For a long time many people are born and live into circumstances of poverty, illiteracy, chronic ill-health and disease, and seem to accept these circumstances until suddenly an awakening and unrest develops and is generally directed against any group of persons or set of circumstances which seem to be, in any way, responsible for their difficulties. How did all this affect me? How did it matter to me? If the things I believed in had any real virtue in them, then I was in fact involved with all mankind, and my involvement in and with Africa and Africans was not because of my black skin, but my kinship with people, any people. All around me was a certain sadness; underlying the warmth and the sunshine and the colour and the beauty was the sadness of conflict, the sadness of distrust, of opposed attitudes which seemed to desire to remain opposed and irreconcilable.
All that I had seen so far in Guinea indicated a great and amazing richness of natural resources which still remained untapped. What was the point of boasting of them if none of the people benefited? And where was the value of such amazing potential if they remained unchannelled to serve the urgent needs of the millions of needy, hungry people? A bowl of rice is much more important to a hungry man than an ideology, yet ideological interests seemed to take precedence over the needs of people.
I remembered attending some of the sessions at the United Nations Headquarters in New York last December and listening to important persons talk about the terrible circumstances of people who were living in “low-income countries” at “below-subsistence level”. Words, words, words. If some of these important men were forced to live, even for a little while, at below-subsistence level they would more readily apply themselves to examining positive measures to relieve those circumstances. If I must believe the evidence of what I had so far seen and heard in Guinea, then it was clear that efforts made to stimulate national progress were to some extent inhibited by the general preoccupation with distrust of individuals and states believed to be critical of Guinea’s political attitudes; but how far was it possible to avoid feelings of hate or distrust when the criticism took the place of sorely needed economic and other assistance? As the man said, a bowl of rice can be a powerful and even final argument.
I wandered towards the beach, where, now at low tide, the sand shelved downward to a black, muddy waterline and seaward to the narrow neck of the inlet, above which perched the lighthouse, which swung a recurrent finger of light at treetop level along the cove. I sat down on the sand trying to convince myself that I should be unhappy to leave this place, but already the excitement of tomorrow had taken hold. Tomorrow I would be in Freetown, Sierra Leone. Tomorrow I would have the wonderful experience of pre-independence fever. Before leaving Paris I had followed closely the gradual build-up of interest in the British and French newspapers, and now I would see and feel it for myself.
Part Two
Sierra Leone
THE PLANE MAINTAINED A course along the shoreline from Conakry to Freetown, and from twelve thousand feet the main impression was of a succession of swampy river deltas and wide areas of mud; by checking a map I had bought in Paris, I easily located the watershed at the confluence of the Great and Little Scarcies rivers. Everything down there looked desolate, forbidding and savage, with hardly any sign of hutments to indicate human habitation. There seemed to be endless small islands surrounded by expanses of grey mud through which narrow streams snaked their way in a tortuous pattern and reflected the sunlight like the ribbings of some giant green leaf after the ravages of a hungry caterpillar. Farther south beyond this delta along the coastline bordering the Port Loko district, we flew along a wide beach which continued like a golden causeway between the blue-green sea and the deeper green of the inner coastline, to Lungi Airport and beyond.
The plane made a wide circle and I caught a glimpse of the wide, irregular estuary into which the Rokel River, the Port Loko Creek, and a multitude of smaller streams emptied themselves, before we landed at Lungi Airport. My first impression was of quiet order. All the airport requirements, customs declarations, baggage clearance, visas, etc., were conducted with speed and courtesy by a staff that seemed to know exactly what its duties were. I was deeply impressed. These people were evidently all set for the big day, Independence Day, and were ready to assume their responsibilities.
From the airport passengers boarded a bus which would take us a few miles north to Lungi for the crossing by launch to Freetown. During the bus ride I observed the countryside: very much the same as in Guinea, with the huge mango trees in heavy bloom dominating everything; here and there I glimpsed a small hut and the faces of shy children peeping at us from behind tree trunks.
Freetown looked very attractive from across the wide Rokel estuary, its white-painted houses sharply contrasting with the green hillside and the wide Atlantic in the distance. The launch made its way laboriously across the placid mouth of the estuary and tied up at an ancient-looking jetty; disembarking required a few willing hands from the launch’s crew. While waiting on the dock for my baggage to be unloaded I overheard a bit of conversation between two youths who were sitting on the edge of the dock watching the passengers disembark, and I felt a thrill as I recognized the “dialect” they were using: as a boy I had often heard it in British Guiana, especially the market people and fisherfolk, and had even probably spoken it myself. There it was called “creole”, the pidgin English of one-time slaves. Now I listened as they ran a kind of commentary-dialogue on each passenger, his baggage and possible reason for visiting Sierra Leone—most probably they had already expressed their observations about me. Hearing the dialect pleased me because it represented one contact, at least, with the indigenous people. If it were spoken generally among them I would have very little difficulty in understanding them, and, with some practice, might in time even be able to make myself understood in it.
They must have realized that I was listening to them, understanding them, because they looked questioningly at me, at which I smiled and asked, “What is the name of the dialect you are using?”
