à bientôt

This was no sip, No gradual descent into thirst No decent interval between the first gulp and the next No decent swallow No dissent from our limbs, On the contortions being demanded.
This was the ravenous quenching of the thirst Making up for lost months. At its pinnacle, This was two cannibals feeding on each other. Clothes the casualties Underclothes all but collateral damage.
This was the crossing of thresholds Ecstasy and agony Enveloped in each spasm .
This was our reunion Sorry neighbours, Next time I’ll bring earmuffs.

COLORS

She reminds me of yellow
A mellow hue 
Of memories blues
Kisses stolen in red
A glimmer of radiance
As white smile peaks through black lips.

Take a walk with me
in the promenade of the beautiful
I'll lend you my eyes
and walk to the echoes of your steps
Take you through my stories
A rough draft open to your edit

All i need is one date
To show you
I was crafted through the ages for you
and meant to last for eternity with you
Introduce you to my friends
and with that, all my secrets
Never caring to hide my cards
For in this game i play
your happiness is my win

I don't mean to startle you
and I would never want to part
with such a gift as you
So please forgive the romantic in me
who wants to break up with you daily
so he can re-meet you
and fall in love with you
all over again each day.

Uber

"Your uber is arriving"
... was the alert that jolted me back to consciousness.
The party as it were, had continued in our absence.
Her, hot, and me, bothered
unceremoniously clambered after each other into the car.
"Wickham", I hoarsely managed to utter
as i slammed the door behind us.
my fingers as they wandered south
commending her decision to go commando.
appreciating that her dress could barely contain her
my hands had worked gamely to cover the rest.
Our driver, at first bored, then curious
was risking death with the constant shifting eyes.
Me, preoccupied with keeping my hands wet.
wet enough to continue its fun date
on this marvelous slip and slide.
Her moans the shrieks of ecstasy that egged us on.
She kissed me...
and my lips were not the only ones leaking fluids.

Love sucks

Five years ago upon returning from Sierra Leonean after a month long vacation, i started writing this blog, it was in the middle of an exciting time. Social media was filled with folks who had newly discovered their activism and had found a way to showcase it to a wider audience. We were all still grappling with how to use social media to enrich our relationships, etiquette was being discovered on the fly and the protocols were never universal. Leh We Talk was the first of many outlets that sought to tap into the conversation of young sierra Leoneans and i'm honored to have being a part of it. It was refreshing to be able to connect with young Sierra Leoneans from all over the world. We reminisced about growing up in Sierra Leone, raised our objections to present day happenings and expressed our fears and dreams for the future.

Two years ago i stopped updating this blog. i had learnt a lot from my past relationship, Social media was playing a significant role in our conversations and our politics, relationships were being ruined everyday by social media. I still believed my generation had all the answers, just as i believed the generation before us had squandered all the gifts they possessed on the trading block of personal enrichment.

Today, I'm back. My pieces, never prophetic, have become more reflective. I have grown in terms of years and experiences accumulated, accepting the primary fact that life hurts, but we go again.

Accompany me on this journey of self discovery and self development in a new continent and amidst all the laughter and cringes, remember, love sucks, but you can't give up.

The Returnee

     They say life is made up of memories, the good ones and the not so good ones. Your first kiss, the first beating in school, your first crush, your first fight. a series of firsts that shape your experience. You can neither get enough firsts nor can you have enough memories, but every now and then you sit back, delve through those myriad memories and smile at that experience that's treasured close to your heart.

     For me, that experience was a trip I took to Bo in 2003. Two years after the war was declared officially over, in the middle of the national reconstruction and resettlement stage, a few days after I had taken my WASSCE exams, at a moment I was deep in the desert of self-discovery, I took the return leg of a trip I had undertaken in early 1992. Back then, the war had just started and I was hard pressed to recall anything about the trip as a combination of my Mom's back and my spindly legs combined excellently to keep me ahead of the rebels who had just started their movement by attacking my town.

