Freetown @ 222

The number 222 is, among numerologists, hugely significant. A search on Google brings up in just 0.24 seconds, a boastful 341,000 results, the top ten of which tell of a wide variety of blessings that the number can bestow. So, one may hope that, at 222, Freetown could be on the threshold of another beginning leading to much happier times. Doubt me not. I love the place dearly but I also always think that it has a whole lot of room for improvement.

The exact date of the birthday is subject to debate, with a range of options from which one can choose. A fairly obvious one is that date in March 1792 when the first of the small flotilla of ships that left Halifax, Nova Scotia six weeks earlier, entered the mouth of the Sierra Leone River; or if one likes, one can pick the day when the flagship of the commander, the youthful Lieutenant John Clarkson, the Lucretia, dropped anchor at St George’s Bay; or, indeed, the day when the first wobbly-legged arrivals stepped on dry land after their long sea voyage. But of all these, perhaps the most emotionally-loaded day is that first Sunday, March 11, when the group of hopefuls congregated around the prominently located and, by now, venerated Cotton Tree, to give a praise of thanksgiving for their deliverance.

That occasion was re-enacted a few days ago, when descendants of those Nova Scotians and indeed the descendants of others rescued from slavery in the ensuing century, gathered around that same Cotton Tree to celebrate the survival of the city from those early days. True, the beginnings of the city were far from auspicious, with less than 1200 free black men, women and children plunged into a hostile environment in which they were at risk of capture and re-enslavement by aggressive slavers who had their headquarters just a few miles up the river at their Bunce Island stronghold. And besides, the indigenous people, from whom land had been bought to plant the new colony, soon began to have twinges of seller’s remorse.  Moreover, disease and the climate ravaged through the infant colony that was short of the basic necessities of food and shelter, and not to mention the incompetence, greed and to some degree, malice from the British Parliament-sanctioned Sierra Leone Company that had organized and subsidized the entire venture.

When Lieutenant Clarkson, who became the colony’s first governor, left at the end of 1792, his confidence in its future was not high. His doubts were articulated in a twelve-hundred word prayer so patronizing, that it is a wonder that the colony did not actually sink under its weight. But survived it did and here we are, 222 years on with a city more or less ready, we think, to take on new challenges and, perhaps, realize its full potential at last.

Tell Fren Tru

The Protected Hole

I posted this photo on my Facebook page a few days ago, but on reflection, I thought the image needed fuller treatment.

What is amazing about the hole in question is that it has endured for so long. One would have thought that the person responsible for filling up holes in roads would have noticed it by now and done something about it. Or, if it had managed to escape his or her keen eye someone else must have brought it to their attention. For crying out loud, the thing is located on a “FO-RODE”, the intersection of four roads, all major, and through which traffic passes into and out of central Freetown.  So, one has to conclude that it is a marker of some purpose. It is obvious that a thing of beauty it is not, unless our Master or Mistress of The Roads comes from an aesthetic that is uniquely different from yours and mine. 

Is its purpose functional? I would have thought not. It is difficult to see what use a 2 metre-diameter hole could serve in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. I know. You say it slows down the traffic and prevents reckless speeding. But there are other ways in which traffic is slowed down throughout the city, but which we won't bother with right now. So, I can’t buy that. Nor can I buy a proposition that it serves as a drain  to take the run-off from Freetown’s famously extreme downpours. That definitely does not wash because, if it was one, shouldn’t it have a grill cover to prevent the unsuspecting from being washed in as well?

I can’t think of any other purpose, try as I might. Except, perhaps, that perennial, ever-lurking about in Salone. The one staring me in the face all along, hidden right there, in plain sight. But here, I have to lower my voice an octave or so: It could be a “Debble Hole” (Devil Hole). And no one dares touch it. Even talking about it is risky enough and one may have truly exceeded the bounds of caution by actually photographing it. The mere thought of the transgression makes me quite nervous now.

Meanwhile, the thing stays in place. Till Doomsday, one presumes.

We just have to learn to love it.