“Sir?”
“What kind of language was that?”
“Crio, master.”
I looked carefully at the youth, rather surprised and perhaps a bit shocked by the “master”; never before in my life had anyone so addressed me. He was smiling, so perhaps he was just having a lark with me, and the “master” meant nothing at all.
“I understood what you were saying to your friend,” I told him. “Where I come from they sometimes speak the same thing.”
They exchange puzzled glances. “You not from Sierra Leone?” asked one.
“No, this is my first visit here. As a matter of fact, I’m on my first visit to Africa.”
The smiles broadened and they looked at me with greater interest. Just then the porters from the launch shouted something and the two youths rushed towards the landing steps to grab several pieces of luggage, mine among them, and proceed towards the exit. When my baggage was placed in the boot of a taxi for my short ride to the hotel, I tipped the youth and again heard, “Thank you, master.”
The term “master” irritated me. I had never before encountered it in this way, had never in my life used it to anyone, and did not like even the sound of it. Evidently it was common practice here because I heard the term used by other porters. However, I quickly forgot about it in the excitement of being in Sierra Leone. Looking around the dock everything seemed old and somewhat deserted like an English midlands town on Sunday morning. The “harbour” was in fact a series of wooden platforms on piles above high-water mark; against them a few old launches and schooners were moored, and I wondered whether this was a familiar state of affairs or merely one of those days when nothing seemed to be happening. The buildings alongside the dock were, for the most part, old dilapidated structures in sore need of repair and paint. From some distance across the harbour these same buildings had looked clean and attractive in the bright sunlight.
After the taxi d
river had stowed away my baggage, we set off for the hotel and, emerging from the fenced-in area of the dock-side, I had my first look at Freetown, Sierra Leone. I do not really know what I expected to see; maybe my imagination had been influenced by the lengthy newspaper reports recently appearing in London, and the numerous references to the Sierra Leone’s established position as the oldest of the West African colonies, and its supported boast of founding the Institution for Higher Education in the region at Fourah Bay. Now here I was, already damp and uncomfortable from the oppressive heat, which seemed even greater after the cool trip across the Rokel estuary; yet keenly anticipating the reality of closeness to the phenomenon of immediate independence. I had expected to be temporarily a part of something dramatic and exciting, something I would want to remember for a long, long time.
There was not much to be seen from the taxi, which honked its way through groups of people and around lethargic dogs, then uphill where the road followed the curve of a high stone wall beyond which could be glimpsed a white-painted cupola, with a Union Jack hanging limply from a flagpole, past a wide wrought-iron gate at which two soldiers stood stiffly on guard, picturesque in smart khaki uniforms and red fezzes.
“Governor’s mansion,” the taxi driver volunteered.
About two hundred yards farther on, the taxi swung into a wide driveway and drew up before the covered entrance of a new modernistic building: the Paramount Hotel, Freetown’s newest. Several young Africans in khaki uniforms collected my few pieces of baggage, waited until I had registered, then led the way up to my room. I offered each a small tip, which was rather shamefacedly received but speedily pocketed, then each, with palms pressed together in the familiar gesture of prayer, bowed low and said, “Thank you, master.” I stood at the door of my room and watched them whispering their way down the corridor, somewhat irritated by their obsequiousness. There had been nothing like it in Guinea, but, more than that, I could not readily adjust to being called “master”. Was it the normal thing here in Sierra Leone or was it the required thing at this hotel? But the dock porters had said the same thing, so maybe it was widespread. Perhaps it was even general throughout Africa and only dropped by independent people, as in Guinea. Maybe they will drop it here after April 27, their Independence Day. Christ! These fellows were not behaving as I thought they would with independence so near at hand, but perhaps I was seeing too much in a very simple situation.
My room was very comfortable, well-equipped and air-conditioned, so I took my time with a shave and shower and change of clothing. I thought I might take an easy stroll about the town and try to get in touch with a few persons to whom I had letters of introduction from mutual friends in London. Maybe I could have a meal at a restaurant somewhere in the town.
As I emerged from my room the heat struck me like a blast from a furnace. In its cool comfort I had forgotten all about the heat, and now I could feel the perspiration along my sides under the armpits. I was dressed very lightly in a short-sleeved shirt and lightweight slacks and thought I must look very silly to appear so uncomfortably warm when so much about me suggested familiarity with tropic conditions.
It was now about midday and the sun rode high in a clear sky. I followed the road back to the Governor’s mansion and paused by the gate to take a quick peep at that part of the building which I could see, a circular buttress of solid, weathered rock, somewhat like the base of a mediaeval castle. The guards looked at me somewhat suspiciously, so I moved on. About two hundred yards away from this main entrance to the Governor’s mansion I could see a huge tree of the silk-cotton variety; it stood proudly at the junction of several roads, towering upwards of ninety feet and completely dominating its surroundings with wide-branched, leafy majesty. In a direct line from the Governor’s gate to this huge tree workmen were busy preparing a piece of wide roadway bisected down the centre by a narrow raised concrete trough in which young palm trees and saplings wilted in the heat, not yet adjusted to their transplant. Apart from a small, asthmatic steamroller, all the work on this piece of road was being done by hand.
