THERE WERE ALL KINDS of stories told about the war that made it sound as if it was
happening in a faraway and different land. It wasn't until refugees started pa**ing through
our town that we began to see that it was actually taking place in our country. Families who
had walked hundreds of miles told how relatives had been k**ed and their houses burned.
Some people felt sorry for them and offered them places to stay, but most of the refugees
refused, because they said the war would eventually reach our town. The children of these
families wouldn't look at us, and they jumped at the sound of chopping wood or as stones
landed on the tin roofs flung by children hunting birds with slingshots. The adults among
these children from the war zones would be lost in their thoughts during conversations with
the elders of my town. Apart from their fatigue and malnourishment, it was evident they had
seen something that plagued their minds, something that we would refuse to accept if they
told us all of it. At times I thought that some of the stories the pa**ersby told were
exaggerated. The only wars I knew of were those that I had read about in books or seen in
movies such as Rambo: First Blood, and the one in neighboring Liberia that I had heard
about on the BBC news. My imagination at ten years old didn't have the capacity to grasp
what had taken away the happiness of the refugees.
The first time that I was touched by war I was twelve. It was in January of 1993. I left homewith Junior, my older brother, and our friend Talloi, both a year older than I, to go to the
town of Mattru Jong, to participate in our friends' talent show. Mohamed, my best friend,
couldn't come because he and his father were renovating their thatched-roof kitchen that day.
The four of us had started a rap and dance group when I was eight. We were first introduced
to rap music during one of our visits to Mobimbi, a quarter where the foreigners who
worked for the same American company as my father lived. We often went to Mobimbi to
swim in a pool and watch the huge color television and the white people who crowded the
visitors' recreational area. One evening a music video that consisted of a bunch of young
black fellows talking really fast came on the television. The four of us sat there mesmerized
by the song, trying to understand what the black fellows were saying. At the end of the video,
some letters came up at the bottom of the screen. They read “Sugarhill Gang, ‘Rapper's
Delight.'” Junior quickly wrote it down on a piece of paper. After that, we came to the
quarters every other weekend to study that kind of music on television. We didn't know what
it was called then, but I was impressed with the fact that the black fellows knew how to
speak English really fast, and to the beat.
Later on, when Junior went to secondary school, he befriended some boys who taught
him more about foreign music and dance. During holidays, he brought me ca**ettes and
taught my friends and me how to dance to what we came to know as hip-hop. I loved the
dance, and particularly enjoyed learning the lyrics, because they were poetic and it
improved my vocabulary. One afternoon, Father came home while Junior, Mohamed, Talloi,
and I were learning the verse of “I Know You Got Soul” by Eric B. & Rakim. He stood by
the door of our clay brick and tin roof house laughing and then asked, “Can you even
understand what you are saying?” He left before Junior could answer. He sat in a hammockunder the shade of the mango, guava, and orange trees and tuned his radio to the BBC news.
“Now, this is good English, the kind that you should be listening to,” he shouted from
the yard.
While Father listened to the news, Junior taught us how to move our feet to the beat. We
alternately moved our right and then our left feet to the front and back, and simultaneously
did the same with our arms, shaking our upper bodies and heads. “This move is called the
running man,” Junior said. Afterward, we would practice miming the rap songs we had
memorized. Before we parted to carry out our various evening chores of fetching water and
cleaning lamps, we would say “Peace, son” or “I'm out,” phrases we had picked up from the
rap lyrics. Outside, the evening music of birds and crickets would commence.
On the morning that we left for Mattru Jong, we loaded our backpacks with notebooks of
lyrics we were working on and stuffed our pockets with ca**ettes of rap albums. In those
days we wore baggy jeans, and underneath them we had soccer shorts and sweatpants for
dancing. Under our long-sleeved shirts we had sleeveless undershirts, T-shirts, and soccer
jerseys. We wore three pairs of socks that we pulled down and folded to make our crapes
*
look puffy. When it got too hot in the day, we took some of the clothes off and carried them
on our shoulders. They were fashionable, and we had no idea that this unusual way of
dressing was going to benefit us. Since we intended to return the next day, we didn't say
goodbye or tell anyone where we were going. We didn't know that we were leaving home,
never to return.
