In the King James Bible, there is a passage in the Book of Psalms that reads, “If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, Let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; If I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy”. Such were the thoughts that ran through my head concerning Freetown as we approached the city on the ferry-ride across the estuary from Mahera. We had arrived in the early morning at Freetown’s International Airport, located on the north side of the Sierra Leone River at Lungi, and I could not resist the comparison between my Freetown and the Jerusalem of the psalmist. Over the top? Perhaps.
But the city is the place of my youth and my dreams, both of which forever pull me back. However, we know that neither youth nor dreams can be reprised, however much one might wish. Freetown is what it is, and it would be idle to expect it to behave otherwise or be different. It is a chaotic place, rambunctious, dirty and smelly, and reminds one of another great city of old, the London of novelist, Charles Dickens. We hadn’t been to Sierra Leone since before the pandemic and expectations were high. Five years is a long time, enough for big changes to take place, good and bad.
There is no better way for the newly arrived to assess a city’s vitality than in the way in which people are moved about. It was no different for this arrival. One striking thing was that there were hardly any four-wheeled, yellow-liveried taxis on the roads in contrast to the before-times. Instead, there were hordes, hordes of motorized tricycles, known by their alliterative name ‘ke-ke’, similar to the tuk-tuks of east Asia.
Ke Ke's carry up to three passengers (at a squeeze) and, like their two- wheeled competitors, the “Okada” motorcycles that also, at times, unbelievably, carry three, are no respecters of traffic regulations or road safety. They dart about, at speed, weaving in between and among cars and SUV’s, competing with each other as to who or what would be the most reckless.
The public transport landscape has changed in other ways too, with government owned buses, called “Waka Fine”, (“Go Well”), my translation, moving people between the city’s centre and its outskirts.
Of course, no good deed goes unpunished, and there is massive controversy surrounding the deployment of the busses and which, like most Salone controversies, is beyond comprehension. I know. Public transport is a tripwire anywhere in the world, with the assortment of interested parties, ranging from commuters themselves, to transport operators, City Hall functionaries, central government, and busybody public commentators all putting in their pennyworth.
For the pedestrian, using city roads is essentially running a gauntlet, from the unpaved side roads to those in the city’s central core. I do not have the words to describe the engineering anomalies in the interface between the road surface and the sidewalks except to say that they are totally idiosyncratic. An obstacle course for the able-bodied to be sure. But for the differently able, from those living with the aftermath of polio or spinal tuberculosis, or the unsighted, it must be a challenge beyond measure. However, to see them operate in this environment, eking out a living, is truly humbling.
Meanwhile, another controversy rumbles along, at a low level: The one concerning the attempted coup in November last year, that was or wasn’t. Not everyone seems convinced that a putsch had been attempted. Some think that the entire operation was a false flag that was designed to get the opposition, official and unofficial into trouble. The chief suspect (my definition), the erstwhile President of the Republic, has been granted leave to go to Nigeria to seek “medical attention”. Meanwhile, he’s being tried in absentia (I think that’s what they are doing) in court proceedings that seem to descend deeper and deeper into farce at every hearing. Even the prosecutors themselves seem to lack conviction. No pun intended.
None of this would matter if the economy were performing well, at least well enough to provide livelihoods for the majority. Since the currency, the Leone, was re-denominated - central banker speak for devaluation - about 2 years ago, consumer prices have responded accordingly, and many citizens are finding it challenging to provide their essential daily needs. The poor try to mitigate their condition by going into small, really small, indeed micro, retail sector businesses, flooding the streets, in their thousands, competing with one another in the off-loading of imported merchandise of doubtful utility. They obviously succeed, otherwise they wouldn’t be doing that sort of business. In that way they absolve the government of the responsibility of creating good, paying jobs. I’ve heard of “trickle-down economics”, but never of movement in the opposite direction, defying gravity. Have you? It seems, though, that Orwell’s underclass, his ‘down and outs’ are holding up the well-to-do, who are apparently doing very well indeed, which perhaps gives hope that one day, soon, the tide might turn in the favour of the poor, when wealth will spread in all directions.
Until then, the tentacles of suffering creep everywhere within the underclass, among the destitute, and perhaps, inexplicably, among the not so destitute, who seem to have taken to the way of KUSH, and which will be the subject of my next blog post.
It was a sad moment when we came upon the stump of Freetown’s landmark Cotton Tree that was felled during a violent storm in May last year. Its indomitable spirit lives on, however, clothed in fresh green foliage around its residual buttresses.
The last time I wrote, I rashly promised that I would do a comparison between Gambian and Sierra Leone cuisine. As I am still in the region, I will hold my piece, oops, peace until I return to more neutral territory back in Canada.
Tell Fren Tru
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