“They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree, and none shall make them afraid”
Micah 4:4
There's Something About a Tree
Yesterday in Glasgow, I met a man from Gambia. We stood talking for a while, and as usual, I find writing inspiration in the people I meet. In most cases the language of their homeland can be culturally revealing in a wholesome way. Although English is the national tongue, Bantaba, in the Mandinka language also spoken in Gambia means a large tree, often a silk-cotton tree under whose shade the community gathers. There they talk, share news, resolve disputes, or simply rest together in the cool of the day. It is a place and an act, a shared ritual that says: we belong to one another.
The image stayed with me as I wandered into sleep last night. Many years ago, I had read a book about Danish housing planners who designed neighbourhoods to encourage social interaction—doorsteps that faced each other, small courtyards that drew neighbours into conversation, benches placed just so, where a passer-by might pause and become a friend. Their aim was to make spaces that nourished human connection.
I thought of how the Bantaba needs no architect, no government policy, no concrete poured in tidy lines. It is as old as the land itself, a tree in the village square, a gift of shade and shelter, patient through seasons of rain and harmattan dust. Its roots hold the earth together; its branches hold the community together.
There is something deeply becoming about the custom. In an age where connection often flickers through pixels on a screen, the Bantaba reminds us that fellowship is best experienced in the flesh; our voices mingling in the open air, our faces visible in the changing light.
It suggested the words of the prophet Micah, speaking of the future peace to come: “They shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree, and none shall make them afraid” (Micah 4:4). The imagery is rich, each person in the safety of their own shade, yet part of a larger, harmonious whole. No one left out. No one threatened. A life where conversation flows as naturally as water in a stream.
Perhaps the Bantaba is a glimpse of that promise, a fragment of the way things were always meant to be. A world where we gather under something living, and in its shelter, we find shelter in one another.
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