“You don’t know what you missed, last night,” my friend broke in upon my reverie.
“I’m sure you dealt adequately with the situation,” I replied.
“What are the girls like in your country?” he asked. “I mean, are they different from the girls over here?”
“Women are women wherever they are.” I wanted to know exactly what he was after before committing myself.
“Oh, come on,” he chided. “I could see you were not interested last night, so it must be you don’t find the women attractive. What’s the difference between them and the women of your country—you know, British Guinea?”
“Guiana,” I corrected.
“O.K.—Guiana. Well, what’s the difference?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” I was borrowing his gimmick for the occasion. “If I had some money to invest in this country, I would set up a corset and brassiere factory. Strictly utilitarian, non-luxury products.”
He looked at me a moment, then roared with laughter till the trees threw the echoes back at us.
“Ah, so that’s it,” he said between guffaws. “Sort of shift the centre of interest, eh?” The idea tickled him as it played about in his mind.
“More than that. It seems to me that with a little artifice here and there your women could present themselves much more attractively. To be frank, some of them allow their bodies to become terribly distorted, especially after motherhood.”
“They seem O.K. to us,” he said. “Perhaps you see them that way because you’re new to them, while we are accustomed to them and they don’t seem odd to us.”
“And perhaps you don’t see them at all.” His line of argument emboldened me to make a direct point. “I get the impression since I have been in your country that after her early youth, when a woman can naturally present her physical charms, she is expected to be functional rather than decorative, and even when dressed up the emphasis is on parading her clothing and jewellery rather than her face and figure. Perhaps you men require no more of her than that. In British Guiana the women are as sensitive about their bodies as they are about their clothing, and when one has become accustomed to a certain physical presentation it is rather difficult to easily accept something else.”
He thought of that for a while, then said irrelevantly, “We Africans like our women solid, you know.” He grinned. “None of your skinny, bony, fancy stuff for us.”
“That’s fine,” I replied, “but it would do no harm to have the solid stuff attractively disposed, don’t you think? Everything in its place and a place for everything.”
Again his strong laughter rang out. It was fun chatting away like this with him. His conversation was easy, without the watchful reserve and “don’t-quote-me” condition.
Once again we descended into the swamplands, through the wide, flat, rice-growing areas. He told me that rice was the country’s main food crop, and that the Government had instituted a programme for reclaiming more sections of mangrove swamps to provide more land for its cultivation. “Excellent,” I thought, but could not help the fleeting mental picture of the neat, weed-free paddy fields in British Guiana; perhaps it would be like that here some day. “There’s such a hell of a lot to be done,” I said, more to myself than to him.
He suddenly swung the Land-Rover as far off the crown of the road as possible and braked to a halt; then he leaned back in his corner of the cab and looked at me, his face grave. I thought that he might have felt ill or tired, but he spoke in a strong, somewhat angry voice.
“Sure, there’s a hell of a lot to be done, but who knows what should be done first or when or how? Look, my friend, I made this trip with you because I wanted you to learn something for yourself, but it seems that you are likely to leave this country, perhaps even Africa, as uninformed about the realities as when you first arrived. Perhaps you have misunderstood my answers to your questions—you may have thought them evasions for my own safety. You were wrong, damned wrong. I was trying to let you make up your own mind without too much bias because of my thoughts or attitudes.
“The thing which seems to concern you most is independence, and the way in which we react to its approach. You are clearly disappointed by what you have seen and equally by what you have not seen here. I think I ought to explain something about independence to you. Every African State wants to be independent of or from some colonial power or other. That is not too difficult in the present state of affairs; the difficulties involved vary only in degree. But there is another kind of independence, which, so far, only very few African States seem to be able to appreciate—that is, independence to grow, to build, to work, to achieve. Do you get my point? The first type is a kind of political charter. After receiving it and waving it around a while in the first flush of glory and excitement, many states discover that, in fact, their position has not really changed. Not only is the economic life of the country still fully controlled from outside, but that control penetrates in devious forms to the political and cultural life as well. The reason is simple. Some states immediately upon becoming, as is claimed, independent from a colonial power expect to blossom forth in all the splendour of advanced economic and social development—you know, universities, hospitals, blocks of flats, fancy government buildings, educational and social reforms, the lot. Those things cost money, so where is the money to come from? Well, back they go to the former controlling power and the money is forthcoming as long as there is the right kind of collateral—either concessions in the development of the country’s natural resources, if any, or concessions in terms of that country’s strategic position in the event of the threat of war.”
He shifted his bulk to a more comfortable position, then said, “Independence, like any other luxury, has to be paid for, and the sooner we learn that the better for us. We cannot pay for it with our natural resources, which lie buried in the ground, until those have been fully developed; but we can begin to pay for it by putting ourselves to work. Look at Israel, my friend. Do you know what is the secret of Israel’s development? Work, and more work, for every man, woman and child. Have you ever seen a group of Israelis? Well, I have, and they are fine, strong, resolute and intelligent people, all proof of the fact that hard work is good for body, mind and spirit.