     My interactions with the provinces in the intervening years were all centered around hearing tales of the progress of the war, seeing the geometric increase of new faces around my area and the gigantic fear that would strike my heart whenever my Mum, (whose business required her traversing the rebel infested highways ever so often) showed up at home or was leaving on another journey. They tell me now that I always used to cry when she left, I don't remember that part (yes, that's my story and I'm sticking to it).

     Those intervening years had made me very much a "Fritong boy". With a full creole name and an educational background that had taken me to a lot of "creole" schools, this trip was going to be some experience.
As the government bus gradually chased the sunrise on rickety roads, I was confronted with all I'd heard on the news about the war. Burnt out busses littered the roads, broken checkpoints were not uncommon and half naked children with varied wares would greet us at every small town. Unlike today, the journey lasted close to a whole day.


     Then I was reminded of the hospitality that is common among Sierra Leoneans but more renowned among those in the provinces. Constantly bamboozled by the many family members I had never known I had. Had anyone told me I was a long lost prince, I would not have disputed that. Such is the exceptional treatment that was meted out to me on that trip. Needless to say I did not want to leave, but I had to and I did. Not before sampling all the delights a vibrant and laid back town had to offer to a young man out on his own with thoughts of the world at his feet.

     So if you want to hear those stories and relieve those experiences with me, then join me on this year's GWB Ball and maybe over drinks or on the dance floor, we can trade stories while basking in the company of other Sierra Leoneans.

The Other Side (for those who are heartbroken on Valentines day)

As the world watches
He slowly lunges
Fall caught the gentle waves
As he lives to tell the tale
of love lost on vday

Table set
Candle lit
Champagne chilled
Strawberry iced
Chocolate warmed
Dream nowhere to be seen

The sky becomes clouded
As the wind chills out the candle
Bearing with it a note
Sorry honey:
Cupid’s arrow lost its way.

The Gift of Love

“When it’s gone, you'll know what a gift love was.”  Ian McEwan, Enduring Love

Over the years I’ve found love the easiest of subjects to write about. Always fully emotionally charged and with enough permutations to make even the most certain of men hesitant, the ideas just seem to materialize when they are needed. It is amidst this background that I find the need to write this piece.

As we lay claim to the fact that we each have our own stories, there is always that one story common to most of us. The story of that one girl. Mine was not so different. My “that girl” was you, my first love. You were the first girl I knew who loved me. The meet happened years ago. So long ago that we had both moved on and subsequently become friends.

At least I believed I had moved on, until I found out there was someone else now who you love as much as you did me. I know, its ignorant for me to assume I would always be special to you, Especially considering that I had moved on too. I know, that is why I was surprised at the outpouring of sadness that initially occurred when I discovered this.

There is no hope of us ever hooking up again, we both realize we are not the perfect fit for the other and now that I reevaluated things, I’m happy that you’re happy. I wish nothing but the best for you and him. I hope he brings more joy in your heart than I ever did and none of the tears I ever caused to flow down your cheeks.  For good measure, and because it perfect encapsulates my feelings I’ll add the words of Bruno Mars to this:

Oh I know I'm probably much too late
To try and apologize for my mistakes
But I just want you to know
I hope he buys you flowers
I hope he hold your hands
Give you all his hours
When he has the chance
Take you to every party
Cause I remember how much you loved to dance
Do all the things I should have done
When I was your man

An African Man

     I thought of my Grandpa, and couldn't hep but smile. He was no great African Statesman, no political activist, no human rights advocate, he was not a millionaire, an investor or a world traveler  He was my grandpa and that superseded all those preceding accolades.

    You have heard that it has been said that African men are not emotional. There is more than a  modicum of truth in that...(cue the discussion between traditionalists and modernists about my generalisation). It is not so much that emotions do not exist in the social landscape of African men, it is that they tend to shove it in the darker recesses of their mind. My grandpa was an African man in that regard.He never once told me he loved me, but there was no action that he ever took that ever gave me cause to doubt that he did. 

     He was a warrior. Having fought for the British in the Gold Coast he held military members in high regards but he never boasted of his service. In fact you had to be really close to him to know he served. He is an African man.

