the majority in even more poverty. International aid, often heralded as the savior, was no better, stuck in a tangled web of bureaucracy, it rarely reached those who needed it most. The money sent by the European Union to help curb illegal migration was often siphoned off, never reaching the communities it was meant to assist. It was a system that perpetuated the despair, forcing young men and women to risk their lives for the mere possibility of a better future.
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