Odyssey of the Heart: Sierra Leone

what happiness looks like

Chapter 1: Longing For

Africa to the T gate. I’ll try not to feel like this section of the airport was partitioned just for us Africans, lol. Fine. I won’t be super American and overly analytical about it. I’ll just enjoy the shuttle ride, I thought to myself.

Leg 1 of the two-day journey was smooth. I slept the whole way and barely ate.

mandatory pre-departure selfie

Brussels. Africans. Oh, Africans going home. When I saw the black leather pants in a row, I knew they were going to Francophone Africa---Cameroon or Congo to be exact. When I saw the blackest stuntin’ dreadheads spittin’ wollof, I KNEW they were going to the Gambia. But when I saw the sneakers, hats, vests, swag on 1,000 and know-it-all-talkin’ people, I knew they [we] were going to Sierra Leone. And even if I missed those things, the three-year-old girl decked out in the two-piece denim vest set with furry boots screamin’ “Look am yah. Kalilu dey nah yah,” would have been a dead give away. Gate T 67, Flight 241 to Freetown now boarding.

Malaria medicine. Okada power. Lights out. I’m here. Breeze blowin,’ ferry chillin.’ I’m here. If I ever wanted so badly to paint a picture with my words through the journey of mind, this would be the time. Si-erra Le-oooone (Say this like Frank Ocean). Who are you, if you don’t know where you are from? I can recall my first trip back to the birthplace of my parents in 2006. My mother watched my brother and I as we assessed the brick red, clay dirt roads, trashed streets. Two American-born children making their first visit to the place that created their parents. At that moment, my mother said to us, “I know you guys are wondering why I brought you here, but you have to see where you all are from.” Out of this nation, my parents existed and therefore I exist. Through the red dirt roads, pan body homes, palm trees. Out of those things, I exist. Those words from my mother echo in my mind each time I think of Sierra Leone and my future. But we’ll get there.

“Welcome,” the men on the tarmac said as I stepped off of the last step of the big, Brussels airplane, boasting of the holidaymakers’ arrivals (JC). He smiled. I said, “Thank you, una tenki.” Felt good. I had been yearning to be there since I stepped on the tarmac at Helicot seven years ago. I cried when I was leaving last time. For the connection that I felt. For the first taste of what it meant to be of this place. For the plight of my people and for the work that I felt charged to do. The same tears rimmed my eyes upon arrival.

Had to wipe those tears quickly though because Lungi Airport during the holiday season is no joke. If you ever wonder why you should travel as lightly as possible, try arriving with more than one piece during this time. Figuring out who is really there to pick you up and be of real assistance is a task in itself. Lucky me, somehow I had two people waiting to pick me up at the airport. One route would have me splashing through this river on the $40.00 speedboat that my mother had warned vehemently against. And the other would subject me to the ferry, which I have never minded until January 10^th---but more on that later.

My aunt sent a woman to collect me at the immigration post. She asked if I was Bintu and I responded yes. I assume that my aunt must have described her American niece, as a cute, chocolate-y, shapely, chic with a flair. Okay, fine, maybe she didn’t. Either way, the woman found me. Together we proceeded to collect my two suitcases that screamed “traveling to Africa,” because only Africans buy those types of suitcases from the DC Farmer’s Market. After I lugged my suitcases from the carousel [alone], I wheeled them back to her where we placed them on a cart. Before we headed out, I needed to show my yellow card record of the proper immunisations, which due to the fact that no one has ever asked me for, I left in my drawer in Panama. But in true fashion of developing countries, the guy said that I was OK since I was with this particular woman. It’s the small things, lol.  On our way out I noticed that she asked a guy to push the cart, and as an experienced traveller, I asked if she knew the guy and if he was trustworthy enough to be wheeling all of my summer essentials. She quickly retorted that she was a police officer and that this was her partner. Of course I should have never doubted that my aunt would send anyone incapable of obtaining her trust. She’s tough.

And there she stood as we walked out of the airport. My mom’s little sister. Or as we say in Krio, ‘di wan wey e call beyen,’ which translates to the one that she [my mother] called (after birth). I embraced my aunty Kumba and quickly began catching her up to all that an aunty needs to know. About myself. About mommy. About Eddie. About my daddy. About family things. Family feuds. The whole nine. And of course, about the hottest topic in an African family with an educated daughter/niece in her mid 20s---my love life. And of course prospects for marriage. A recurring theme in conversations when you're in your 20s, lol.

We rode from the airport to the dock to get on the ferry that would take us into Freetown. We jazzed on the ride, relaxed, and chatted together. Even took a couple of selfies. I felt good being with my aunty. Just she and I after a few years. She really is like a second version of my mom.

Even though I arrived when it was already dark, just like the last time, I made it a point to be observant. To take in everything about my surroundings. To watch roads. To watch people. To take mental notes. More mental notes than pictures, I told myself. This time, unlike the last time, I wanted to have a good sense of where I was going. Literally. Figuratively.

