Life on the edge of the world

Written October, 2011

I’ve lived in Canada for years now and yet after spending time in Stewart, I feel like I’m in a different country. It feels like I live on the very edge of civilization, with no cell phones or Tim Hortons and one Gas station.

The closest closest major town, Terrace, ( pop: 10,000) is well over 300 km away from here on wet, winding roads at the foot of majestic , snow-capped mountains. Vancouver is about 1,400 km away. Every now and then as I drive down to Terrace, I’d see a black bear on the edge of the road, munching away at its food and casting a lazy glance at me as I speed by. Sometimes they would wander across the road so that I have to slow down and repeatedly honk my horn to get them out of the way… They look at you as if to say "Whats your problem? can't you see I'm walking here".

I remember the first time I got here, when seeing a bear was a novelty, now its become almost routine. Something like Canada geese on UW’s campus, but nowhere near as irritating. I’ve settled into a pretty rigorous routine of waking up at 5a.m., breakfast at 6 a.m. and a 45 minute drive up rugged mountain side to our construction office.

I tend to drive in the middle of the road because I neither want to get too close to the mountain as there is a risk of rock falls nor do I want to get too close to the edge…a 600 ft+ drop that no one could possibly survive. There’s not much room for manoeuvre when you encounter another vehicle on the road so there are always scary moments when I’m going around bends and I can’t see what’s coming at me. It doesn’t help that there are some absolutely mad individuals on that road that do 100 km/h on stretches that I would hesitate to do 50. It takes some getting used for sure but i certainly prefer it over a Mississauga traffic jam.

It’s helped considerably that the tourists are no longer in town, driving up to see the breathtakingly beautiful Salmon Glacier. The comedy of watching old couples driving up in huge RVs along narrow roads is something I miss but the frustration of having to wait behind them bothered me no-end….

I’ve seen all types of cars come up these roads, everything from 7 series BMWs to Fiats and Jettas, Jeeps and Corollas. The summers make this place a true beehive of activity as tourists from all the U.S and Canada swarm the tiny little town. I've seen plates from Quebec, Florida, New York, Michigan...places thousands of miles away. Occasionally you see a clueless bastard try to get cell phone service when they are walking around Town…there’s nothing up here of course, but no one says a word …it’s too much fun watching their faces as they figure it out…

Isatu "Fak Fak" and the Kringlish phenomenom

As a Sierra Leonean living thousands of miles away from home, I’m always on the lookout for news articles from the motherland. The yearning for a connection to what is familiar is strong and gets stronger as the years fly by. The 7+ years I’ve been in Canada is the longest stretch I’ve ever had in one country, Sierra Leone included, so I’m naturally eager to stay connected to my roots.

This desire for quality information means that I often spend hours on google looking for anything related to Sierra Leone or Sierra Leoneans. A positive development over the years is the increased number of websites dedicated to Sierra Leonean politics, music, travel etc. The unfortunate downside to this surge in online presence is the shocking lack of editorial quality in many of these websites especially those dedicated to news and current affairs.

I always like to point out the positives in most things related to my country but this is an issue that has bothered me for years. The articles are often barely understandable and given the grammar is at primary school level I often get too frustrated to read beyond a few lines. I’ve read some articles discussing legal issues, for example, which use contractual language that is incomprehensible to the average Sierra Leonean. Why would you write an article that is meant to inform the public and yet make it inaccessible by using words that barely anyone understands? Is it to justify your label as an educated man/woman? 

Some journalists have chosen to act as nothing but outlets for political propaganda with no attempt at performing any analysis, their sole purpose being to smear opponents and throw degrading insults like a bunch of pre-teen, playground gangsters. Other outlets have articles that are so poorly written that if you don’t understand Krio, you would never figure out what they were talking about. The articles seem to have been literally translated from Krio to English. 

I’d just like to go on a bit of a tangent here and tell you the story of Isatu “Fak Fak”, a story I heard a couple of days ago. A boy in Isatu’s class was causing some trouble at the back of the class but the teacher didn’t notice. Isatu decided to draw the teacher’s attention to the issue and so raised her hand and yelled.

