A Diasporan’s Lament. Freetown in decline

I cannot remember how many times I have returned home to Sierra Leone to visit. I am one of those expatriates laboring under the weight of the modern day term, “Diasporan,” an ugly word that forces computer spell-check programmes to gag. The word mutated, one supposes, from its more elegant antecedent, “Diaspora,” a term indicating a place or location into which a people, preferably a “chosen one,” has been scattered or dispersed, usually by forces beyond their control.  The word “Diaspora,” usually preceded by the definite article, also serves as a collective to include all the individuals inhabiting this borderless space. But now, in its mutated version, it identifies the individual members involved in or afflicted by dispersal.

Those of us belonging to a certain generation became Diasporans in a more leisurely or benign age, when the word was not yet even invented, and when we boarded steamers or, less commonly, airliners that took us in orderly packets to places that were not too remote, psychologically or geographically. But more recently, the exigencies of war, civil upheaval and economic hardship have scattered later generations into the far reaches of the known world. So, it is now not unusual to hear of Sierra Leoneans plying a lone and lonely existence in places as far away as Sebastopol, Samoa or Gisborne, New Zealand, where the 24 hour day begins.

Residing in the Diaspora evokes a subtext of exile as well, since for some, return to the homeland during their remaining years is difficult, if not impossible. And even in death, repatriation, as cargo is financially prohibitive. Even for those who make good in their new location, their achievement is permanently undermined by the loss of something left behind for ever, according to the late Edward Said, in his essay, “Reflections on Exile,”

For those of us who are not truly exiled, but fortunate enough to undertake periodic visits back, this sense of loss is only slightly less wounding, as we observe the dereliction to which the native land has sunk, and which, in a sense, exiles us all over again. Life circumstances improve marginally, if at all, for the ordinary Sierra Leonean who is grounded by a poverty that soaks into everything. Most are stranded between an honest dignified poverty on the one hand and on the other, the temptations of relative affluence underwritten by subtle or more blatant acts of corruption. A few, especially among those in government employment, participate in parallel small business schemes. Known locally as a “Mammy Coker,” -don’t ask- such enterprises provide some relief.

The Sierra Leone River separates Freetown from its international airport at Lungi, from which access to the city is a trial all on its own. The tribulations involved in achieving this relatively modest objective have been recounted often enough; such is the pain and suffering. But once one has gained a foothold on the south shore of the river, the sense of relief is so powerful that one tends to ignore the rough interjection into Freetown’s chaotic traffic in which vehicles, retired from elsewhere in the world, ply the narrow, potholed streets in tight formation. The only vehicles that cannot boast such provenance are the gadfly “ocada” taxis, high-emitting, noise-polluting motor cycles, that are the answer to the snarled up traffic in many of West Africa’s major cities.

Freetown is plainly down at heel and finding a place to stay can be tricky. We regularly patronize a guest house near the city centre close to government offices and other businesses, and where the staff is very friendly and the food of reasonable quality. They do a Friday afternoon buffet of Sierra Leone cuisine that is totally scrumptious and, at Le30,000 for all you can eat, is very good value. Drinks, unfortunately, are extra.

This time, we walked into a major nation-wide health exercise, targeting yellow fever and measles, with crowds lining up for vaccination, and a few days later we participated in a sponsored walk in support of sickle cell care. Now, a week later, it is World AIDS day and big rallies and other public events were mounted to highlight the disease and its prevention.  Even respectable houses are not oblivious to their public health responsibilities: Our guest house is playing its part, as each room is furnished with a starter pack of four condoms to assist those who might have omitted to be so provisioned. In my case, I took no recourse to this gesture of hospitality. The anti-HIV campaign is very much at street level, too. I overhead a conversation between two bank clerks, with one asking the other whether she had gone to be tested. The other replied that she saw no reason to be tested. But her interrogator persisted, and told her that one’s status does change and one needs to be up to date. She replied that there had been no change in her life to warrant new testing. When I had a chance, I enquired whether the questioner was the HIV-AIDS czarina of the bank. Her reply was reassuring: She said that she was not, but was merely making sure that everyone took advantage of the opportunity to get tested at a booth conveniently located just outside the bank.