Tell Fren Tru

The Plate To Die For

I don’t know, but whenever there is a lot to be said, I tend to clam up. (Good thing, you might say). This affliction befalls me nearly every time I come home to Sierra Leone, and this occasion has been no different. I suppose the loss of ability to communicate in the face of plenty is not peculiar to me only. I remember an old acquaintance of my father’s relating how his six year old son suddenly lost his power of speech when he first took his family to America. On arrival and for months subsequently, the poor lad was struck utterly speechless, unable to say anything at all notwithstanding the attentions and ministrations of the doctors and therapists that the heft and means a diplomat father newly-arrived in Washington DC could wield. Until, about six months afterwards when, without any warning at all and apropos of nothing in particular, the boy blurted out: “Papa, America big!” Obviously, my degree of information overload is not as catastrophic as Drew’s, as I shall call him, but I do see where he was coming from.

So, forgive me for apparently dissing those who follow Tell Fren Tru. I did not mean to ignore you. My “mouth was too full”, as we say. Freetown is a place that assaults the five senses, big time. Once you manage to get across the water from Lungi airport, you are treated with an enormous array of sights, smells, sound and, best of all, taste.

By and large, the smells are a prelude to the taste, as more often than not, you discern the aroma of fish being smoked over a wood-fired “banda”. And this is fish that ultimately finds its way into sauces of extraordinary flavours that rock the palate to its limits and threaten to ruin the beltline as well. Smoked fish and savory sauces unfortunately have to compete with odours emanating from other sources including drains that don’t flow, blocked by months of accumulated rubbish. A company has been hired to clean the city, unblock the drains and sweep the streets, but the results are hard to see.

The soundscape is no less lurid. There is permanent noise wherever you go. If it is not the honking of horns, it is the blaring of loudspeakers entertaining a particular clientele, supposedly. But sound, being sound has a habit of going beyond its target audience and the bystander does get blasted as well.  The relentless honking of horns, in what passes for driving here, is a constant irritant as one drives along streets packed with pedestrians, taxis, private vehicles and the suicidal okada. For those of you who do not know, the okada is a motor bike taxi that is now the quickest way of getting around the city of Freetown and even elsewhere. In this case, quick is almost synonymous with unsafe. But we won’t go into that, except to say that, by and large, driving around here is a blood sport for which, it is said, you can obtain a licence without going through the inconvenience of either the driving school or a road test.

For those sitting in four wheeled vehicles, the traffic is a crawl that provides great marketing opportunities for street hawkers. While thus held captive, one can buy nearly everything needed to run a household. I joke not. I actually saw one guy who was a virtual supermarket with an inventory that was only slightly less than what you might find at Amazon.com. Unfortunately, I fell victim to one sales pitch and bought a multi-tailed USB connector made in China, having forgotten my single-tailed one somewhere on my journey here.

The multi-tailed device did not work and those in the know chided me for not being adequately street-wise.

Besides being scammed with substandard Chinese manufacture, there is an atmosphere of mass entertainment on the streets, so that by the time you arrive at your destination, the oppressive journey would have been much lightened by antics observed and snatches of conversations overheard. One of the sights that I enjoy is the vanity vehicle license plates, but for me, the one to die for is the yellow-plated one favoured by a class that proclaims “MP Con #...” presumably announcing the presence of an august (“Honourable” is the preferred term) Member of Parliament representing the constituency numbered on the plate. 

 I haven’t quite finished with the soundscape yet because I cannot resist mentioning the contribution to the cacophony by the newspapers, so- called. What is he talking about? you wonder. Well, if one can manage to read the usually vanishing print, one is likely to see a massive caption that headlines a story about some misdeed by a public official or business enterprise or whatever. At Le1500 a copy, I reckon they are mostly overpriced for the few pages that contain what can be described as news. But when they do manage to hold your attention, there is much to make you laugh out loud, suck your teeth or both.

Freetown and surroundings at this time of year is quite dusty, but you can still see how its fading beauty is being ravaged by uncontrolled erection of buildings during the current building boom. I suppose that the city will somehow survive this destructive tendency but without its green credentials, unfortunately; highways are in the process of being constructed, an open invitation for people to build in forested areas that were previously inaccessible. If only someone would take a few moments to plan localities and residential areas.

We are still a touchy-feely society in spite of our history of civil war. So coming back home, you enjoy the full range of sensations and wonder why you keep on not being here. For most of us the answer is complex and it would take pages to render one coherently.

Whither Salone, then? The country is already sinking under the weight of punditry and I would not dare add to that burden. The radio waves are full of it and everywhere you turn there is an NGO, clipboard in hand, collecting data to assess where the country stands in international league tables of desirable attributes. All I can say is that I like what I see and, with a little bit of luck, we will muddle through.

Tell Fren Tru