     He believed in family. We were not related by blood, something you wouldn't know unless i told you. He adopted my friends as his. My friends had as many stories of him as of their own grandparents. He is an African man.

     He worked the same job for all his life. He mastered all the intricacies of his job. He showed up everyday and his job became an extension of his life. I had never seem him blow off work or call sick. He did all that and then he retired to his house. He is an African man.

    He was a collector, a historical document in itself. I did not have to go to the museum (which everyone knows is a disgrace when its collection is evaluated) to look at all the old currencies we've had. My first constitution i got from him, my first sierra leonean books were from him (still fondly remember "sawpit boy" and "kossoh town boy"). The first krio bible i saw was his. He had lived our country's history and yet he was never one to pontificate to others. He is an African man.

     I never heard him discuss politics, he always registered and went to the polls. He knew the history and lineage of most of the politicians. He never tried to indoctrinate those under his care. he did his civic duty and asked for nothing in return. he is an African man.

     He was stubborn, headstrong and sometimes overbearing. His wife i'm sure would have stories to tell of some of the times they had a spark in their relationship. He always told it for what it was. He had worked hard for all he had all his life and did not tolerate any who would want to take from him what was rightfully his. He is an African man.

     My grandfather is not a legend, he is a man. He lived his youth, he served his country, he pays his dues, he takes care of his own. He is my African man and I would that he gets this compliment rather than  a  eulogy.

My First Revo (April 29th, 1992)

It was a day unlike many others. A Wednesday that defied all other Wednesdays, but at the start, my seven year old mind did not notice any difference. Usually we were just about tired of school and started our countdown to the weekend. The teachers had noticed this and decided to spice up our interests with hot mental every Wednesday. I had hurriedly memorized the 4 times table that night because although we had been tasked with memorizing the 3 times table, I wanted to prove to my classmates who were always on my case, that this “upline borboh” younger than all of them in the class was also smarter than all of them.

As usual, my cousin and I made the slow scenic walk to school. We had to walk out the big compound I was residing in, one that my step grandpa had built with my grandma, two people I had known for less than one year, a period in which I had lost my house, been separated from my Mother and my brother and been abandoned by my Dad at his Mom’s. War has us all as victims, but on that day all I was thinking was how much different the walk to school was from my town in kailahun to the city Freetown. 

There, in Kailahun, after breakfast, my mum usually dropped me off at my granddad’s. More often than not my grandpa would have left for the farm, but not before leaving me a tasty treat. Then my uncle, who was just a few years older than I, would walk with me to school. Roman Catholic Primary School or RC School as everyone knew it, was one of the many mission schools that plagued the interior of the country. I cannot now remember any of my classmates or even any of my other schoolmates beside my uncle, but I did remember my head teacher, Mrs Mary John, a nice and capable white woman, whose story I was ignorant of, satisfied with the fact that she was nice and that she knew my family well.

Here, in Freetown, after breakfast it was a walk to school with another cousin, whom I had to call cousin because we were both young and staying in the same house but cannot till this day for the life of me explain our relationship. Our route took us past the neighborhood market, named “Kongosa makit” (gossip market), past the house of a young lady who would become very special to me more than a decade and a half later, past a mosque and down to my school.

Church of Christ primary school, or Overlook school as it was more popularly called, was a school of the Church whose building and resources we shared.  Sitting on the edge of an overly utilized stream, we were as likely to spend our lunchbreak playing by the stream as we were playing in the baptismal spot of the church. For a church surrounded by a multitude of houses constructed from corrugated zinc sheets and scrap woods the expectation would have been that we would be constantly distracted by noise but since the kids from those houses were all pupils in the school all the noise during the day was coming from us.

The school day started like any other. We had devotion conducted by the principal, with our aunties and uncles as we called our teachers, darting here and there trying to keep us in a straight line and from talking amongst ourselves. They were doing a good job too with their stern looks of disapproval and the canes as diverse as themselves. Trying their best to look formal, the baggy dress pants held together with thin multi colored belts, oversized dressed shirts and the bipolar assortment of ties for the men and the oddly better dressed women succeeded.  Their task of making us better citizens and better people with a brighter future, was another question altogether as they sometimes seemed as disillusioned about our future as we were unconcerned about it. As usual we capped the devotion with the singing of our National Anthem, always the good young patriots.