To save money, we decided to walk the sixteen miles to Mattru Jong. It was a beautifulsummer day, the sun wasn't too hot, and the walk didn't feel long either, as we chatted about
all kinds of things, mocked and chased each other. We carried slingshots that we used to
stone birds and chase the monkeys that tried to cross the main dirt road. We stopped at
several rivers to swim. At one river that had a bridge across it, we heard a pa**enger
vehicle in the distance and decided to get out of the water and see if we could catch a free
ride. I got out before Junior and Talloi, and ran across the bridge with their clothes. They
thought they could catch up with me before the vehicle reached the bridge, but upon realizing
that it was impossible, they started running back to the river, and just when they were in the
middle of the bridge, the vehicle caught up to them. The girls in the truck laughed and the
driver tapped his horn. It was funny, and for the rest of the trip they tried to get me back for
what I had done, but they failed.
We arrived at Kabati, my grandmother's village, around two in the afternoon. Mamie
Kpana was the name that my grandmother was known by. She was tall and her perfectly long
face complemented her beautiful cheekbones and big brown eyes. She always stood with her
hands either on her hips or on her head. By looking at her, I could see where my mother had
gotten her beautiful dark skin, extremely white teeth, and the translucent creases on her neck.
My grandfather or kamor—teacher, as everyone called him—was a well-known local
Arabic scholar and healer in the village and beyond.
At Kabati, we ate, rested a bit, and started the last six miles. Grandmother wanted us to
spend the night, but we told her that we would be back the following day.
“How is that father of yours treating you these days?” she asked in a sweet voice that
was laden with worry.
“Why are you going to Mattru Jong, if not for school? And why do you look so skinny?”she continued asking, but we evaded her questions. She followed us to the edge of the
village and watched as we descended the hill, switching her walking stick to her left hand so
that she could wave us off with her right hand, a sign of good luck.
We arrived in Mattru Jong a couple of hours later and met up with old friends, Gibrilla,
Kaloko, and Khalilou. That night we went out to Bo Road, where street vendors sold food
late into the night. We bought boiled groundnut and ate it as we conversed about what we
were going to do the next day, made plans to see the space for the talent show and practice.
We stayed in the verandah room of Khalilou's house. The room was small and had a tiny
bed, so the four of us (Gibrilla and Kaloko went back to their houses) slept in the same bed,
lying across with our feet hanging. I was able to fold my feet in a little more since I was
shorter and smaller than all the other boys.
The next day Junior, Talloi, and I stayed at Khalilou's house and waited for our friends
to return from school at around 2:00 p.m. But they came home early. I was cleaning my
crapes and counting for Junior and Talloi, who were having a push-up competition. Gibrilla
and Kaloko walked onto the verandah and joined the competition. Talloi, breathing hard and
speaking slowly, asked why they were back. Gibrilla explained that the teachers had told
them that the rebels had attacked Mogbwemo, our home. School had been canceled until
further notice. We stopped what we were doing.
According to the teachers, the rebels had attacked the mining areas in the afternoon. The
sudden outburst of gunfire had caused people to run for their lives in different directions.
Fathers had come running from their workplaces, only to stand in front of their empty houseswith no indication of where their families had gone. Mothers wept as they ran toward
schools, rivers, and water taps to look for their children. Children ran home to look for
parents who were wandering the streets in search of them. And as the gunfire intensified,
people gave up looking for their loved ones and ran out of town.
“This town will be next, according to the teachers.” Gibrilla lifted himself from the
cement floor. Junior, Talloi, and I took our backpacks and headed to the wharf with our
friends. There, people were arriving from all over the mining area. Some we knew, but they
couldn't tell us the whereabouts of our families. They said the attack had been too sudden,
too chaotic; that everyone had fled in different directions in total confusion.
For more than three hours, we stayed at the wharf, anxiously waiting and expecting
either to see our families or to talk to someone who had seen them. But there was no news of
them, and after a while we didn't know any of the people who came across the river. The
day seemed oddly normal. The sun peacefully sailed through the white clouds, birds sang
from treetops, the trees danced to the quiet wind. I still couldn't believe that the war had
actually reached our home. It is impossible, I thought. When we left home the day before,
there had been no indication the rebels were anywhere near.
“What are you going to do?” Gibrilla asked us. We were all quiet for a while, and then
Talloi broke the silence. “We must go back and see if we can find our families before it is
too late.”
