I woke up this morning for my normal Fajr prayer. Out of habit, after completing my usual post-prayer routine, I delved into the news and, of course, social media.

I stumbled upon a post — more of a debate, really — about the expression “Sosseh du sossal ken.” Under the post, I came across an interesting comment attempting to challenge the idea that the expression is used by some inhabitants of Gambia’s capital to portray Sossehs/Mandinkas as selfish.

The comment read, in part: “Funnily, I read somewhere that the statement actually was first made by a chief in Saloum during the colonial days and was a praise for the Sosseh rather than a caricature.”

That caught my attention. So, naturally, I dug deeper. You could call it a researcher’s habit. And no, I don’t have all the time in the world. Yes, I am working today — thankfully from home. Got you there, huh?

On a serious note, I am glad I did, because I came across some fascinating narratives.

First, let us establish something important. “Sosseh,” “Sosé” or “Socé” is indeed a Wolof term referring to a Mandinka/Manding person. 

So linguistically, “Sosseh du sossal ken” is a Wolof expression about Mandinkas.

But the really interesting part is not “Sosseh.” It is “sossal.”

The popular Gambian understanding of “Sosseh du sossal ken” today is something along the lines of: “A Mandinka does not share with anyone,” “Mandinkas only care about themselves,” or simply that Mandinkas are selfish.

Except there is a problem.

That interpretation does not appear to fit the ordinary lexical meaning of the Wolof word “sosal.”

When I started looking into Wolof linguistic sources, things became particularly interesting. Sosal is documented as meaning to falsely accuse, slander, calumniate or falsely implicate someone (Sauvageot, 1965, p. 10). 

The word also appears in Wolof texts in contexts involving accusations against another person.

Now read the phrase again with that meaning:

“Sosseh du sossal ken.”

It becomes something closer to: “A Sosseh does not falsely accuse anyone,” or “A Mandinka does not falsely implicate another person.”

Now go back to that story about the chief in Saloum.

According to the account I came across, a Sosseh man appeared before a chief’s court during the colonial period to testify as a witness. 

After hearing his testimony, the chief reportedly passed judgment and declared:

“Sosseh du sossal ken.”

In that context, the expression would mean that a Sosseh does not falsely accuse or implicate another person.

Suddenly, the story does not sound quite as far-fetched as I initially thought.

More importantly, linguistically, that interpretation appears to fit the documented meaning of sosal better than the modern interpretation that a Sosseh “does not share.”

Now, before somebody runs away with this post and announces that Musa has discovered the definitive origin of “Sosseh du sossal ken” — not so fast. Hold your horses.

I have not found a colonial document recording that particular court case or identifying the chief who supposedly made the statement. Therefore, I cannot establish that the Saloum story is historically true.

It could be an oral tradition preserving an actual event. Equally, it could be a story that developed later to explain an expression that already existed.

If you like, you can verify or challenge this account with reputable Gambian historians such as my good brother Hassoum Ceesay.

What I can say is that the linguistic evidence makes the story worthy of serious consideration.

I also found that the expression is not exclusively Gambian. “Socé dou sosal ken” has appeared in Senegalese discussions of ethnic stereotypes, where it has also been interpreted negatively as meaning that a Mandinka “does not share.”

This suggests that the expression belongs to a broader Senegambian linguistic and cultural history rather than simply being a Banjul expression. 

And perhaps somewhere along that journey lies the real story.

Could an expression that originally praised Sossehs for not falsely accusing others have survived long after its original context was forgotten, eventually acquiring a completely different meaning?

It is possible.

Languages do this. Words change meaning. Expressions outlive the circumstances that created them. Sometimes people inherit a saying without knowing where it came from and explain it according to the meaning they have grown up hearing. That may or may not be what happened here. 

But there is enough evidence to question the certainty with which we have repeated the derogatory interpretation.And perhaps that is the more important point.

For generations, Mandinkas and Wolofs in The Gambia have lived together, married each other, joked about each other, borrowed from each other’s languages and cultures and, yes, occasionally thrown stereotypes at each other.

Some of these jokes are harmless. Others, repeated often enough, become labels.

“Sosseh du sossal ken” appears to have become one of those labels.

But if the very words we have been using to perpetuate that stereotype may actually have carried an entirely different meaning, perhaps it is time we stopped using the expression as evidence of an ethnic character flaw.

There is no ethnic group with a monopoly on generosity, selfishness, honesty or dishonesty.

You will find all of those qualities among Mandinkas, Wolofs, Fulas, Jolas, Serahules, Serers and every other community.

Maybe the most interesting irony is that a phrase remembered today by some as an insult against Mandinkas may once have been understood as a compliment to their honesty.

I cannot prove that. But I have found enough to say this:

The history of “Sosseh du sossal ken” is far less straightforward than the insult we have inherited.

So rather than using an expression whose origin we cannot confidently establish to caricature an entire people, perhaps we should finally allow this particular stereotype to rest.

After all, Wolofs and Mandinkas have shared this small Senegambian space for far longer than any of us have been around to argue about who “sossal” whom.

Let’s lay the myth — and perhaps the hatchet — to rest.

By Musa Krubally