In the beginning, all things looked grand…one got to know a new family member everyday… a good vacation was a day at the farm and Freetown was a far off place called “Salon”. And then came the exodus. Long days trecks and nights of hunger… To a homely exile where I met you, you and you…where life grabbed me and taught me about the world. And then I went back…
When I got there, the town looked so small and some parts were still ravaged. Before going there last year I still had my childhood memories of town with fun experiences everyday. on my walk from school which was next to the hospital, to my uncle so he could go eat with me because I would not eat by myself to the walk across the center of town where the Lebanese and Syrian cocoa merchants who were sponsors of my dads soccer team would give me treats to go home. The visits to my grandpa’s farm riding on the back of his bike on the way to the farm just to sit down and watch them farm and then start crying when it was time to go home because I did not want to walk those three miles.
When I went back last year I only spent a few hours there because I got there one evening and left there the following morning. Now I know I was running away from the ruined memories. All the pictures I had in mind about my warm friendly community were shattered. Having gotten over the shock however, I wish I had stayed longer. I know there are a lot of good things about my town that I still treasure and I have made myself a promise that the next time I’m around I will spend a few days there reacquainting myself with my land of birth and filling that void that I now realize has always been there that always made me claim myself as a “mende boy” even as I regret forgetting to speak that beautiful tongue I was so prolific in in my early years.
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