“Teacher! Teacher! That boy is ‘fak, fakking’”

The story of Isatu “Fak Fak” just highlights the often blurred lines between Krio and English, what I like to refer to as the “Kringlish phenomenon”.This phenomenon has meant the average Sierra Leonean student’s grasp of English is worse than a Francophone West African’s grasp of French. The absence of a creole version of French in West Africa just proves the devastating effect of Krio on the English spoken in our country. (Note: To any non-Krio speakers, "Fak Fak" can hold several meanings in Krio. My best translation in the context of the story would be that it means to be Hyperactive)

I always laugh about this issue with my siblings, not because it’s amusing, but because it’s so sad and disappointing. You can only blame the individuals for so long before you are compelled to take a closer a look at the education system in the country. The primary, secondary and post-secondary institutions are crumbling and in desperate need of overhaul and renewal in terms of both the infrastructure and teaching methods. The rich pay for good private schools and the masses make do with the poor quality public schools. This is probably true for some western countries as well but the gap between public/private in Sierra Leone is just unacceptably large. 

We are always so proud to have been referred to as the “Athens of West Africa”, a reference to our history of excellence in education but yet that just serves to show how far we’ve fallen. I’ve put together a few examples from recent articles to emphasise my point.

“Accolade must be given the late President Joseph Saidu Momoh for straight forwardly telling Sierra Leoneans that he failed his exams as he navigated the ship of state."

“It makes no disputation whatsoever that President Koroma has indeed demonstrated his willingness to issues of infrastructural concern.”

“Sierra Leoneans are reportedly fed up of lies preached them by state officials and have virtually attributed same as not having the traits of late President Momoh’s straight forward governance doctrine.”

“She furthered that she grudged no hatred and detestation for anyone including the unborn. That with unity, love and oneness it is sure Sierra Leone has a place in the next 50 years.”

“In spite of the fact that Afsatu Kabba was taken to the wells of the high courts to answer for believable corruption indictments, it is of the conviction of the electorates that the likes of Afsatu Kabba makes better in the swift and unrestraint development of Sierra Leone in the years to come.”

I must stress that I’m not raising this issue because I want to belittle Sierra Leoneans, I’m doing this because I’m fed up with being presented with mediocrity when I know we can do better. I’ve always refused to believe the current state of affairs is “good enough” just because it’s African. We cannot improve as individuals or as a society if we do not always insist on the best.

I’d like you to think of this rebuke as the cold water you splash on your face every morning to wake you up. It stings but it’s for your own good. I am not a journalist and I’m certain those at the top of the profession would have issues with my writing but is it too much to ask that our journalists use their media to inform rather than confuse us?

War Stories - A Tale of two dogs

This story starts in the month of October in 1996 and i had just returned to Freetown after two years in Belgium. I wasn’t too happy about it, the country was in the middle of a Civil War and i was leaving comfortable, safe surroundings. I didn’t want to move yet again and have to re-establish friends yet again. It was in this state of confusion, anger and fear that i met Milo( prounounced Meelo) the new dog in our house. 

Our old dog Tiger had died the year before much to everyone’s sadness, Tiger was well liked by all and was a great dog. He was a loyal, great with people but could be tough with outsiders too.....We used to walk around the neighborhood with Tiger as kids just to see him beat up other dogs, made me so proud...

Anyways so its safe to say that Milo had a lot of work to do to win me over. Its been so long but i remember he was around the size of a german shepherd(dont know what breed he was) and light coloured. After a few months living with him Milo was turning out to be an alright dog, not too aggressive and quite friendly but very easily alarmed. Stamping your foot on the ground was enough to get him scrambling for cover.....

Of course he wasn’t helped by the fact that our house is about 200 to 300 metres away from an army base. So when the 1997 coup happened, the poor thing was going nuts. Every gun shot would have Milo running for cover, behind the trees in the compound, under the cars, in the kitchen....everywhere!!!


During the initial hours of the coup, everyone locked themselves indoors as soldiers went on a rampage trying to commandeer vehicles and steal whatever they could. The early hours of coups are always uncertain and rife with violence. Everyone knew it was best to keep away from windows, crawl instead of walk upright to avoid stray bullets etc...the usual.. after all we’d had a coup only 5 years before.Everyone was safely indoors except..... Milo...running around the compound like a dog on a mission frantically trying to enter the front door, kitchen door, any door!!! but they were all shut.

Nobody wanted to open the front door because it was so dangerous outside and i remember someone saying “Someone let the dog in!”. I cant remember what brave soul did let him in but i could never forget the sound of him running around, panicked and terrified beyond imagination. He was panting like he always did when he was scared, and behaving like a dog on steroids. I remember how absurd the situation felt like with everyone too scared to help the dog out. 