“Independence will not mean a damned thing here or elsewhere until the children suck the fire of it from their mothers’ breast and learn their responsibility for it with each school lesson. The people of Africa have more reason to make themselves into free independent entities than even the Israelis have, but they are too blind to the importance of first principles. We talk of Africans, but we don’t know each other, we don’t understand each other, we don’t talk with each other. It is easier for you to fly from Dakar to Paris than from Dakar to Freetown. Our border is contiguous for three-quarters of its length with Guinea, the rest with Liberia, yet we have little contact with Guinea because they speak French and we speak English. Liberia is in an even worse position, literally surrounded by French-speaking Africans, yet having very little contact with them.
“This is the situation, my friend. Before you write about us, think over these things. Don’t be too harsh on our seeming apathy. As you say, there’s a hell of a lot to be done, but we still don’t know who will do it, or lead us to the doing. Some of our leaders spend so much time living up to the titles and honours conferred on them from outside that they are now only African in colour. I love my country but can see no virtue in talking about independence unless the responsibilities are considered, as well as the benefits. Sierra Leone is only a piece of Africa, a small piece. Try to understand us, and for the time being, expect no more from us than we are able to give.”
Saying this, he started the motor and we resumed our journey.
On reaching Freetown we found that our way to the Paramount Hotel was blocked by a military procession of some kind. Up ahead I could occasionally glimpse the flash of colour, glint o
f polished button, and now and then the upflung shining white staff of the bandleader as the music came floating towards us behind the advance body of small boys and unemployed men who seized on any occasion which offered a moment’s diversion. Following the crowd of men and boys came the band marching crisply in neat khaki uniforms, their eyes glued to the musical scores clamped on their instruments. Each drummer wore a red-trimmed leopard skin, which added a bizarre touch of colour. As they passed by I felt like cheering, stimulated by the music, which ricocheted in late echoes from the buildings and trees along the street.
“Pretty good, that band,” I said.
“Not too bad,” he agreed, “considering that hardly one of them knows how to read or write.”
“But if they can be taught music they can be taught to read and write,” I said. “After all, music is merely another kind of language.”
“Sure, oh sure, but nobody seems to have realized that, so our soldiers and policemen remain illiterate. When we read of illiterate soldiers and police in the Congo and think of the same situation here, the possibilities are a bit frightening.”
At the Paramount Hotel there were two notes for me; the first, an invitation to an investiture at the Governor’s mansion that very evening and the other, an invitation to dine with the Governor and his wife on Sunday evening.
I dressed carefully and took it very easy walking the short distance between the Paramount Hotel and the Governor’s mansion, to be as perspiration-free as I could possibly manage, yet though I was some minutes earlier than the time stated on the invitation, I found myself part of a long queue which snaked outward from the main gateway to some distance along the dusty, tree-shaded road. Black and white minor dignitaries and their wives were dressed up for the occasion, uncomfortably elegant but gallantly patient in their determination to give a memorable send-off to the final appearance of an old and familiar institution. There was an interesting reversal of role—the African men, with rare exception, favoured European tweed and serges, while the European men made every concession to the heat that lightweight clothing and the formality of the occasion allowed.
Observing the dress of the women, it seemed to me that in Freetown, at least, there had occurred a kind of synthesis between what had been the national costume and near-current European styles, and if the results were not exactly haute couture, at least they were colourful and interestingly varied. I thought of my earlier remark to my friend about artificial aids to the arrangement or rearrangement of the female form, and believe that, had he been present at this gathering, he would have been persuaded to agree with me.
When we finally reached the reception hall we were received by the Governor and his wife, then ushered out through a wide veranda overlooking spacious, shady lawns to a smaller enclosure, where chairs had been arranged in seemingly endless rows to accommodate the guests. I was seated near an elderly English couple and soon found myself overhearing their audibly muttered remarks about those guests who were unfortunate to arrive later than themselves. The man, much more than his wife, seemed to possess a fund of information, perhaps “gossip” would be a better term, but he reserved his most caustic comment for the appearance of black-white couples, of which there were a few. Each such pair would be referred to as a tragedy, and it occurred to me that any white person with a black spouse automatically became ‘black” as far as he was concerned. He was probably airing a general view, and I was left wondering what success could be hoped for in the improvement of international relationships, when there remained such arid areas of non-acceptance and intolerance at this level.
