First and foremost, I'd been told Independence Day was one of the most festive days of the year, so it promised to be an edifying immersion in Salone culture. In this respect at least, I was not disappointed.
On the eve of Independence Day, Sheik called me up and told me to meet him at the clock tower in the East end shortly after 10 p.m. to watch the annual Lantern Festival.
In essence, this is a tradition in which various communities throughout Freetown build floats that parade through the streets from both the West and East ends, finishing in the middle around 1 or 2 a.m. Each float is followed by a truck or poda-poda laden with massive speakers to blast Salone music, with a crowd of 40 revelers or so dancing alongside their respective creations.
In general, I thought the floats were very well done, particularly those built by East end communities, which tended to carry political messages, commenting on the judicial system or depicting scenes of police brutality. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It quickly became clear this night would end up making even my Salone music initiation seem tame. I was a little late getting away, thanks to the famously slow service at Senegalese, where I'd grabbed dinner to catch up with my buddy, ABJ. I dodged home quickly and was locking the door when Sheik called again.
"Just wanted to warn you - don't let anyone see your cell phone."
"Oh, okay. So ... I probably shouldn't bring my camera, eh?"
"No, I'd leave that at home tonight."
I returned inside, dropped off my camera and changed into a pair of shorts that had zippered pockets. Before I was even off Wilkinson Rd., the street from which Smartfarm branches, I was grateful for Sheik's warnings. There was no way I was getting anywhere with public transportation. I took a quick glance at the street and just started walking. Even six or seven kilometers out of the downtown, the roads were positively rammed with revelers.
I left my house at around 10:30. I arrived home again at 1:30 a.m. In the intervening three hours, I walked from Smartfarm to the East end and back. Without exaggeration, I would say I saw at least 200,000 fellow Freetonians. One of them was white. One. And even he was a few kilometers away from the center of the action, and moving in the opposite direction.
By the time I reached the landmark Cotton Tree in the heart of the downtown, the night's events would be best described as pandemonium. A group of police officers were directing people away from the space in front of the law courts, where men and women of import were addressing the seething masses. Upon spotting me, one officer did a double-take and grabbed my arm, pulling me aside.
"You're just out for a stroll?" he inquired.
Amused by the assumption that my arrival into the midst of this insanity could have possibly been accidental, I explained that I was meeting a friend at the Eastern clock tower to watch the festival. After a brief pause, he started leading me to a roped-off area and a discussion ensued with one of his colleagues about whether or not he could escort me through this no-fly zone. I began to protest immediately.
The way I saw it, such an action could have two possible repercussions. The first would be a riot, as thousands of Sierra Leoneans became understandably angry about the blatant double-standard being shown to a foreigner. I actually kind of wish I believed that might have been their response, but I think a second scenario would be more likely, in which they quietly internalized the message that the rules don't apply as long as your skin's not black.
By and large, Sierra Leoneans treat foreigners with a great deal of respect and hospitality, but fail to show their countrymen and women the same degree of reverence. If they did, I think it would do wonders for the advancement of their nation.
Regardless, I was not prepared to send such a message. I explained to the officer that I'd prefer to risk losing my cell phone and wallet, and he reluctantly led me through the teeming tangle of humanity. A few feet to the left, one of his fellow officers encouraged a group of Sierra Leoneans forward with the wildly unnecessary cracking of a whip.
Within seconds of the officer ceasing his escort, someone stumbled in front of me and tried to nab my cell phone from my breast pocket. I batted his hand away and kept walking. Over the course of the next hour, this would become common. I moved my cell phone and loose bills from my breast pocket to the zippered one where my wallet was already stowed. The shorts I was wearing had eight pockets and seven of them would be thoroughly and repeatedly molested as I proceeded towards the agreed-upon meeting place with Sheik, but no one was brazen enough to attempt the zippered pocket, at least under my watchful eye.