Junior and I nodded in agreement.
Just three days earlier, I had seen my father walking slowly from work. His hard hat wasunder his arm and his long face was sweating from the hot afternoon sun. I was sitting on the
verandah. I had not seen him for a while, as another stepmother had destroyed our
relationship again. But that morning my father smiled at me as he came up the steps. He
examined my face, and his lips were about to utter something, when my stepmother came out.
He looked away, then at my stepmother, who pretended not to see me. They quietly went into
the parlor. I held back my tears and left the verandah to meet with Junior at the junction
where we waited for the lorry. We were on our way to see our mother in the next town about
three miles away. When our father had paid for our school, we had seen her on weekends
over the holidays when we were back home. Now that he refused to pay, we visited her
every two or three days. That afternoon we met Mother at the market and walked with her as
she purchased ingredients to cook for us. Her face was dull at first, but as soon as she
hugged us, she brightened up. She told us that our little brother, Ibrahim, was at school and
that we would go get him on our way from the market. She held our hands as we walked, and
every so often she would turn around as if to see whether we were still with her.
As we walked to our little brother's school, Mother turned to us and said, “I am sorry I
do not have enough money to put you boys back in school at this point. I am working on it.”
She paused and then asked, “How is your father these days?”
“He seems all right. I saw him this afternoon,” I replied. Junior didn't say anything.
Mother looked him directly in the eyes and said, “Your father is a good man and he
loves you very much. He just seems to attract the wrong stepmothers for you boys.”
When we got to the school, our little brother was in the yard playing soccer with his
friends. He was eight and pretty good for his age. As soon as he saw us, he came running,
throwing himself on us. He measured himself against me to see if he had gotten taller thanme. Mother laughed. My little brother's small round face glowed, and sweat formed around
the creases he had on his neck, just like my mother's. All four of us walked to Mother's
house. I held my little brother's hand, and he told me about school and challenged me to a
soccer game later in the evening. My mother was single and devoted herself to taking care of
Ibrahim. She said he sometimes asked about our father. When Junior and I were away in
school, she had taken Ibrahim to see him a few times, and each time she had cried when my
father hugged Ibrahim, because they were both so happy to see each other. My mother
seemed lost in her thoughts, smiling as she relived the moments.
Two days after that visit, we had left home. As we now stood at the wharf in Mattru
Jong, I could visualize my father holding his hard hat and running back home from work, and
my mother, weeping and running to my little brother's school. A sinking feeling overtook me.
Junior, Talloi, and I jumped into a canoe and sadly waved to our friends as the canoe pulled
away from the shores of Mattru Jong. As we landed on the other side of the river, more and
more people were arriving in haste. We started walking, and a woman carrying her flipflops
on her head spoke without looking at us: “Too much blood has been spilled where you
are going. Even the good spirits have fled from that place.” She walked past us. In the
bushes along the river, the strained voices of women cried out, “Nguwor gbor mu ma oo,”
God help us, and screamed the names of their children: “Yusufu, Jabu, Foday…” We saw
children walking by themselves, shirtless, in their underwear, following the crowd. “Nya
nje oo, nya keke oo,” my mother, my father, the children were crying. There were also dogs
running, in between the crowds of people, who were still running, even though far awayfrom harm. The dogs sniffed the air, looking for their owners. My veins tightened.
We had walked six miles and were now at Kabati, Grandmother's village. It was deserted.
All that was left were footprints in the sand leading toward the dense forest that spread out
beyond the village.
As evening approached, people started arriving from the mining area. Their whispers,
the cries of little children seeking lost parents and tired of walking, and the wails of hungry
babies replaced the evening songs of crickets and birds. We sat on Grandmother's verandah,
waiting and listening.
“Do you guys think it is a good idea to go back to Mogbwemo?” Junior asked. But
before either of us had a chance to answer, a Volkswagen roared in the distance and all the
people walking on the road ran into the nearby bushes. We ran, too, but didn't go that far.