As we were dismissed to our classes, we sped off as fast as our little legs could carry us, trying to get to the class early in order to claim the least rickety piece of furniture we would call our own for that school day. After the excitement of finding seats we ploughed into the school day as we did every day, with the joys of hanging out among our own kind and the torture we felt we were going through just by being there.

Not too long after, the school was abuzz with further excitement. The usually calm Principal was seen talking to our teacher whose face was more animated than we had ever seen it. Very soon parents in the surrounding houses were pulling their kids from school and we could see through our frameless and pane-less window, a lot more people than usual running by our school. Not too long after, those of us who were still present were asked to assemble in front of the class and we were told we were processing back to our houses.

The only year in our school history, when we had two “march-past”, this odd assortment of wide eyed pupils and strangely assorted teachers left the church grounds, went past the mosque, past a house that would be of greater significance later on in life, through a now empty market and continued down the road, dropping off each student at their home.

I never did quite figure out how far the procession actually travelled before each pupil and teacher got to their home and as my colleagues watched me walk up my drive I never quite knew how significant events happening around the country would shape the course of mine and my country’s future.

It was April 29, 1992. The mood in the whole country was happy. Youth was for the first time the controlling voice. The status quo was challenged at one swoop. It was a day unlike many others but when I walked through the doors of the place I called home, I was just glad we didn’t have the hot mental.

Notes:
Hot mental was a quiz like thing we grew up with, the questions were on multiplication tables and we would get whacked on our hands for every wrong answer.
"Upline borboh" was a boy from the provinces and not from the capital city.

The African Child

His were the eyes of a bastard,

The acquiescing ayes of the unloved.

Dotted with the multitude of surrogates,

Lined with the dead tears of dead promises.

Regaled with the ayes of her mother’s tongue

As she is pillaged by father candidates.

Strengthened by the constant employment

Of both hands to protect

the eyes and ears of his siblings from corruption.

Continuously challenged to be the judge

Between the cost of his mother’s neglect

and the cost of his own nurture.

Longing constantly for his day of emancipation.

Bringing with it an independence

That will end his mother’s whoring,

Establish his identity

And provide the platform for the security of his siblings.

The day his land ceases her whoring to strangers from afar.

The day he ceases to look at other nations for redemption.

The day his kinsmen become his brothers.

Waiting for the day he ceases to be a bastard son,

And starts been an Independent man.

I THINK I NEED A MAN

I think I need a man

A man who loves me for who I am

Intelligent, Articulate and caring

I need a man who will respect me

One who’s not afraid to love me

I need a good man

I need a man who will take his time to know me

Knows what makes me smile

What makes me chuckle

and what makes me laugh

A man with strong shoulders

For me to cry on

Patience aplenty to listen

And caring enough to talk to me

I need a man who knows how to

Unbuckle my knees and

Cause my thighs to tremble

A man big enough for two hands

more than enough for a mouthful

and master of many strokes

A man who knows when to tease

When to kiss

When to suck and when to bite

A generous man

Willing to follow as well as lead

Until I meet that man I need

I’ll continue to build myself

Knowing there is that one man

Looking for me as much as I

Look for him

I think I need that man.

Justice Begins Next Door

There has never been a time in History when all has been great about Africa. Like every other continent Africa is a vast land with many contradictions. When the land itself is broken down it exposes the many distinctions apparent and the inequalities that come with such divisions. Nothing encapsulates this scenario more than the reaction by Africans of the complex situation that is Libya.

Feelings of disappointment, anger, sympathy, pity, resolve, and shame have been extended towards the people of Libya, the rebels, the soldiers, Gadaffi, his inner circle and the mercenaries fighting on both sides.

The African Union has epitomized all what is wrong about African Affairs by firstly towing the line of the International community that rattled its sabers at a government they had since 197 been attempting to overthrow and later attempting to be the statesmen that Africa requires by calling on a limit in the scope of the actions of the International Community and even attempting to open a dialogue between both sides. In all this, the image of an impotent AU with feelings of inferiority in the International arena became more pronounced.