After the first day of Junta rule, plans were being made for us to leave the country as it was too uncertain and dangerous to stay. We left on June 6th 1997(what can i say, i remember things!!!!) , 11 days after the coup, and drove to neighbouring Guinea. We stayed in Guinea for a year during which Milo only came to mind when i thought his antics during the gunfire. The Military rulers were eventually kicked out of office by a Nigerian led peacekeeping force in 1998. In July of the same year we finally returned home after a year of exile.

When we got back to our House, Milo wasn’t there permanently anymore. He came by once in a while but he was mostly out on the streets, the Old boy had snapped. God knows what had happened to him in the year we were away. Who knows? perhaps he didn’t feel safe anymore. To those who might suggest that we should have crossed borders with him...in time of war the last thing you think about is a dog... The base next to us was now occupied by the Nigerians, having kicked out the rebels.

As the months went by and Freetown was invaded once again in January 1999 ii hadn’t seen Milo much but in my mind he may have just ran away, couldn’t cope with the stress anymore...I really did not think much of his disappearance and life went on. A few weeks after the fighting in the city subsided one of our neighbors approached us about giving away puppies...my brother and i readily accepted...i took the dark brown one for myself and my bro took the light colored one ( I’m much darker than my brother so it was only natural lol). We found out from the lady that Milo had been making conjugal visits to her dog and the puppies were the offspring...so thats where he was all the time!!!!

I found it amusing that that was how he coped with war lol...I wondered again where he was, deadbeat dad running away from responsibility....I found out later to my utter amazement what had happened to dear old Milo....

Some kid in the neighborhood reportedly saw him going towards the barracks where the Nigerians were staying. Thats the last time anyone saw Milo.There were persistent rumours that Nigerians were quite fond of Dog “Pepper Soup”.This made me certain that he had met an untimely end and i had to reconcile with the possibility that he was probably in a pot somewhere, the key ingredient in someone’s “Pepper Soup”. Rumour had it his girlfriend met the same end.......

Freedom Fighters [From 2007]

My first taste of Middle East politics came way back in 2000 when all hell broke loose after Ariel Sharon's infamous visit to Temple Mount. Before that i didn't really care about what happened in the rest of the world because my country, Sierra Leone, was in a hell of it's own. So during the relative calm of the new millenium this event drew my attention to a complicated conflict that had been going on decades before i was born. The level of hatred involved was astonishing and was the main thing that caught my attention. The way my 13 year old brain interepreted it was that the Palestinians were fighting for their freedom and the right to their land and Israelis were struggling against"terrorists"( i just don't like that word). This was better than a movie, a great novel, or a "reality show" this was real, exciting, brutal and i was hooked.

Fast forward a year and the U.S was hit on September 11th 2001. I still remember that day and how strange everything seemed, how very un-real the television images were. The U.S attacked on their home soil? no way!!!!!!!!!. The first two questions that came to mind, to i'm sure alot of people, were "who would dare?" and just simply "why?". George Bush would want us to believe that these men were jealous of American freedoms and has embarked on what is nothing more than a crusade to spread his ideology across the world. The world needsfreedom and democracy and they need it NOW! a quick fix, using a syringe instead of pills to cure this world of "Islamic terrorism". I put those two words in inverted commas because there is no such thing as Islamic terrorism. There's terrorism and there's Islam, the two are incompatible.

The "Why?" question the america people were asking was given the wrong answer. They hate our freedom and democracy . What Freedom i ask? Is this the same America that for hundreds of years considered blacks to be less than human and treated them as such? the same America that murdered, raped, lynched and stripped of all identity millions of people?thrived on the free labour for so many years? is this the same America that helps to fund the occupation and heavy handedness of the Jewish state against the palestinians and other arabs? Is this the same America that supports arab dictatorships, yet brand "undemocratic" and "evil" those that dare stand up?? Freedom is the wrong answer. i can hear the people that are screaming "anti-american!", "anti-semite!" and i say to you this I'm not anti-american ( i'm anti-american FOREIGN POLICY) nor am i anti-semitic whether u believe it or not is up to you. And no i don't have a jewish friend to prove it lol. The Hollywood-like propaganda speeches Bush dishes out is hard to swallow and to think that man has the most destructive force in human history( the U.S military) at his disposal is extremely worrying.

