As the water from the Sierra Leone River (yes, it’s actually
called that) rushed to my feet, I realized quickly that I would not leave this
experience, without some sort of trauma. The ferry had not been docked
appropriately and the tides were high. So while we had just run trailing the
mob of men that held our suitcases above their heads, we were now faced with treading
in river water barefooted to enter the ferry in
hopes of making it both dry and alive to our Brussels Flight. If this were a
movie, this scene would have been filled with the type of music symphony they
play when there is chaos going on and the immediate future is uncertain. Before
I had the chance to protest, a young man scooped me up, slumped me over his
shoulder and ran up the ramp with me. Who was I to complain; I had been sliding
down the ramp while attempting to walk up with my black, Old Navy thong
sandals, that apparently weren’t made for ferry catching attempts in Sierra Leone.
When he put me down and extended his hand, waiting for me to pull out Leones,
because “nah e tote me kam up,” I realized that I was remiss in one important
factor when travelling in Sierra Leone. Ah nor been get ‘small tin,’ for gi,
which translates to small thing, which are tips you give to people along the way
as bribery or for general assistance. I had given all of my Leones away to my
cousins figuring they would make better use of it, than I would in Panama. I
imagined that he damned me all the way down, the narrow, winding, metal steps
of the ferry. Even though, I gave him a remark that was laced with my general
frustration of the country’s situation, I felt a deep sense of effed-up-ness; I
was overwhelmed.
---As if the last few days hadn’t been emotionally jarring
enough for me just preparing to leave, there was the long a%&$^%# ride to
East End, which us West Enders dread. There was the traffic where my mom and
aunt complained about the lawlessness of the people. There were the liberal
attempts I made to justify why there was such lawlessness and thieves. There
were the memories of my mother and aunt as we passed Bishop Johnson Memorial School, where they attended. There were the comments about how poor the roads
were, how they used to be able to walk around with their heels from end to end.
These damn roads in modern day post-war Freetown, don’t allow for that, they
grieved. They saw it and rebuked it with a sense of disgust. I saw it from the
lens of a future development worker, of a liberal-minded and Western-educated,
Sierra Leonean enthusiast. I saw the possibilities. But that’s that. As I write
this even, I realize that my lens is different. That my mom or aunt, or many
people can’t understand why I would be willing to leave all of my comforts to
go and work and live in sweet Sierra Leone. I would simply tell them, it’s my
journey. It’s my odyssey, and this is an affair of the heart. Our sweet Sierra
Leone awaits us. If not us, then who?
In my last days in Freetown, besides the East End experience,
there was Ibrahim. Ibrahim who touched my heart in an uncanny way for someone
who doesn’t say much. Ibrahim who wore
his hood from his oversized jacket to protect himself and soul from the harsh,
dry Harmattan breeze. Ibrahim who never showed late up to his nighttime
security guard post in his boss’ compound. Ibrahim who takes care of his two
brothers after his older siblings died. Ibrahim who watches for any potential
risks to the compound with his WASSCE (West African Senior Secondary School
Certificate Examination) study guide in hand. Ibrahim who needs to pass this
test with flying colors so that he can have any chance at providing a better
life for his nephews now turned sons. Ibrahim who pays his own lesson fees for
extra practice, feeds his nephews before himself, takes care of them before
getting his rest and studies when he should be sleeping during the day. Ibrahim
who we told to come upstairs. Ibrahim became the security guard who was afraid
when summoned by his boss. A sometimes arrogant, mess-with-your-mind type of boss,
but a boss who recognized the struggle, because he lived through it and never
forgets where he came from type of boss. Ibrahim who didn’t know what to
expect, walked up the steps and took his seat on the balcony that extended
above his post. Ibrahim who answers his boss with a “yes sir,” sat there, eyes
wide preparing for the worst when Bossman said “I want you to go home.” Bossman
wasn’t firing him; Bossman wanted him to take his time to study. He promised to
pay his salary and for his lesson fees, without Ibrahim having to come to work,
stay up all night, blue WASSC book in hand, trying to study with drifting
eyelids, all while listening to the sounds of the night, thieves not being his
biggest concern. Ibrahim, who now has a better chance at making something of
himself because now he can actually sleep adequately, study effectively, and
generate income, things so basic, is the one who brought the single tear to my
eye on this night in Freetown. The only difference between a boy like Ibrahim
and say my little brother for example, is that my parents somehow made it to
the west, hustled, worked odd jobs for status, lots of 12-hour shifts to afford
us comforts, and ended up in the right place. People would say: you are so blessed to have
had this opportunity. Another might say to him: you are so blessed to have gone
to school, to have income, to have survived. Blessings, you see, are relative.
The networks, the potential partnerships, envisioning myself
being a part of the expat community, or the diaspora,excitement to plan
events---I just saw myself in a way that says I could do this in the future. Who’s
to say when this will actually happen? That’s what makes this an odyssey of the
heart; one never can really tell how love will end for there is so much
uncertainty.
