LocationsA community thinking about its own destiny
Urban October: Banjul
October 21, 2026
Fishermen return from the Atlantic Ocean in the early morning, bringing in the day’s catch as the sun rises over the coast.
Photo: UNDP The Gambia
Urban October is a month-long campaign focused on sustainable urbanization and resilient cities. As our societies become increasingly urbanized, and the effects of climate change intensify, UNDP works around the world to make cities more livable for all their residents.
The day begins with the Atlantic.
Step onto a sandy street in Cape Point, Bakau, just after sunrise, and the morning air instantly envelops you. It breathes heavy with the cool, salty spray of the ocean, the buttery warmth of freshly baked tapalapa bread pulling you toward the nearest stall. All around, the city pulses with life. Fishermen return from the dark sea, their shoulders bearing the silver weight of the morning's catch. Above it all, the distant call to prayer weaves seamlessly through the rhythm of crashing waves, overlapping laughter and the bustling hum of early commerce. Greater Banjul does not jolt awake; it gathers itself slowly, rolling in gentle waves from the sea inland.
This is the Banjul I came to know during my time in The Gambia. Arriving on a detail assignment with UNDP to support strategic communications, I anticipated a standard rotation of documenting development initiatives. What I did not anticipate was the way this coastal city would reshape my understanding of communities, human connection and the true meaning of home.
At first, I was simply an observer trying to find my footing. I wandered deep into Albert Market, where narrow pathways open into a sensory maze of rich colours, overlapping voices and relentless movement.
Greater Banjul faces mounting pressures from rapid urban growth, shifting climate patterns and strained infrastructure.
Photo: UNDP The Gambia
Yet the soul of Banjul revealed itself far away from official meetings and project sites. During my initial weeks in Bakau, evening walks drew me naturally toward the shore. Children chased footballs across the cooling sand as the sun melted into the Atlantic horizon. I would stop at roadside fruit stalls intending only to buy ebbe, benanchin, mangoes or agbalumo, only to lose 20 minutes in rich, unhurried conversation. Passersby wanted to know where I hailed from, what had brought me to their shores, and how I was finding The Gambia. Their innate warmth dissolved any lingering sense of isolation, making it impossible to feel like a stranger for long.
One humid afternoon, lost somewhere behind a labyrinth of sandy lanes after a field meeting, I paused to ask a young man repairing a bicycle for directions. Instead of pointing vaguely down the road, he wiped the grease from his hands, set his tools aside and walked with me to ensure I found my way. Along that walk, our conversation drifted across history and geography to football, family and the quiet rhythms of his neighbourhood. That simple, generous act transformed a moment of disorientation into a profound connection. My introduction to attaya offered a similar lesson in slowing down. One evening, I joined a circle gathered near the Ocean Bay Hotel. The tea-making ritual is an art form, deliberate, patient and unhurried. I realized that the magic of attaya lies not just in the rich, bittersweet brew, but in the unhurried space it carves out for human connection.
What struck me most about Greater Banjul was how completely social life is woven into the fabric of daily existence. Here, a passing greeting effortlessly blossoms into a conversation, and a routine purchase invites you to sit, stay and talk awhile.
Yet beneath this vibrant cultural tapestry lies the stark reality of the challenges shaping its future. Like many coastal African urban centres, Greater Banjul faces mounting pressures from rapid urban growth, shifting climate patterns and strained infrastructure. But this is not a city waiting passively for external rescues; it is a community thinking about its own destiny.
Preparing attaya, the traditional Gambian tea, through a time-honoured brewing process.
Photo: UNDP The Gambia
That collective spirit comes alive across numerous initiatives in Greater Banjul. The forthcoming Climate-resilient Banjul: Enhancing Urban Resilience in the Greater Banjul Area initiative is being developed to strengthen long-term urban resilience through ecosystem restoration, improved drainage networks and protected public green spaces. Meanwhile, the Kanifing Circular Waste Hubs Project revolutionizes local waste management while unlocking green entrepreneurship for urban youth. Through the Youth Volunteerism Initiative, young Gambians sharpened their professional skills and drove community resilience from the ground up.
That same spirit of locally driven action is visible in UNDP’s French Facility for Global Environment initiative, which is helping communities across The Gambia confront environmental and health risks that can quietly shape the quality of everyday life. UNDP addresses persistent organic pollutants, including polychlorinated biphenyls found in ageing electrical equipment and pollutants released through the open burning of waste. Implemented by UNDP with technical support from the United Nations Institute for Training and Research and in partnership with the National Environment Agency, the National Water and Electricity Company and local councils, it brings environmental protection closer to the places and people most affected.
What stayed with me most was the way this work connects environmental protection with livelihoods and the everyday realities of families. In communities such as Kuwonku Ba and Farafenni, women farmers are turning organic waste into compost, improving soil fertility, supporting crop yields and generating additional household income, while reducing harmful waste-burning practices. It is a simple but powerful example of what can happen when solutions are rooted in local knowledge and opportunity.
Living here fundamentally recalibrated my definition of home. Before The Gambia, I might have measured adequate housing strictly by physical metrics; walls, a secure roof and affordability. While those fundamentals matter, I learned they tell only half the story.
A sudden, torrential tropical downpour one afternoon brought this vividly into focus. As rain poured down on the streets, pedestrians scattered, rushing beneath shop awnings and verandas. Strangers instantly shared umbrella space, squeezed together on narrow benches, and struck up lively conversations while waiting out the storm. What could have been an isolating inconvenience transformed into a warm expression of community.
Home, I realized, is much more than bricks and mortar. It is the paved road that drains cleanly after a heavy rain, the reliable waste management that keeps a neighbourhood healthy, the shared public spaces where children laugh and play and the economic lifelines that anchor families to their roots. Above all, it is the invisible, unbreakable web of relationships that grants us a true sense of belonging.
When my mind drifts back to Greater Banjul, the formal meetings blur, replaced by the sensory resonance of the city itself, the late-night laughter shared over tiny glasses of attaya, and the radiant generosity of strangers who became anchors.
That is what Banjul taught me about home: belonging cannot be constructed from concrete alone. It grows in the spaces between people, in shared stories, quiet kindnesses and the profound grace of a city that gently invites you to become part of its living history.