I'm against anything and everything that includes oppression and needless suffering and though America is not the only culprit it's right up there with the worst. Foreign policy is the obvious reason why america is disliked, the bias it shows( israeli occupation, Lebanon war in 2006) makes lot of Middle Eastern people angry. How the state of Israel can do no wrong in the eyes of America is astonishing and deeply disturbing.Is Israel always right? was it right in killing at least 1000 civilians in a month? "Militants hide among civilians!" is the cry i hear, Did British forces flatten Northern Ireland because the IRA were amongst civilians? i'll leave that for you to answer.

Iraq is supposedly a front on the so-called war on terror and countless civilians perish for the fight,in america's eyes, for the ever elusivefreedom. Are Iraqis better off now than under Saddam? HELL NO!!!!! is FREEDOM brought about by an invading force( whose primary interest is energy) going to last? would america spend some 300 billion dollars just because it felt iraq should be free and not harbour "terrorists"( even though Binladen and Saddam didn't like each other)?Will America win in Iraq? will Nato win in Afghanistan? You'd have to be either uncommonly optimistic or have chosen to hide the cloud of ignorance and fear that is hanging over the average westerner to believe in victory.

so as America prepares to send thousands of it's "freedom fighters" to Iraq they should remember a few things. Freedom and democracy cannot be brought by an invading force, Freedom and democracy are an illusion under the current occupation, Freedom cannot be brought by a country that doesn't practice what it so dramitically preaches (Guantanamo Bay anyone?). Genuine Freedom like so many things is a desire shared by all ( not only Americans!!!!) and can only come from within. I'm no expert at all this but i have chosen to do what many in the "Free World" are afraid of, ASK QUESTIONS and get ANSWERS not PROPAGANDA.

Yellow Woman - Part 3

Each step I took would raise a slight puff of dust as my flip flops penetrated the thick film of powder on the road. The sound of rubber gently hitting the underside of my foot was louder than usual partly because I was walking briskly but mostly because my senses were being stretched to their limits. There were only 3 or so houses close enough to the road that could provide me with any sense of comfort. I knew that in a worst case scenario, an encounter with you-know-who….at the very least people would hear my screams.

 My plan was to make it between these “safe zones” and spend as little time as possible in the relatively darker areas with head-high grass. I made my way through the first 50 or so meters rather quickly, keeping a watchful eye on the swaying blades of grass to my right.  I figured that if I was gonna get attacked, it would almost certainly come from beyond the wall of grass, which seemed so innocent in the day. Our fence was on the left so I was pretty sure nothing would be coming from that end. I avoided its shadow though and kept what I regarded as a safe distance from the grass on the right… I ended up walking straight through the middle.

I made it to my first “safe zone” intact, a bit sweaty and shaken but otherwise ok. I could hear the reassuring sound of the neighbours’ conversations from behind the wall as I walked by. It was a few seconds of respite for my hardworking heart… furiously beating at my chest from the inside. I knew that a second stretch of deserted road was literally just around the corner. Much longer than the first, it also had a couple of half constructed homes along the way.

These homes under construction were particularly terrifying at night as they cast ominous shadows. I started my walk, or was it a slight jog? I can’t really recall… but somehow I was moving and getting closer to where i wanted to be. I remember the growing sense of relief I felt as I approached the main intersection that connected the side street I was walking on with the main road. I could hear faint sounds of the conversations that drifted through the wind…I thought I was home and dry, my heart slowed down a little, my neck relaxed just a touch…and then I felt it…

A sharp gust of wind hit me from my right; I could hear the movement of the grass as the wind picked up dust and stones and swept them right across my path. My clothes billowed in the wind... I FROZE….too terrified to run away as my legs were too weak to move and were barely propping me up. I couldn’t turn around either and check out what was going on because I didn’t want to see whatMIGHT be there…I thought to myself, “This is it…” my end has come, I’m going to be killed by a man-hating spirit… I heard what i thought was the rustling of clothing and I thought she was making her way over to me…but I still couldn’t move or turn around...