When all the guests had arrived, the Governor took his place before the concourse and the ceremony began. I shall long remember the impressive simplicity and dignity of the proceedings, probably enhanced by the prevailing consciousness of sharing in a terminal act, like a death. There was pomp and circumstance represented by the many military uniforms present, including the Governor’s; there was the military band, which waited in sparkling silence for the unobtrusive signal to add their contribution to the occasion; and the Union Jack, which flapped in colourful gaiety against a background of changing green. And there was present a sadness overlaying the pomp, like mist on lush grass, translucent yet persistent.
On the Queen’s behalf the Governor presented the citations and medals to those honoured, black and white, after which the guests mingled, strolled and chatted together on the lawns. I noticed, however, that, like molecular particles which had been agitated out of a prescribed form and pattern then allowed to resume shape, the groups were soon either all white or all black. Whatever contact occurred was brief and painfully superficial, and this in spite of the easy friendliness and earnest efforts of the Governor’s wife, who moved from group to group, sometimes carrying with her someone who seemed to be even temporarily unattached.
The old order changeth. Would this last investiture herald other changes in this historic building, sitting so snug and secure among its lawns, cultivated shrubs and ageless trees? Eventually an African will occupy the house and lawns. Would such occupation be followed by the same tatty depreciation which I observed up-country wherever the European incumbent was succeeded by an African?
Early the next morning my friend telephoned. He would be busy all day and unable to see me because of the celebrations that night and the following day.
“What celebrations?” I asked. He then realized that though he had often intended to tell me about them, time and again something else had claimed out attention. However, he explained that today the fast of Ramadan ended, and as was customary, there would be general feasting, dancing and processions through the own, and he thought it would be worth my while to see as much of it as I could.
“On Sunday,” he continued, “there will be a big open-air ceremony at Cline Town to mark the end of Ramadan for this year. Try to see it if you can. You’ll get an idea of what our religion means to us, at least I hope so. I’ll not be able to see you before some time on Monday, so you’ll have to be your own guide until then.”
“I’m leaving for Liberia early Monday morning,” I reminded him.
“O.K. I’ll see you Monday.” He rang off.
He had said that the celebrations would begin at night, but long before the sun slipped away behind the treetops the drumbeats could be heard from several parts of the town. After dinner I walked down to the cotton tree and was soon part of the crowd, forced to the edge of the road, in which a surging mass of singing, dancing, exuberant people, the Kabala procession multiplied several hundred times, were gathered.
It seemed to me that tonight every African was Muslim. This was an occasion for a good time and the religious origins or implications did not matter a great deal. Europeans were everywhere in the crowd, wide-eyed and eager, or casual and amused, depending on whether and how often they had seen it all before. I liked all of it, the noisy singing, the drumming and the dancing—especially the dancing. One group of drummers formed a tight circle in the crowd, improvising their complicated rhythms with agile fingers, while young men and women, each in turn, would jump into the centre of the circle and execute a spontaneous dance of intricate footwork and sinuous grace as the crowd clapped in time to the music and in encouragement to the dancers. Sometimes two dancers would jump into the ring simultaneously, perspiring freely as each tried to outdo the other, twisting their bodies in indescribably fluid movements in spite of the tiny space, the heat and the jostling onlookers.
Memory came flooding in on me. I had seen this before in different places and in different circumstances. Christmas in British Guiana, with the masquerades and drums and the dancing men outbidding each other as they “jallayed” in much the same way. Carnival time in Trinidad, with the same again, slightly different, but much the same. And with memory came the tingling, the urge to participate, the trembling in the legs as they received the message of memory, those nearly dead echoes which needed this kind of revivificat
ion to be even vaguely heard.
Now the crowd shifted, swayed and moved along, taking me with it, excited and unresistant, happy in the anonymity of a black face among black faces; for who could isolate me, pick me out, say to me, “Who are you, what are you doing here?” I was a piece—a transient piece—of the night and of Africa, sharing for tonight an identity I had never before known with understanding.
Later there was the confusion of halted cars, nervous drivers, excited revellers and earnest, hard-worked but ineffective police. And drink, yes, that prerequisite to enjoyment. Soon there were shouts of anger above the sounds of revelling, and the tinkle of broken glass above the ripple of drumbeats, and cries of pain, and oaths, and the scuffling. But inexorably the crowd pushed forward, and I with it, my arms close across my chest, till I found myself freed in the sudden outlet of a side street, and walked off until I was far enough away to breathe easily once more. Strangely, with the distance, the sense of involvement and identity fell away. This was Africa, and I was a stranger here.
Sunday morning was bright and clear and found me refreshed, dressed, breakfasted and ready to go. The hotel receptionist directed me on how to reach Cline Town and I set out, hoping to find a taxi near the City Hotel. No luck. Everybody in Freetown seemed to be on the road, and every vehicle seemed in use, most of them full to overflowing with men, women and children. I followed in the general direction of the hurrying pedestrians, somewhat envious of their long, flowing robes, mostly white, in which they appeared cool and comfortable in spite of the heat.