I walked along the edge of the roadway observing the workmen at their tasks. They were unhurried, joking with each other. I wondered what the significance of this piece of road was, because it ended abruptly at the cotton tree, and there was no sign of other road-making in the vicinity. I guessed that this was in preparation for the Independence Day celebrations, and followed the main road from the cotton tree towards the centre of town. Along the way were planted several large flagpoles painted alternately red, white, and blue, and I noticed that one or two large official-looking buildings were receiving new coats of paint.
As I walked, I was listening with every part of me for some evidence of that ambience which to my mind was indivisible from so immediate and important an occasion. I listened as I passed individuals or groups; I looked into people’s faces in an attempt to locate some sign that they were carrying a wonderful half-secret thing which I wanted to share, and I marvelled that I saw nothing, heard nothing. Not yet, I promised myself; not for a while yet, not until I’d learned to read the signs, for signs there must be. These people could not possibly be on the brink of such a wonderful period of their history and remain apathetic. Maybe I was not reading the signs correctly. I needed help, so I set out to find some of those persons to whom I had been given letters of introduction.
It was very warm, and I envied the passers-by, black and white, who for the most part seemed quite at ease, probably from birth or long association with conditions. The road led towards the waterfront and the busy shopping centre. One large store with the label “Cold Storage” attracted me, probably because of the hint of something cold or cool. Inside it was refreshingly cool, but what was more, there was displayed a wide variety of foodstuffs and cellophane-wrapped packages of fruit. I caught sight of some lovely red apples, and waited at the counter to be served by one of the clerks, of whom there were several, black and white of both sexes. After some minutes one of the clerks, an African, approached, but, to my surprise, addressed himself to someone behind me, an Englishwoman, who without hesitation gave her order from a list she had in her hand. I stood there, surprised and irritated, while he passed her packets to her, and she in turn handed them to an African boy who arranged them carefully in a large basket he carried. I had the impulse to make some protest, but refrained, because I was not sure that she had not preceded me into the store and may have been wandering around while waiting to be served. The clerk’s attitude to her was courteous, possibly even deferential, but when her order was completed and she left, he turned to me with a casual, “Yes?”
I asked for a pound of apples, and paid with an English pound note. He deducted the cost of the apples and gave me the change in local currency, which, though similarly in shillings and pence, differed from the English coinage in size, colour, and sometimes in shape. I was examining these unfamiliar coins and looked up to observe the clerk regarding me with evident distaste. He remarked, “Don’t worry, it’s all there less sixpence exchange charge for the English pound.”
Evidently he thought I was being unnecessarily careful with the change because I did not trust him, so I hastened to say, “Sorry, I’m only trying to familiarize myself with your currency. It’s a bit strange to me.”
“Aren’t you a Sierra Leonean?” he asked, surprised.
“No, this is my first visit here,” I replied. “My first to Africa, in fact.”
His whole attitude changed. He smiled at me and extended his hand over the counter. “Welcome to Sierra Leone,” he said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
I collected my change and left, wondering about him; he was brusque and offhand for as long as he thought I was a local citizen, but courteous and charming when he realized I was a stranger. Weren’t the local black citizens entitled to courteous treatment also? It was comforting to feel that I could so easily fit into the background of black Africa, at least in t
his piece of it, but it would be even more comforting to see some sign of the dignity and consciousness of equality which should be indivisible from independence.
I now wanted to locate my contact without wandering about too much in the heat and signalled a passing taxi. He promptly swung the car towards me and braked it to a squealing stop. He claimed to know the address and we set off, turning and twisting through innumerable side streets, barely missing chickens, dogs, goats and children at play. Soon I realized that we seemed to be getting exactly nowhere and asked the driver where we were. After some hesitation he admitted that he did not know the street we wanted, so I suggested that we inquire from a policeman we had passed a short while ago. Whenever I’ve been in doubt about my location I’ve found policemen very helpful.
We approached this one and I made my request. He stared at me, looking quite bewildered, so I repeated my question, and to help matters, showed him the little address book in which my contact’s name and address were written. He made no attempt to take or look at it, merely shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, and it suddenly dawned on me that he was unable to read; furthermore he seemed unable to understand what I was saying to him. I asked the driver to ask the policeman, in creole dialect, to direct us to Kingsley Street. To this inquiry the policeman shook his head negatively.
“Aborigine,” the driver remarked with a chuckle. “He don’t know nothing.”
Fresh as I was from Europe, and remembering as far back as I could of my early childhood in British Guiana, I could not recall having previously met an illiterate policeman; never, and the experience shocked me. How would he cope with any difficulty which might present itself, especially if it required that he make a written record or report of the event? He was on guard duty, but what exactly did that mean? To what extent could he control or intervene in a situation? Perhaps policemen in Sierra Leone were not expected to be mobile information bureaux, but what would he do if there was an accident, a serious one involving injury or even loss of life?