Having bypassed the downtown center, I was now in the East end, the most densely populated and least affluent part of Freetown save for the soul-crushing poverty of the Kroo Bay slum. I trampled through garbage-strewn sidewalks, eventually reaching the clock tower where Sheik had suggested we meet. I looked around in futility, unable to place him in the immense crowd.
"Are you lost, white boy?" someone asked. It was a fair question. A few feet to my right, a group of young men were kicking and pounding the sides of two cars attempting to traverse the masses. I stuck out badly and stuck around only briefly before beginning the long walk home.
Still, though we didn't end up connecting, I like that Sheik invited me into this den of activity. He would never have done that six months ago, which I like to think indicates I've proven myself street-savvy in his eyes.
My adventure was only half over, though. I began walking home, flashing a smile in response to the calls of 'white boy'. On this night, they weren't people looking for money. Their voices and visages betrayed a mix of astonishment and respect, as if to say, "Who is this crazy cracker and where can we find more like him?"
After walking for a time, an ocada driver offered me a ride for Le 5000. It wasn't a ludicrous price, so I decided to reward him by not trying to negotiate a lower fare, and we set off through Kroo Bay. Almost immediately, someone stopped us to say that this frequently-plied route was not accessible on this evening.
I told my driver to turn back. He ignored me and tried to go forward. Someone who was obviously drunk pushed the bike forcefully and I pivoted off the back and began walking away immediately as a small crowd started to form around the driver. No one gave me a second glance as I walked off and, a few minutes later, I saw the driver whip past me, so I know he got away fine.
About a half hour later and considerably closer to home, I ran into my friend Mohamed. It's remarkable to me that in a city of nearly two million, I still seem to be forever running into someone I know, or at least someone who knows me. Mohamed began trying to insist I take a taxi home, offering to pay for it, but I was steadfast in my refusal.
Counter to the logic of locals, I'd decided after this bike incident that the safest form of travel on this night was pedestrian. A car may provide a physical barrier between you and potentially volatile masses, but it also restricts you. Taking a taxi or an ocada meant giving up the freedom of choice; I was going wherever the driver said I was going. The ability to steer clear of volatility on foot seemed infinitely preferable.
And to be fair, I didn't really witness or hear of much violence. Hell, small children were interspersed throughout the crowd even as I trudged home. While I am legitimately surprised I returned to Smartfarm with all my personal property in tact, the only time I felt threatened was when my ocada driver ignored my instructions, at our mutual potential peril.
Still, I'd rather live my life and sometimes feel afraid than be afraid to live my life. It's nights like these that leave me feeling sorry for the high-paid NGO workers and Embassy folks that move about the city in SUVs, with few opportunities to interact meaningfully with locals. What I witnessed was amazing, and enriching far beyond anything I could read about the Sierra Leonean way of life from inside my guarded compound.
Anyway, there were obviously more than two white folk present at the Lantern Festival, as I later discovered that my colleague Marie-Jo had been there as well. She took in the night's events from a considerably different viewpoint, watching - and videotaping - from above. Since it will no doubt give you a better feel for the night's festivities than my prosaic ponderings ever could, I have exercised the considerable patience needed to upload a couple of her videos for your viewing pleasure. Do not get used to this. It took about an hour.
The first clip ought to give you an idea of the crowd's immense size, while the second one shows one of the floats and it's attendant moving sound system. Enjoy!
Understandably, Independence Day itself had a hard time living up to the night that went before. But that sure didn't stop Sheik from again giving me the low-down on the day's events.
After he and I did some work on one of his JHR stories from his small, two-room dwelling, we ventured off to the home of his childhood friend, Sheku. Sheku lives in a second-floor apartment along Kissy Road, which just so happens to be the main route for the Independence Day masquerades, and Sheik had asked in advance if we could watch from their balcony. Though he's a devout Muslim that doesn't touch alcohol, he still managed to produce a Heineken for me and though I was battling a cold and didn't particularly want a beer, I wasn't about to come off as unappreciative.