The Arab League, never the favorite uncle in this uneasy African familial dynamic has stuck to what it knows best, protecting the more established Arab States. As it advocates the destruction of lives and property in Libya it sends troops to quell the same protests in Bahrain. As it colludes with the Western Nations to assassinate people with no military backgrounds in Libya, it turns a blind eye to the mass murder of protesting civilians in Syria.

And then the Western Governments. United States, The UK and their allies. Whose policy of Justice begins next door never is as surprising as the righteous indignation they display when trying to use the same measures they rile against to takeover governments in foreign nations, subverting the wills of those citizens  forgetting that the ills that sicken their very societies are oftentimes far worse than the perceived blight they attempt to cure the world of. Their passion ignorantly tearing apart the world one brick of idealism at a time. Meanwhile, all this hypocrisy is noted by the most recognized sleeper agent in history, The African Youth in the Diaspora.

He hasn’t gone as far as to support the view of Osama Bin Laden who in his first public address stated "The U.S. today, as a result of the arrogant atmosphere, has set a double standard, calling whoever goes against its injustice a terrorist,"  In fact the African youth in the Diaspora just observes international events and files them to that section of the mind that contains all things not in pursuit of individual development. In that section are the information on facts like the number of blacks in jail for civil era offences, the racial tensions prevalent in the entertainment, political and social industries in the West, the sexism that every now and then comes to the forefront of society’s conscience and the inequality that is shared between both societies.  He has observed the warmongering apparent in the West through their unending invasions of independent territories, attempted assassination of foreign heads of state and political figures who do not support their policies and the constant affairs to influence the political landscape of independent nations by supporting seemingly friendly dictators and infusing cash into the election campaigns of Western educated and western leaning candidates. "It wants to occupy our countries, steal our resources, impose on us agents to rule us.", was how Osama phrased it. The African youth sees it as a protection of the Interests of the Western governments at whatever costs to the developing countries.

The African youth witnessed and recorded how the conflict in Libya was handled in contrast to the ones in Bahrain and Syria, Witnessed the Unabashed haughtiness that emerged from speeches praising the designation of a Head of State as a target of assassination by other foreign nations. Witnessed the apathy of the United Nations, Witnessed Russia and China as the calming voices in the invasion of Africa and before this, the African Youth had witnessed the placations offered to that very same regime, the trade deals brokered and publicized between the Libyan government and the British government and its subsidiaries.

In Silence the African Youth continues to live his legacy, that of the freedom from slavery. Because you see, the difference between that era and this one is readily apparent. During slavery, the white master lived in his opulent house on one side of the plantation. He had one set of slaves working on the plantations and another set working in his house. He had his choice of leaders who would transmit his orders to the slaves. He would go to the slave quarters but only to take a sex object, to discipline those slaves who had got out of line, or to choose which of the slaves he could dispense with. Now for the plantation, picture the planet. The West separated from the rest who only turn to the rest of the world to pillage its resources, instill her own brand of morality or punish those who dare go against them. All the while attempting to choose the best candidates to govern the rest in a manner that is in the best interest of the west. Hooray to the end of slavery, welcome to the age of humanitarian democracy. An age where the most confused are the Western born African Children, for just like the bastards of slave owners and slaves, they had no say in this issue.  They continue to enjoy the worst of both worlds. Not fully accepted into either community.

All this the African youth in the Diaspora observes. But that is not all. He also observes the good that the West promises, the good that in the first place attracted him to her. The good that makes him want to fight for her, die for her, because she is after all his country now. She has the opportunities for advancement he wishes he had had growing up and he wishes his kids will one day have. It is the epitome of what he wants his country to be. A blueprint that guides his own developmental path. 

So he professes his love for his adopted land, fully meaning it, while the ember of love for his motherland lies undying in his deepest heart. Eternally fueled with the belief that  one day the major powers will grow tired of continually putting the little people in their place, one day they will fall asleep on that wheel of imperialism, fall asleep and wake up to an African independence from slavery, and every semblance of servitude. An Africa that lives on the idea that it is good to be best, but even better to be best loved.

