海角大神

For much of Fatim Jawara鈥檚 life, almost her entire world fit here聽鈥� into a single rambling stretch of dirt road in a rundown beach town at the western tip of Africa.

It was here, behind the high green walls of her family鈥檚 compound, that her mother, a professional cook, taught her to make akara, black-eyed pea fritters, and yassa 鈥揷hicken marinated in soft onions, lemon, and mustard.

It was here, on long hot equatorial afternoons, that she shared pots of ataya聽鈥� a tooth-achingly sweet mix of green tea, mint, and sugar聽鈥� with school friends and a rotating cast of her 30-some older siblings, doing impressions that made them laugh until their ribs ached.

And it was here, in the sandy street sandwiched between her house and the mosque across the way, that her brothers and other local boys would gather to play soccer, and where, if they didn鈥檛 have enough players, they would sometimes invite Fatim to join in.

鈥淪he played like the boys聽鈥� she took hits. She didn鈥檛 cry,鈥� says her brother, Modou.

And soon, soccer began to crack open the door to a world that was a little bigger. Fatim became a goalkeeper for Red Scorpions, Gambia鈥檚 best women鈥檚 club, and later, for the national team. She traveled to Senegal for a game, then to Azerbaijan for a youth World Cup.

But if soccer drew the world in close, it did little to actually make that world any more accessible. It is a dilemma shared by young people across Gambia, and the region: Europe seems present 鈥� its wealth on full display in the houses and cars and gadgets in every community, paid for by money sent back from migrants聽鈥� but at the same time, its doors seem firmly shut.

Ryan Lenora Brown/海角大神

Children leave the Koranic school across the street from Fatim Jawara's childhood home in Serekunda, Gambia. Fatim herself attended Islamic school here, and learned to play soccer in the road outside.

However hard she dreamed of European pro leagues and endorsement deals, Fatim was was still young, poor, and African in a world where richer countries were turning away people like her by the tens of thousands every year.

So last October, when Fatim was 19, it seems she quietly made a choice. She told her family and teammates she was going to play for a while with a team in neighboring Senegal. Then, with a friend, she set out on what Gambians euphemistically call 鈥渢he back way鈥澛犫�撀燼 treacherous migrant route across West Africa and Libya, and then the Mediterranean Sea.

Last year, about 13,000 Gambians this way聽鈥� making the tiny country of 2 million one of the top 10 largest sources of migrants crossing the Mediterranean that year, and the country with the highest migration rate in Africa, .

Overall, more than 362,000 people crossed into Europe by sea that year.

But Fatim wasn鈥檛 one of them.

Instead, she took her place . In 2016, the UN counted 5,096 people 鈥渄ead or missing鈥� in the Mediterranean, including Fatim Jawara.

For migration experts, the deaths of young people like Fatim are part of a troubling global trend聽鈥� citizens of poor but peaceful countries, often comparatively well-off in their communities, willing to risk everything simply for the possibility of a better life in Europe. They鈥檙e driven by a kind of aspiration gap 鈥� between what seems possible abroad, and the lack of jobs and social mobility in their own countries.

In Gambia, in particular, political malaise has also contributed to the exodus. From 1994 to January of this year, Gambia had a single president, Yahya Jammeh, helping to create a deep sense among many young Gambians that nothing would ever change.

But for those who loved her, Fatim isn鈥檛 a symbol or a number. Like each of the other 5,095 tallied by the UN last year, she is a hole torn in the universe that, for those closest to her, may never be filled.

鈥淔rom that day up until today my life is incomplete because Fatim was someone who can鈥檛 be replaced,鈥� says Choro Mbenga, her former coach. It鈥檚 been more than a year, but she says Red Scorpions鈥� practices still feel eerily quiet, like everyone is waiting for Fatim to show up and burst into dance on the midfield line, or launch into a ridiculous impression of one of her teammates.

鈥淭he only time we ever saw her serious was during a game,鈥� says Adama Tamba, a friend and teammate. From the goal, she remembers, Fatim shouted encouragement and advice to her teammates on the field. She played soccer, friends say, with the focus of someone who had fought her way up聽鈥� less raw talent than sheer grit and hard work. 鈥淪he didn鈥檛 joke during a game,鈥� Ms. Tamba says. 鈥淪he just played.鈥�

But for months after Fatim鈥檚 death, an unspoken question hovered over the team, and over her family.

Why had she gone?

She had never mentioned to any of them a desire to go the 鈥渂ack way,鈥� and so suddenly, every passing comment about wanting to play abroad seemed monumental, like a sign they had all missed. Had it started with her dreams that she would go back to Azerbaijan, after the team traveled there for the World Cup in 2012? Or her promise to visit the Glasgow Girls, a Scottish team who came to play a series of friendlies with the top Gambian players in 2015?

But in truth, it was hard to be in Serekunda without thinking of being somewhere else. Flights roared out of the local airport to Amsterdam, London, and Barcelona, carrying with them a never-ending parade of sunburned Europeans returning home from a packaged holiday at one of Gambia鈥檚 aging beach resorts. In Fatim鈥檚 childhood neighborhood, Dippakunda, Western Union outlets were as ubiquitous as Starbucks in New York, a reminder of the constant flow of money passing from Gambians abroad back into the country. (Remittances make up聽, according to the International Fund for Agricultural Development.)

鈥淚t鈥檚 extremely frustrating for these women to be able to see the international world, and especially the international world of sport, but not get to it,鈥� says Sang Mendy, a veteran Gambian sports journalist.

But there is also, Fatim鈥檚 friends say, so much she has missed in Gambia too since she left.

She didn鈥檛 live to see President Jammeh step down at last, or the international money that flowed in afterwards to help create work for young people, and try to stop the tide of migration.

She didn鈥檛 live to see Adama score 51 goals in a single 15-game season and then become the first Gambian woman to be聽 for an international professional team聽鈥� Paris Saint-Germain.

And she didn鈥檛 live to see the Red Scorpions鈥� first league match of the season this November. It was a sticky Friday night, the air heavy and salty. A call to prayer from a nearby mosque crackled over the field as the sun began to set in deep pinks and blues.

And the Red Scorpions were on form. The players moved easily together, zig-zagging down the field again and again in a series of crisp passes. By the closing minutes of the match, they had racked up a 5-0 lead.

Just before the whistle, the opposing team鈥檚 goalkeeper caught the ball, then fumbled it. Adama sprinted towards her. Before the keeper could catch her balance, Adama gently slotted the ball into the net behind her.

The knots of teenage fans gathered on the sidelines roared. Her teammates pulled her into a tight hug.

But something was missing. In a way, she knew, something would always be missing.

Fatim wasn鈥檛 there.

Saikou Jammeh contributed reporting. Ryan Lenora Brown鈥檚 reporting in Gambia was supported by the International Reporting Project.