As I processed the situation, I tried in vain to recall all those koranic verses that I’d memorized for such a confrontation but I couldn’t remember a single thing… Arabic wasn’t my first language and I always sucked at it so I desperately searched my brain for an alternative …something that would be as effective at warding off evil…

Just as a side note, you should know that I’m descended on both sides of my family from conservative Muslims…my ancestors had waged jihad to establish an Islamic Kingdom, with the capital at Timbo, my ancestral home…

…yet in my deepest hour of need, when my brain was blanked and my feet paralysed by terror, I called out “I am covered in the blood of Jesus, you cannot harm me”… over and over again…I waited to be struck by evil, my heart was racing, my palms were sweaty as I held a fist, my neck ached from being held rigidly in one position. My mouth kept repeating that intoxicating chant. As if I was in a trance, my mouth moved like it had taken a life of its own... everything seemed to slow down, like my life was put on slow motion... my senses were so heightened I could swear I felt each hair on my skin move, I could hear myself breathe, I could smell the barbeques from the shacks near the intersection…

After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the wind stopped, the grass calmed and everything went back to normal…I lifted my head up and ran as fast as i could… all the way down the hill. Even though I’ve never been renowned for my athleticism, i ran extremely fast and didn't feel out of breath or tired when I got to the stores.I bought my food as quickly as I could and I started on the return journey…

Emboldened by my earlier “victory”, I was a lot calmer as I negotiated the little dusty side street on my way home… By calmer, I mean I jogged instead of ran home invoking Jesus and Allah (I was starting to recall some things) along the way. I got home tired, dirty and just plain relieved to be intact and alive.

Looking back at that incident a decade later, I can’t explain what really happened that night. I tend to think these days that all the ghost stories must have made my brain overreact and imagine sounds… after all strong gusts of wind are not uncommon in a seaside community. However the African in me will always wonder… what if the wind and dust was actually her “appearing”…what if I had actually managed to defeat an evil spirit…somehow to think that I had repelled the Yellow Woman makes me feel rather good.

  THE END

Yellow Woman - Part 2

The rumours were started, as is common, by one person reporting what “they” had said, heard and/or seen. “They”, was a mysterious group of people who seemed to know everything but was never available to provide the necessary details thereby maintaining a convenient anonymity. So “they” started reporting sightings of a mysterious lady prowling the streets and beaches of Goderich. “They” said that the “Yellow Woman” was a Spirit of the sea, who would come to land to, amongst other things, prey on men. She was described as incredibly beautiful, with long flowing hair and a light complexion. She was also supposedly an expert at luring men into her trap and sometimes killing them....

As the rumours spread, the neighbourhood became more on edge...people walking around in groups if they absolutely had to go outside at night. She dominated most conversations but in typical Sierra Leonean way, most people would make light of the terror they felt. They often cracked jokes about it and young men in particular would be told to “cam bak quick o, u know say Yellow Woman dae around”[Don’t be late, the Yellow Woman is around] as they ventured out at night. Since Yellow Woman’s victims were all men, the women were spared the terror and I believe they must’ve secretly enjoyed the hysteria that had spread amongst the men. Wives with wayward husbands would be sure that their men would be good as long as you-know-who was on the prowl...

The increased anxiety in the neighbourhood started getting to me after a man I knew reported an encounter with the spirit.  Pa Lansana, a middle aged man with a slight build and a fondness for sleeveless white vests, had worked on some small repair jobs at our house. He led a small group of builders and did everything from repairing our roof to rebuilding our exterior fencing after a storm had knocked it down. He was always a chatty type, engaging in friendly banter with his crew and those of us just hanging around the compound...

I came home from school one day and was surprised to hear that our “Yellow Woman” problem had been discussed on local radio. I was even more taken aback to hear that Pa Lansana had been interviewed as a “witness” and had described a quite terrifying encounter with the spirit. Apparently, he had woken up just before dawn to say his prayers at the local mosque and had met the spirit on the way. He allegedly had a duel of some sort with the creature...he recited verses from the Koran and the creature initially resisted, assuming weird shapes but eventually gave up and ran away. As my cousins related all this information to me, I naturally laughed myself to tears....This man had a unique way of expressing his stories and I really wished I’d heard the interview first hand.....

The whole thing was so fantastic and barely believable but yet came from a man that I knew was neither insane nor a liar...this troubled me somewhat. As the days went by, more encounters were reported and I gradually avoided walking outside alone... Darkness almost always meant I’d be home and not hanging out a friend’s place or with the neighbours or just chilling outside the compound on the side of the road...The Yellow Woman worried me in a way that the super natural had never before. I became genuinely terrified of walking down the poorly lit, dusty roads that made their way from our house all the way down the hills, to the shops on the edge of the ocean. This walk usually took around 10-15 minutes....

One night, in this climate of fear, i decided to take the “risk” of an encounter and go down to the stores to buy some food. The N.P.A (National Power Authority to some, No Power Available to most) had plunged the whole neighbourhood into darkness as was normal back then. A full moon was up though, bathing the houses and trees in a magnificent, ghostly grey light. On nights like these, you could pretty much see everything in what would otherwise be absolute darkness. This extraordinary lighting did create some unnerving shadows though, especially from trees. The gently swaying branches and leaves cast shadows that looked like monsters crawling on the dirt....