And as I stepped out of the bank later, a street vendor sidled up and asked whether I would like to buy some of his wares. When I asked what he had to sell, he told me it was something “For man, sah,” the exact words that were used to me a few months earlier while on a visit here. Then, it was a sachet of little blue pills from India and now, sachets of condoms, again from India. It was the same peddler, too. I asked him what he saw in me that made him feel that I was a potential customer for his range. He did not see the humour.

Seedy perhaps, but Freetown, it would appear, has at least one reason to be proud, in seriously taking on the fight against sexually transmitted diseases. Talking about seediness- The physical state of the city is totally shambolic. Kroo Bay is much talked about in the international press and elsewhere as the quintessential slum, but there are many other areas in this city competing for this dubious accolade. In the less insalubrious areas, building maintenance is shockingly indifferent, whilst new buildings sprout up in a most disorderly manner, without any perceivable added value to the built environment. City planners are either in a state of stupor or otherwise are guilty of criminal negligence. “Will they ever be brought to book for this reckless abandonment?” one wonders. And as far as abandonment goes, it seems that the old Freetown Krio domestic architecture has been abandoned to the ravages of time. Many fine examples of these houses remain in various parts of the city, but sadly, the majority are in a state of elegant disrepair. I will have more to say about this in a future blog.

Tell Fren Tru

Things aren't always what they seem

The other day, we went to see the play “Seize The Day” by Kwame Kwei-Armah, at the Tricycle Theatre in north London. The play, one of a trilogy evoking the black experience in the UK, used the idea of a black candidate running for the office of Mayor of London to explore the contradictions facing black people, especially black youth, trying to find space in a generally unsympathetic environment.
The protagonist, Jeremy Charles, is a black TV presenter, who, while filming for an ad on a street corner, is caught on camera breaking up a potential mugging involving a gang of black youths. And of course, Charles was subsequently hailed as a hero, which afforded opportunists in the black community a pretext to conscript him as a candidate in an upcoming mayoral election. But Charles, like the rest of us, is weighed down by his own ambiguities. Trapped in a loveless, childless marriage to a white woman, he is two-timing with a younger black one. For his apparent crime, Lavelle, a highly intelligent youth and leader of the gang, is put on probation on the proviso that he attends mentoring sessions at Jeremy’s home. Those who would recruit Jeremy Charles have their own skeletons rattling away in the background, which ultimately exposed their true purpose in drafting him. Thus, everything is not always as it seems, explaining the trilogy’s tag of “Not Black & White.”
The play, directed by the playwright, is finely balanced between the main characters, all of whom bring a leavening touch of humour to the serious matters under interrogation. The set is minimalist, but that in no way detracts from the gripping sense of expectation as the scenes change and the play drives on. This is a play that has something for everyone, regardless of where on the racial divide you sit. It is not unlikely that it will come to a theatre near you, as the Tricycle has proved a remarkable springboard from which numerous productions have stormed the West End and beyond. The playwright, of Afro-Caribbean descent, has also made his mark not only across the UK, but also on the other side of the Atlantic as well. So look out for this un-missable theatrical event, wherever you are.

Tell Fren Tru

The Sour Taste of Peace-Nobel Palaver

America has once again dominated the Nobels. Of the 10 names announced so far, 7 are American. I suppose this reflects the enabling atmosphere America provides for its scientists, whether native-born or foreign-born. However, I hesitate to populate the same universe with birthplace and the name Obama, because of the temptation it offers the lunatic fringe. Not that it really needs any temptation. It generates it own dynamic all by its own unlovely self. However, this Peace award will remain controversial anyway, as happens with Peace awards in general, although you would think that when an award for peace is given, peace, goodwill and restraint will flow all around. But no. This is why the sciences are so appealing. They are rock solid, by and large. And, by and large, they improve the lot of man. But “peace” is another matter. On the face of it a good thing, it never works out to be the zero sum game that is expected of it. Someone, somewhere, feels that he or she has been shortchanged and, in consequence, retires into a sulk. It leaves nations and communities sour. Never mind the smiles and the hand shakes. They’re only done for the cameras. But deep down, there is seething resentment. So, what to do? Should we not make peace or attempt to do so? It’s better than war by a long mile. So, those who think that America is losing ground because of a President that loves to make peace, they ought to think about the alternative.
Tell Fren Tru

Outdoing the BNP

One thing that always amazes me is the fuss that the so-called white working-class make about the imagined threat posed by immigrants. Every now and again, especially when the economy takes a downturn or undergoes some other kind of shift, this group angrily emerges from its self-created ghetto to complain about how they are being displaced by newcomers, a code for people of colour. They direct their anger not only at the immigrant worker, but also at the political class who, they claim, ignores their predicament.

