Gambiaj.com – (Banjul, The Gambia) – This reflection follows an earlier meditation prompted by the poem Old Man Ruminating, written by my elder sister, Juka Jabang. That piece dwelt on time, memory, and the quiet reckoning that comes when life slows enough for the soul to speak. What follows does not depart from that moment; it remains within it. It is a continuation of the same inward pause, the same attentive listening, and the same search for meaning that has shaped my earlier reflections.

Sometimes, just before dawn, I find myself asking a simple question: Why do I write these pieces I call Reflections for the Soul? I began to ask it more seriously when my sisters, my brother, my wife, my children, and even close friends started posing the same question: “Why do you write the reflections you write?”

The answer rarely arrives in a sudden flash. It comes quietly, often in those still early hours when the mind softens and the heart speaks without interruption.

I write these reflections because they steady me. They help me make sense of a world that often feels louder than our inner selves can bear. In sharing them, I hope they offer others a moment of calm, clarity, or grace.

These pieces are not routine; they emerge from a place that seeks meaning in a hurried age and connection in a society that sometimes forgets its own heartbeat.

There comes a stage in life when the body maintains its pace, but the soul begins to slow. The noise of the world can grow so overwhelming that silence itself becomes a blessing. From time to time, life asks us to pause, not because everything around us has stopped, but because something within us needs room to breathe.

We live in an age where speed is mistaken for progress, noise for wisdom, and visibility for worth. In all this rushing, we risk losing the gentler part of ourselves, the part that listens, feels, and remembers why we began our journey in the first place.

Sometimes it takes the hush of dawn in Banjul or the familiar stillness of Jeshwang to remind us that peace is still present; we have simply forgotten how to listen.

Reflection begins in that quiet. It is not idleness. It is the soul’s way of steadying itself. Reflection invites us to look beyond the surface, beyond politics and performances, toward the simple truths that hold individuals and nations together: honesty, compassion, duty, and grace.

Not long ago, I told Sheriff Bojang, the proprietor of The Standard newspaper, that sometimes when I write these pieces, it feels as though the soul speaks before thought. He smiled and said, “That’s cathartic.” He was right. Writing can be a release, a way for the soul to heal from what it cannot shout.

Across history, people have sought this same inner clarity. The ancient Egyptians believed the heart had to remain light to stand before truth. Reflection keeps the inner world from growing heavy.

Perhaps that is why reflection still matters so deeply. It is how a mother in Brikama holds her family together through uncertainty, how a farmer in Janjangbureh looks toward the next season with faith, and how neighbors share what little they have when times are hard.

Through reflection, we notice the small acts of kindness, honesty, and mercy that sustain families, communities, and the nation. Reflection is not retreat; it is resilience—a quiet insistence that goodness still has a voice.

Over the years, I have learned that a nation’s true strength lies not in speeches or slogans, but in the small, unrecorded acts that emerge from reflection, the gestures that hold society together and keep it from fraying. When reflection fades, we drift from what matters. When it returns, we find our bearings again.

So why do I write Reflections for the Soul? Because our nation, and each one of us, needs a quiet moment in the week to breathe. Whether I write about leadership or loss, public service or personal faith, my hope remains the same: that reflection might help us rediscover clarity, compassion, and grace.

Before dawn, when the world is still, I pause to listen—not only to the sounds around me, but also to the silence within. In Islam, the heart finds peace through the remembrance of Allah. In Christianity, stillness invites us to “be still, and know that I am God.” Across both traditions, reflection offers both refuge and compass. By pausing to reflect, we cultivate patience, clarity, and moral insight, allowing goodness to guide our actions in families, communities, and the wider society.

In the end, progress without reflection becomes motion without meaning. And a nation, like a soul, needs stillness to grow strong again.