I took a few steps out of the safety of the compound...it must’ve been sometime after 8 p.m. but I’m sure it wasn’t very late at night. I took a left turn, getting on the street, which was deserted as expected. Our fence cast an ominous shadow on the left side of the road, and a long stretch of tall grass lined the other side for at least a hundred metres. The gentle breeze that was blowing moved the grass slowly...left, then right...as if someone was cutting a path through it. The road itself was pretty narrow and the usually reddish-brown dust had a beautiful grey glow.  I did a quick mental check to ensure I could call upon my spiritual protection should the need arise...I took a deep breath and started walking... [To be continued]

Yellow Woman - Part 1

The posting is from 2010.

At 23 years old, I've lived a rather interesting life, lucky enough to travel and live in many different parts of the world and in vastly different cultures. From Africa, Europe and now North America, many neighbourhoods have shaped who i am today, but by far the most influential of these would have to be the little and oft derided fishing village of Goderich. 

Located in the suburbs of Freetown, it is about an hour's drive from the city centre even though it was probably only 10-15 kms away. Like most of Freetown, Goderich was built on the edge of the Atlantic, with most residents including myself, not more than a half hour's walk from the ocean. It is a sprawling area of mansions and corrugated zinc shacks or “pan bodies”, an army base, a college and a quarry. Even though most consider it a part of Freetown, it is technically outside the city limits. This may explain the appaling state of the road that leads to Goderich from Freetown. For many years i had to endure the teasing of class mates when we'd be dropped off at school with our car covered up to the headlights in mud. For years, i had to be extra careful not to let the windows down as we laboured through the 5 or so kilometres of torturous dirt road. To do so would risk getting to school with brown eyelashes and a dirty uniform. In the rainy season we'd have to carefully navigate the trenches created by poor drainage (to call them pot holes would be an understatement). In the dry season, visibility was minimal as drivers raced each other to avoid being caught behind a massive plume of dust. So much dust would accumulate on the side of the road, that whenever you returned from a stroll, you were forced to wash your feet.

Sure, Goderich had and probably still does have major infrastructural challenges but  also possesses its own unique charm. From the bay area, where local fishermen sold their goods to the foot of the hills where huge compounds and massive houses remain a common site. The local palm wine selling shacks or “poyo bars” were juxtaposed with fancy villas and compounds. Wealth and abundance stood shoulder to shoulder with extreme poverty. It was a common sight when walking on any street to see young men hanging outside the pan bodies having a drink, chatting up the girls that sold oranges on the street. These girls would have the oranges neatly peeled on a little cloth covered tray. The oranges would be arranged in threes or twos.."three for two block" they would enthusiastically offer...Older gentlemen, often shirtless would be playing checkers under the evening sun, chewing roasted peanuts and sharing their words of wisdom on everything from politics to football...

Close by, you'd probably have kids kicking a ball around hoping to be the next Mohamed Kallon or Junior Tumbu or J.J Okocha etc etc.... As we got older and european football fever invaded the country, nicknames like Gerrard and Van Nistelrooy became the norm... In the evenings you'd see the "big men" in the neighborhood being driven in their tinted, Air-conditioned SUVs...some were back from a hard day's work, others returning from chilling with their boys at China House...It was a simple existence, the few who had jobs going about their business, the many who were not so fortunate hanging around dreaming, praying ( to Jesus and Allah), hoping for a better future. Despair is not the Sierra Leonean way and somehow people always kept their hopes alive and a smile on their faces.

In those days, only two things could alter the average Sierra Leonean's laissez-faire approach to life, a rebel invasion and...THE UNDERWORLD. Yes you read it correct.The world of spirits inhabiting humans,owls and other animals...witches/wizards hitching rides at night to America in groundnut shells and returning before dawn...curses and charms, love potions...the whole nine yards. Underworld fever at one point had the whole city in near hysteria...it was what everyone talked about...Tales of witches confessing or “prooving” as they referred to it were everywhere.

It all made for fantastic stories but ever the skeptic, i never quite bought into them.... I often dismissed them as the product over an over-active imagination...after all i thought...Sierra Leoneans are masters at spinning stories from nothing. For months my views stayed the same until the “Yellow Woman” hit Goderich....[TO BE CONTINUED]