God bless the USA, God Save the Queen and may God damn all those committed to the destruction of innocent lives in their quest to globally propagate their form of morality.

Chains around my emotions

Anger 

at the massacre

women raped

men disgraced

children molested

anger

but at whom

the merchants who profited

The farmers who used

or the chiefs who sold

Dissapointment

at its present state

those who deny it happened

those who use it as an excuse

those who sentimentalize it

Shame

at its sight

those who once were

those who once owned

those who once justified it

Guilt

my sentiments 

towards the sons and daughters

of all who profited from it

The shackles are now rusty

the ship are rotten

the plantations are razed

the distinctions remain

the institutions stand

the excuses continue to echo

what then should i feel about slavery.

Twisted

She has me

Wrapped around her finger.

Like a band of gold,

Setting the seal

on a promise

of love undying.

The setting

for a deep blue topaz.

Our love,

forever bound tightly

by cords, twisted

from

strands of;

our first meet here,

our first kiss there,
our first trip here,

our first fight there.

strands of

my first vision here,

and your first dreams there.

Spun together

with the wax of

unfailing trust.

She has me

wrapped around her finger.

and what a  place to be,

the seat from which

a victor is declared

when the gods of love do battle.

Admonition

I dreamt my father spoke to me.

From beyond the grave he spoke to me about faces.

Never tire to stop and look around you, he said.

What you will see are faces you will quickly become accustomed to.

Faces of champions,

Veterans in the art of exploration,

Wise beyond their meager years,

Restless.

Straining at the leash to unleash their childlike dreams upon us,

Their eloquence all the more admired 

because tells us how to temper idealism with pragmatism.

Faces of followers.

Invaluable for their supporting roles.

Safe in the knowledge

that their work will never be interrupted

by those who wish to prey on the accomplishments of others,

because the limelight will always be fixed squarely on the champions

while the followers toil daily with bravery enough and to spare,

to stand up and be counted if and when needed.

I will never be too far from you, he continues.

You will recognize me as the face of a Lawyer, Doctor,

Enterprenaur, Teacher, Economist,

Engineer, Social worker or other professional

and just like you,

they will be of champions and followers.

Your face and mine are not so unlike after all.

Shining bright with hope and expectation,

Catalyst for the change yet to come.

Looking to stop

The conservation of our bright faces,

And start lighting the path

For our new golden age.

And to think,

I never knew my father.

GREY

I am that rock in the middle of our river

stagnant

the bridge between our world and theirs

constant

watching tears pour as you come and go

frequent

never stopping to see who follows

indifferent

continually striving to float above the river of tears

nonplussed

always been regaled with journey tales

enthusiastically

Never am I jealous of your wanderings

unperturbed 

may you find the answers you seek there

hopefully

and the questions that need asking here

sagely

as you transverse the divide

adeptly 

between this world and the world.

Precious

Her name is precious 

at least that's what i named her

I found her a block from my house

alerted to her presence

by a whimper on the sidewalk

The pavement was whispering to me

help, help, someone, anyone, help

call me curious

i delved within the tangled mess

of old politics, old promises and old policies

of filthy rags, bunched up newspapers and old cardboards

and there discovered my precious

a ragged, wet and scared cat

beaten by the words of her unforgiving sons

ragged from the exploitation of what makes her beautiful

scared from the interventions

of powerful lobbies and superpowers

yet i could still see the beauty in her eyes

it was still freezing 

but I had ceased to be cold

I raised her up

lifted her to my self

and carried her home

dropped her in the shower

turned on the hot water

and waited for what would emerge

waited amidst the emerging moans of pleasure and pain

until she finally emerged 

This tiny thing 

lost in the bundling of all my towels

her shy colour 

peeking shyly through her skin

color patches playing hide and seek on 

her smooth skin

relieved of the burden

of the dirt and grime

of 50 years of perceived self determination

encapsulated in stagnation

the time had come

for her to shed off

years of neglect

and trade them

for the natural look for the future

My precious