When Mallam O.’s Bananas Touched a Rich Man’s Heart

I was staying with my guardian, Mama Gbassay, a tough old lady. She took care of us from Warima, teaching us to always give thanks, no matter how little you had. One Saturday, she came back from a trip to some village, carrying a bunch of bananas so ripe and golden they looked like they belonged in a painting. As she set them on our rickety table, I got this crazy idea.

“Mama,” I said, my heart racing, “we should give these bananas to Mr. Macauley.”

She stopped, gave me that look like I’d lost my mind.

“Macauley? The man who hands out rice like it’s nothing? What’s he gonna do with our bananas?”

“He’s always giving to Songo, Mama….”

Mallam O.

Back in my school days at Tomlinson High School in Songo, a town near Waterloo in Sierra Leone, there was this guy, Donald Macauley, whom everybody knew. He was a big-shot lawyer from Freetown, owned an agricultural farm called Banana Farm about a kilometer from where I lived. Every Saturday, I’d see his wild, colorful Range Rover SUV zoom past our house. That jeep was something else, and people said it was so fancy that even former President Siaka Stevens once tried to buy it off him. To a kid like me, scraping by and dreaming big, that Range Rover was like a spaceship, and Macauley was the pilot.

Prof. Osman Alimamy Sankoh, known to most Sierra Leoneans as Mallam O., was born in Warima in Sierra Leone. Attended Tomlinson High School, Songo

Macauley was the kind of rich man who made things happen for Songo. He’d pay school fees for kids whose parents couldn’t, cover hospital bills, or drop off sacks of rice for the elders. I saw him once at the Songo Court Barri, handing out food to the community leaders. His voice was smooth, like he could talk a storm into calming down. “We’re all in this together,” he said, and I carried those words home, practicing them under my breath, wondering if I’d ever be half the man he was.

I was staying with my guardian, Mama Gbassay, a tough old lady. She took care of us from Warima, teaching us always to give thanks, no matter how little you had. One Saturday, she came back from a trip to some village, carrying a bunch of bananas so ripe and golden they looked like they belonged in a painting. As she set them on our rickety table, I got this crazy idea.

“Mama,” I said, my heart racing, “we should give these bananas to Mr. Macauley.”

She stopped, gave me that look like I’d lost my mind.

“Macauley? The man who hands out rice like it’s nothing? What’s he gonna do with our bananas?”

I shuffled my feet, trying to explain.

“He’s always giving to Songo, Mama. Even if we don’t get his stuff directly, he’s helping our people. I just… I wanna say thank you. These bananas ain’t much, but they’re ours. Maybe he’ll like that we thought of him.”

Mama Gbassay stared at me, then broke into a grin.

“Mallam O., you’ve got a big heart for a skinny boy. Alright, let’s do it. But you’re doing the talking.”

My stomach did a flip. Talk to Mr. Macauley? The guy I’d been idolizing from afar? I nodded, trying to act brave. That afternoon, I sat down with a scrap of paper, scratching out a speech. My English wasn’t the best—Tomlinson taught me enough to get by, but this was different. I wanted the words to mean something. I scribbled, crossed out, rewrote, till I had something I hoped wouldn’t make me sound like a fool.

Came Saturday, Mama Gbassay and I headed to Banana Farm, the bananas balanced on a woven tray. The walk felt like forever. My hands were sweaty, and that paper in my pocket felt like it weighed a ton. What if he laughed? What if he thought a poor kid like me was just wasting his time?

At the farm’s gate, a gruff security guard stopped us.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

I held the tray tighter, my voice shaky.

“We’re here to see Mr. Macauley. We brought him a gift… to thank him for what he does for Songo.”

The guard looked us up and down, but something—maybe Mama Gbassay’s no-nonsense glare—made him wave us through. We walked past rows of banana and orange trees till we reached a big veranda where Macauley was having lunch with a bunch of fancy folks from Freetown. Their laughter and clinking glasses made my knees wobble. These were city people, all polished and confident, nothing like me.

The guard went up to Macauley, whispered something, and suddenly, the man himself looked right at us. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it’d burst. But then he smiled, this warm, welcoming smile, and waved us over.

“Come on in,” he said, his voice smooth as ever.

I stepped forward, the bunch of bananas shaking in my hands. I pulled out my crumpled paper, took a deep breath, and started reading. My voice cracked at first, but I kept going.

“Mr. Macauley, sir, my name’s Mallam O. I’m from Songo, and I go to Tomlinson High. I… we… wanted to thank you. We see everything you do for our village—the rice, the help, the way you care. These bananas ain’t much, but they’re from us, from our hearts, to say we’re grateful.”

Donald Smythe McCauley - Lawyer, Sierra Leone

The veranda went quiet. I braced myself for a chuckle or a polite brush-off. But when I looked up, Macauley’s eyes were shiny, like he was holding back tears. He stood up, slow and deliberate, and walked over to me. The Freetown folks watched, nodding like they got it.

“Mallam O.? What a name, young man!” he said in a soft voice. “This is one of the best gifts I’ve ever gotten. Not because of what it is, but because of what it means.”

He asked where we lived, and before I could say much, he called his driver.

“Take them home,” he said, then looked at me. “You’ve got guts, young man. Hold onto that.”

Riding back in that Range Rover was like something out of a dream, the world blurring past in a cloud of dust. Mama Gbassay squeezed my hand, her smile brighter than I’d ever seen. For weeks after, a bag of rice and other goods showed up at our door every Saturday, like a quiet thank-you of his own.

Years later, chasing my own path far from Songo, I still think about that day. Macauley showed me that *being rich isn’t just about money; it’s about what you do with it. And I learnt that even a poor kid’s bananas, given with a full heart, can mean the world to a man who’s got everything ~ Mallam O..

Hope you enjoyed the bonus read.