My heart pounded and my breathing intensified. The vehicle stopped in front of my
grandmother's house, and from where we lay, we could see that whoever was inside the car
was not armed. As we, and others, emerged from the bushes, we saw a man run from the
driver's seat to the sidewalk, where he vomited blood. His arm was bleeding. When he
stopped vomiting, he began to cry. It was the first time I had seen a grown man cry like a
child, and I felt a sting in my heart. A woman put her arms around the man and begged him to
stand up. He got to his feet and walked toward the van. When he opened the door opposite
the driver's, a woman who was leaning against it fell to the ground. Blood was coming out
of her ears. People covered the eyes of their children.
In the back of the van were three more dead bodies, two girls and a boy, and their bloodwas all over the seats and the ceiling of the van. I wanted to move away from what I was
seeing, but couldn't. My feet went numb and my entire body froze. Later we learned that the
man had tried to escape with his family and the rebels had shot at his vehicle, k**ing all his
family. The only thing that consoled him, for a few seconds at least, was when the woman
who had embraced him, and now cried with him, told him that at least he would have the
chance to bury them. He would always know where they were laid to rest, she said. She
seemed to know a little more about war than the rest of us.
The wind had stopped moving and daylight seemed to be quickly giving in to night. As
sunset neared, more people pa**ed through the village. One man carried his dead son. He
thought the boy was still alive. The father was covered with his son's blood, and as he ran
he kept saying, “I will get you to the hospital, my boy, and everything will be fine.” Perhaps
it was necessary that he cling to false hopes, since they kept him running away from harm. A
group of men and women who had been pierced by stray bullets came running next. The skin
that hung down from their bodies still contained fresh blood. Some of them didn't notice that
they were wounded until they stopped and people pointed to their wounds. Some fainted or
vomited. I felt nauseated, and my head was spinning. I felt the ground moving, and people's
voices seemed to be far removed from where I stood trembling.
The last casualty that we saw that evening was a woman who carried her baby on her
back. Blood was running down her dress and dripping behind her, making a trail. Her child
had been shot dead as she ran for her life. Luckily for her, the bullet didn't go through the
baby's body. When she stopped at where we stood, she sat on the ground and removed her
child. It was a girl, and her eyes were still open, with an interrupted innocent smile on her
face. The bullets could be seen sticking out just a little bit in the baby's body and she wa**welling. The mother clung to her child and rocked her. She was in too much pain and shock
to shed tears.
Junior, Talloi, and I looked at each other and knew that we must re turn to Mattru Jong,
because we had seen that Mogbwemo was no longer a place to call home and that our
parents couldn't possibly be there anymore. Some of the wounded people kept saying that
Kabati was next on the rebels' list. We didn't want to be there when the rebels arrived.
Even those who couldn't walk very well did their best to keep moving away from Kabati.
The image of that woman and her baby plagued my mind as we walked back to Mattru Jong.
I barely noticed the journey, and when I drank water I didn't feel any relief even though I
knew I was thirsty. I didn't want to go back to where that woman was from; it was clear in
the eyes of the baby that all had been lost.
“You were negative nineteen years old.” That's what my father used to say when I would
ask about what life was like in Sierra Leone following independence in 1961. It had been a
British colony since 1808. Sir Milton Margai became the first prime minister and ruled the
country under the Sierra Leone Peoples Party (SLPP) political banner until his d**h in
1964. His half brother Sir Albert Margai succeeded him until 1967, when Siaka Stevens, the
All People's Congress (APC) Party leader, won the election, which was followed by a
military coup. Siaka Stevens returned to power in 1968, and several years later declared the
country a one-party state, the APC being the sole legal party. It was the beginning of “rotten
politics,” as my father would put it. I wondered what he would say about the war that I was
now running from. I had heard from adults that this was a revolutionary war, a liberation ofthe people from corrupt government. But what kind of liberation movement shoots innocent
civilians, children, that little girl? There wasn't anyone to answer these questions, and my
head felt heavy with the images that it contained. As we walked, I became afraid of the road,
the mountains in the distance, and the bushes on either side.
We arrived in Mattru Jong late that night. Junior and Talloi explained to our friends
what we had seen, while I stayed quiet, still trying to decide whether what I had seen was
real. That night, when I finally managed to drift off, I dreamt that I was shot in my side and
people ran past me without helping, as they were all running for their lives. I tried to crawl
to safety in the bushes, but from out of nowhere there was someone standing on top of me
with a gun. I couldn't make out his face as the sun was against it. That person pointed the gun
at the place where I had been shot and pulled the trigger. I woke up and hesitantly touched
my side. I became afraid, since I could no longer tell the difference between dream and
reality.