I'd heard about these masquerades only briefly and I still don't really understand them. It might be somehow tied up in the creepy secret societies that are omnipresent in Sierra Leone, but the main demographic that made up the paraders were uneducated youth, predominately of the drunk and high variety. Truth be told, I imagine Sheik gave me a considerably more nuanced explanation of the events than I'm reproducing here, but I was exhausted from a night of little sleep.
What I do know is that I'm going to miss Sheik Daud Fofanah as much as anyone in Sierra Leone. From day one, he's been a remarkably good host to me and I only hope that someday soon he makes the trip to Canada to visit his uncle and cousins, and I have the chance to repay his considerable kindness. Just today, he presented me with two pairs of Salone sandals - one for me and one for the imaginary girlfriend - as a going-away present.
On Sunday night, Sheik and I attended a shindig for Marie-Jo's departure (She actually texted me mere minutes ago as she boarded her plane out of SL, leaving me as the last trainer standing). As Sheik and I walked home after a delightful evening of free beer/Fanta and good conversation, he informed me that he's decided to alter his initial plan of pursuing a law degree, believing he can make a bigger difference for his country by sticking with journalism.
The next morning, he was voted by his peers to be one of the editors of the Aureol Torch newspaper produced by the graduating class of the Mass Communications department at Fourah Bay College. He's also in the process of writing his thesis on juvenile justice and the media in Sierra Leone, which I will have the pleasure of editing. I fervently believe in his potential to be a great journalist, and it warms my heart to see his considerable passion for it growing through the work we've done together.
But I've digressed considerably yet again. Those readers blessed with long memories may recall that at the beginning of this boundless post, I intimated that the festivity of the occasion was merely one of the reasons I'd been looking forward to Independence Day. The other two revolved around anxieties that were markedly different in kind.
First off, I was anxiously awaiting Freetown's pyrotechnic coming-out party. April 27th had long been identified as the day Ernest Bai Koroma's government would triumphantly throw the switch on the Bumbuna Hydroelectric Project that has been in the works for nearly 40 years. It would bathe Freetown in nearly 24-hour power and extend its hand of promise to Makeni and other parts of the provinces. Or so went the lore.
In reality, our power continues to come just as inconsistently and unpredictably as always. We rely on the highly scientific system whereby some dude on a motorbike rides around the city flicking switches to rotate who gets light. "You've had enough. Your turn." I kid you not.
Against this backdrop, it never fails to amuse me to see a public notice advertising a two-hour break in the service of the National Power Authority; no one else seems attuned to the irony that any day that saw electricity for all but two hours would be a monumental success, not an inconvenience.
Admittedly, I've been here long enough not to be surprised that the Bumbuna target date was missed. I'm sure it wasn't the first such target in the last four decades. But it was more than a little disheartening to witness this day drift past without, at least to my knowledge, even the slightest acknowledgement that the promise had not been kept.
That no one seems surprised is unfortunately telling. That no one seems outraged is downright depressing. This promise was not a footnote in the APC platform - it was the single greatest government priority of the last two years.
I've read one article about the date being missed, which noted in a manner befitting a government propaganda piece, that Bumbuna is complete but cannot be launched until the rains start. That could be valid, though I'm skeptical. But if it is true, does that mean that this top priority will only actually benefit the country for half the year? For the sake of the APC's 2012 re-election hopes, it better not.
The second anxiety I associated with April 27th also came and went without so much as a mention - but in this case, that was a good thing. Though I hadn't heard any rumblings about renewed political violence in about a month, when the last spate of tom-foolery was unleashed, Independence Day had been bandied about as the date for a possible repeat performance.
Hopefully, when I depart the country for good in a little over a month, this will mean I have continued reasons for cautious optimism about the future of Sierra Leone - and that seems to me a fitting cause for the type of raucous celebration Independence Day was cloaked in.
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