What I don’t get is how it is possible for newcomers to waltz in, take jobs, secure housing and access other social amenities which the WWC think belong to them by right. Yet, if you talk to the newcomers the overwhelming response is that they are the ones who suffer the scourge of discrimination, and that if they take anything at all, it is almost always the scraps that they are grudgingly handed out: The worst jobs, regardless of qualifications – frequently of high value -- and at minimum wage or worse; shoddy housing and grudging access to other social services. The jobs that they are forced to take are disdained by the WWC, whose sense of entitlement prevents them from condescending to dirtying their hands or bending their backs.

Meanwhile, the white middle class forge ahead and grab every opportunity that comes their way and, in consequence, are forever upwardly mobile. Many immigrants aspire to get a foot on this ladder and when they do, they too, leave a resentful white working class behind seething in their bitter laager. This anger is directed not only at the immigrant, but also at the political elite, many of whom were once part of that same working class but who had the grit to bootstrap themselves up and thereby get a juicier slice of the cake.

Enter the extreme right wing parties, whose only political philosophy is xenophobia. They swagger about in the hoods, (no, not those hoods; too sophisticated for that kind of dressing up) bearing messages of hate and intimidating law-abiding citizens, including many in the mainstream political parties. These latter, feeling out-maneuvered, are compelled to dip a toe into the murky waters of bigotry and in no time at all, the political climate changes and social cohesion is in jeopardy. The contest then becomes, in Britain, for example, who is going to outdo the BNP? The ruling Labour Party or Her Majesty’s loyal Conservative Party opposition?

Someone needs to tell the WWC to get off their duff and acquire the skills necessary for survival in a free trade world, relentlessly serving up new challenges-- and opportunities. This should be the job of the mainstream political parties, but somehow, I doubt that they have the guts to do it.

Tell Fren Tru

Could Do Better… 2009 Mo Ibrahim Prize not awarded

The message is clear. African leaders have to clean up their act.
It is remarkable and disappointing that in the year a new kid came to the block and snagged the Nobel Peace Prize without apparently even trying, not one among the multitude of Africa’s tired old relics came within a whiff of the Mo Ibrahim Prize for good governance. To be fair, the terms of reference of the Nobel Prize are somewhat more relaxed. According to the old man’s will, the prize may be awarded to “the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses.” So anyone or indeed, anything for that matter can get it just by going through the right motions. But even so, there were some years when the prize could not be awarded, especially during the periodic episodes of madness that overtook European leaders, plunging humanity into world wars. But in peace time, the committee had always found someone or some organization that could pass muster. Africans have even been awardees, for chrissakes.

But this year, the Mo Ibrahim Prize Committee found no one fit enough to merit the African Leadership Prize. Mind you, conditions for award are rather tighter than for the Nobel; I paraphrase here: “Eligible candidates must be former executive heads of state or government in any sub-Saharan African state who have taken office through democratic elections and who have left office in the previous three years, having served the constitutional term as stipulated when taking office. They must also have governed well enough for their country to have a decent standing in the Mo Ibrahim Index of African Governance.”

So, for the year 2008, not one of the retiring leaders fulfilled the criteria as laid down by the committee. Neither John Kuffor nor Thabo Mbeki was apparently up to scratch. Both of these gentlemen had been deemed the front runners, but not even one of the 10 or so of the other leaders who stepped down between 2006 and 2008 got off the blocks.

We need not need to despair, however. This is a chance to encourage our leaders to do better. They just have to try harder.