Every morning in Mattru Jong we would go down to the wharf for news from home. But after
a week the stream of refugees from that direction ceased and news dried up. Government
troops were deployed in Mattru Jong, and they erected checkpoints at the wharf and other
strategic locations all over town. The soldiers were convinced that if the rebels attacked,
they would come from across the river, so they mounted heavy artillery there and announced
a 7:00 p.m. curfew, which made the nights tense, as we couldn't sleep and had to be inside
too early. During the day, Gibrilla and Kaloko came over. The six of us sat on the verandah
and discussed what was going on.“I do not think that this madness will last,” Junior said quietly. He looked at me as if to
a**ure me that we would soon go home.
“It will probably last for only a month or two.” Talloi stared at the floor.
“I heard that the soldiers are already on their way to get the rebels out of the mining
areas,” Gibrilla stammered. We agreed that the war was just a pa**ing phase that wouldn't
last over three months.
Junior, Talloi, and I listened to rap music, trying to memorize the lyrics so that we could
avoid thinking about the situation at hand. Naughty by Nature, LL Cool J, Run-D.M.C., and
Heavy D & The Boyz; we had left home with only these ca**ettes and the clothes that we
wore. I remember sitting on the verandah listening to “Now That We Found Love” by Heavy
D & The Boyz and watching the trees at the edge of town that reluctantly moved to the slow
wind. The palms beyond them were still, as if awaiting something. I closed my eyes, and the
images from Kabati flashed in my mind. I tried to drive them out by evoking older memories
of Kabati before the war.
There was a thick forest on one side of the village where my grandmother lived and coffee
farms on the other. A river flowed from the forest to the edge of the village, pa**ing through
palm kernels into a swamp. Above the swamp banana farms stretched into the horizon. The
main dirt road that pa**ed through Kabati was rutted with holes and puddles where ducks
liked to bathe during the day, and in the backyards of the houses birds nested in mango trees.In the morning, the sun would rise from behind the forest. First, its rays penetrated
through the leaves, and gradually, with co*kcrows and sparrows that vigorously proclaimed
daylight, the golden sun sat at the top of the forest. In the evening, monkeys could be seen in
the forest jumping from tree to tree, returning to their sleeping places. On the coffee farms,
chickens were always busy hiding their young from hawks. Beyond the farms, palm trees
waved their fronds with the moving wind. Sometimes a palm wine tapper could be seen
climbing in the early evening.
The evening ended with the cracking of branches in the forest and the pounding of rice
in mortars. The echoes resonated in the village, causing birds to fly off and return curiously
chattering. Crickets, frogs, toads, and owls followed them, all calling for night while leaving
their hiding places. Smoke rose from thatched-roof kitchens, and people would start arriving
from farms carrying lamps and sometimes lit firewood.
“We must strive to be like the moon.” An old man in Kabati repeated this sentence often
to people who walked past his house on their way to the river to fetch water, to hunt, to tap
palm wine; and to their farms. I remember asking my grandmother what the old man meant.
She explained that the adage served to remind people to always be on their best behavior
and to be good to others. She said that people complain when there is too much sun and it
gets unbearably hot, and also when it rains too much or when it is cold. But, she said, no one
grumbles when the moon shines. Everyone becomes happy and appreciates the moon in their
own special way. Children watch their shadows and play in its light, people gather at the
square to tell stories and dance through the night. A lot of happy things happen when the
moon shines. These are some of the reasons why we should want to be like the moon.
“You look hungry. I will fix you some ca**ava.” She ended the discussion.After my grandmother told me why we should strive to be like the moon, I took it upon
myself to closely observe it. Each night when the moon appeared in the sky, I would lie on
the ground outside and quietly watch it. I wanted to find out why it was so appealing and
likable. I became fascinated with the different shapes that I saw inside the moon. Some
nights I saw the head of a man. He had a medium beard and wore a sailor's hat. Other times
I saw a man with an ax chopping wood, and sometimes a woman cradling a baby at her
breast. Whenever I get a chance to observe the moon now, I still see those same images I
saw when I was six, and it pleases me to know that that part of my childhood is still
embedded in me.