The next few days were spent sleeping and eating. And requesting dishes since I was a guest. But I was completely content having bread, fry-fry, stew, fish, plantains for breakfast everyday. Lol. And lucky me, I had two places of residence while I was home. My aunty’s house on Spur Loop, where I would kick it with my cousins, sit outside and overlook the hills in the city, enjoy sugar cane, pray for light, and receive visitors. And then I had my get-away, where I would---well you guessed---get away ;)  lots of space. A glistening view of the ocean. Staff to cater to my needs and all around sweetness. Just being spoiled like the queen that I am.

 

In all of this goodness, I had lost a sight of the fact that I was travelling in Sierra Leone and forgot some of the idiosyncrasies of being in a developing country. I let the patience and calm that I prayed and worked so hard to achieve in Panama, slip out of the door. And I needed it most when I went to change my first $100.00 bill on the black market. I handed my money to this guy to change for me. He looked at the year on the bottom that tells the series. And he fixed his mouth to tell me that since it was 1996 series I could only get 400,000 LE for it as opposed to the going rate of 435,000 LE for 2006 and up series. First, I laughed. Then I got angry. And the more we travelled to get 435,000, the angrier I became. No one would give me 435 because the bill was 1996. They claimed that banks no longer accepted those series so the rate was much lower. But for the life of me, when I wake up to go to work everyday, and wait for the 15^th and the 30^th to get paid, and eagerly take my bank to Banco General to cash, not once does the discussion of what series I have been working for come up. Money is money. But they didn’t see it that way. I chalked it up to being the fascination/craving/wanting of all things new. There is a new $100.00 bill, something that my mom made me aware of, but knowledge by which I was not moved. Apparently, in the Sierra Leonean money market, this matters. Ditto. I ended up finding a guy that would give me 420,000. It took a while to decompress, #thingsyouhavetoadjustto #TIA

Who best to help you decompress than your family who have been waiting for years to see your face again. A large part of this trip was about family. Though I had my own agenda with community events and such, I wanted to spend time with my family and meet some of my dad’s family that I have never met. I knew that this trip would be emotional in a lot of ways. The last time I left Africa, my great grandmother and my grandmother were alive. They passed in January and May 2007 respectively. In fact when I bought my ticket back in July, I got excited at the thought of cracking jokes with my grandmother on her veranda. Then it dawned on me that this time I wouldn’t be able to crack jokes with her nor lie on the floor mat to feel the Harmattan breeze on her veranda; this time, I wouldn’t even get to see her in the flesh. Grandmas’ houses around the world always seem like the pillar. It shows that there is some hierarchy in the family.  Not this time. 

mommy, grandma and bee in 2007

On the brighter side I would get to meet my cousins from my dad’s sisters whom I had never met until this trip. But little did I know that there would be a whole host of aunties and uncles that I never knew existed.  Apparently, my paternal grandfather had over 30 children. Yes, 30 children. Right, I knew that my grandmother was the first of many wives. I think I recall my grandfather boasting that he had seven wives. What I don’t recall is anyone ever telling me that somewhere out there I had 30 something Musa aunties and uncles. Lol. That may or may not have been important information.

bintu and bintu <3

 

my partner in all young people affairs, lol.

As you know a Panama beach babe like myself couldn’t wait to hit the beach in my homeland. My aunty woke up early on Boxing Day and started preparing food for us to take to the beach. And I mean lots of food. Couscous, rice sticks, fried fish fingers, chicken, and beverages in a cooler. We set off on the bumpy road to No.2 River Beach. Just as we walked onto the sand, a petite chocolate girl grabbed my arm and said, “Bintu.” I looked at her trying to make sure I would say the right name. After a while, I too looked at the girl, and said “Bintu.” She responded yes and we embraced. This was my aunty Aminata’s daughter from Guinea. Both of us named after our beloved Grandmother. This was our first meeting, on the beach in Sierra Leone. Only fate could explain why I arrived at that time, why she decided to walk away from the beach at that time, and how two sisters who have never met could feel so connected. She came to see me several times a week after that. She stole my heart this Bintu girl. In a short time, our bond has become unbreakable. She recognized me from facebook. Thank you Mark Zuckerberg.

okada baby

My aunt would be coming in from Guinea soon for a big Musa wedding. The day she arrived she came to my aunty Kumba’s house to surprise me. I had been out with my friend having dinner at Bliss Restaurant on Wilkinson Road. My cousin came to pick us up and we got stuck in traffic on Signal Hill Road. I jumped on an Okada (for the 2nd time on my first day riding) and went to meet my sweet Aunty Aminata. Her presence, her sweetness, her warmth, the way she embraced me. Everything about her reminded me of my Guinean grandmother Bintu Janneh. 

#home.