Tell Fren Tru

Dirty Dancing -Glossy fluff

I went to see “Dirty Dancing,” the musical, at London’s Aldwych the other day. As usual, London theatre tickets are over-priced. But because it was my wife’s birthday, I thought “What the heck,” and paid the £38 ticket price plus the premium Ticket Master’s online booking premium. Our seats were box seats (so-called) which, I would have thought, should have given us an unobstructed view of the stage. Well, they didn’t. Although the dancing was good (not much dirt in it), the singing was indifferent. And the electronically enhanced music was far too loud. All of these would have been tolerable except that the storyline was excessively thin. I must have missed something though, since the thing has been running for three solid years. By the way, if you go, don’t buy the souvenir programme. It would cost you more than £6 for nothing more than glossy fluff.

Tell Fren Tru

Heed The Signs

London, 3 October, 2009

I went for a walk this autumn morning, and was greeted by a great show orchestrated by gusts of seasonal wind stirring up the abundance of leaves topping the Elgin Avenue maples. And on the ground, brown ones chased each other around, under the command of capricious squalls darting in several directions all at once. As clouds raced high up in azure skies, I couldn’t help thinking that it was great to be alive in this fantastic world of ours. What an organism! A one that goes through cycles of autumnal decay followed by regeneration, millennia after millennia, and in yet more to come. Unless we go and spoil it all.  But can we really? The stuff that are the cause of our present anxieties are themselves of the earth. The generation-regeneration cycle had dealt with all that CO₂ and methane that had once made the air too poisonous to breathe, were mopped up by trees like these maples and then locked up in subterranean vaults.  We too are part of this regenerative process in a world that is just too smart to allow any of its inhabitants to do it irreversible injury. All we have to do is heed its signals. Otherwise, it will deal with us.

Tell Fren Tru

Sierra Leone Discovers Oil

Fantastic! This is the news we have been waiting for. We can now all sit back, relax and watch the dollars roll in. We do not have to do one more day’s honest work. We can now shelve all our responsibility as citizens and leave everything in the hands of the government, because, henceforth, everything is going to be alright. Or will it?

Look at Nigeria. See how far they have moved in the half-century since they struck oil there. They are rich, bolshie and assertive. On the surface. But we don’t even need to dig deep to recall the wars, political upheavals and societal disruptions that have turned the country sideways. Forty years after Biafra, the Delta is festering in an environmental catastrophe, and mayhem and extortion are the order of the day. And the extorting is not limited to disaffected youth who are demanding a piece of the action. The larceny and extortion are at the highest echelons of society and at levels that cause the eyes to water. Still, governors, Presidents and their hangers-on continue to help themselves to millions, if not billions, while the lowly citizen, whose land is being devastated, has nothing to celebrate.

I used to think that the curse on Sierra Leone was our diamonds, in that they were tiny and so easily smuggleable, to coin a word. On the other hand, we have seen how ultra-large carriers, full of Nigerian light sweet, can execute a disappearing act so slick (no pun intended), as to make diamond trafficking look clumsy.

So we have all the lessons to learn from our big brother down the coast. But we have internal lessons of our own as well, including those from diamonds and iron ore, and how the regions where these resources are found have suffered their own crippling neglect.

Now is the time to set down the benchmarks and draw the line beyond which we will not allow our leaders to go. Now is the time for us to declare what we expect from oil revenues (which, by the way, are still only presumptive. We do not know the extent of the reserves or their quality). I highlight our leaders because they are the custodians of our national and natural assets. We have no right to expect oil or other extractive companies to look upon our needs with fatherly concern and provide for our welfare. That is the job of those who have been given the electoral mandate to look after us and our affairs. They are under the obligation to demand and secure the best deal, not only for the country as a whole, but especially also for the areas where the extraction is taking place. If these latter feel they have not been given a fair share, we will only be piling up trouble for our country, which has suffered enough at the hands of a usually incompetent and corrupt leadership.

Let us demand therefore, that the details of every agreement, contract, arrangement, codicil etc, be put in the public domain. We owe it to ourselves to be forever wakeful and vigilant. Only in this way will we begin to reassert ourselves as a nation of people with vision, energy and drive, ready to take our destiny in our own hands.

Tell Fren Tru