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
