Witches amongst us muggles?

A curious paranoia has gripped the residents of Freetown over the past couple of weeks; that we are being controlled by dark and evil forces. Now, this post is not inspired by the fact that I’ve just finished watching Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince; the obsession with witchcraft in Sierra Leone has intrigued me ever since I first got here.

Let me recount the latest events. About two weeks ago, the city’s main water supply was choked off by a severed pipe which took that long to fix. The government released a statement saying that that damage was too severe and they were doing all they could to plug the problem. A different group of commentators however forwarded a more sinister conspiracy theory: that there were witches and wizards in the president’s closest circle. It was apparently these ill meaning sorcerers that had a spell over our water supply in an effort to embarrass the ruling party.

The more recent incident involves the performance of a cleaning ritual at the president’s official residence, the State House. A local paper reported that the head of security at the State House had been passing around a hat to collect money to hire an ‘ariogbo’ (witch doctor), to come and rid the premises of bad karma.

This seems to have unleashed widespread pandemonium with everyone speculating that the president, Ernest Bai Koroma was indeed possessed. Joe Minah, a local journalist who investigated the story assured me that he had seen the exorcism pyre with his own eyes an vouched for some of the president’s aides being wicked.

I must pause here to mention that I’m not one to ridicule traditional beliefs. I’m merely a rational person trying to understand things on the periphery of our consciousness. I have had conversations with a number of people about witchcraft in Sierra Leone. A young media researcher narrated a first person account to me. Her father was suspected to be under the influence of wizards so an ariogbo was called in to expunge the spirits from his body. This involves the smearing of an ash-like powder on the arm, following which the area is branded with a hot iron. I’m told if the person is clean he or she will escape unscarred.

To me as an outsider who admittedly doesn’t understand the local culture that well, witchcraft seems like a convenient scapegoat. It’s what causes mental illness, polio, typhoid and malaria. The cure is some variation of the above mentioned ceremony.

Another fear that grips locals is that of being shot by a witch gun. I have often wondered what this offending weapon actually looks like. Some tell me it’s invisible, others say it’s small enough to fit in your pocket. A third group say it’s the evil eye.

I wonder why I find witch craft so hard to digest even while I’m glued to the screen waiting for Voldermort to make an appearance. As a muggle who’s spent many fantasy trips wandering around the dark halls of Hogwarts, I of all people should be able to embrace this real life ‘Abacadabra’. Is fantasy easier to believe in than reality? For Sierra Leoneans, not seeing is believing; this is their Pottermania.

Used syringes lying about at The Arab Clinic

A crumbling ward at The Arab Clinic

Medical drama

I grew up watching TV shows like CSI, Law and Order and Numbers where the bad guys were always the ones hiding behind a locked door and the men and women in blue had to kick their way in to bust up some nefarious activity.

The other day I got to live out that police dream. I accompanied the Ministry of Health and Sanitation on a crackdown on illegal hospitals and clinics in the city. We all piled into ministry cars and accompanied by armed policemen we set out to rid Freetown of quacks.

I have to say it was not the most subtle of raids. Our convoy was far too conspicuous and every where we went, a couple of public relations officers got out to clear the traffic for us. In the car with me was Dr Edward Nahim, the chief of medical services in Sierra Leone and the man in charge of the whole operation. Incidentally he is also the country’s only trained psychiatrist.

The first couple of stops were less than exciting; we checked papers and let them off with warnings. However it was an eye opener about the quality of healthcare in this country. Flickering lights, dingy wards, dirty sheets and filthy mosquito nets. If there had been a couple of drills lying around it could have been a scene from Eli Roth’s Hostel. These are not places where anyone can recover from anything.

The third place was where things not exciting. This was the Arab Clinic, part of a chain of Egyptian-owned private medical centres. Same ambience, even discarded needles lying lazily on a table near the reception. The man in charge seemed confused by our presence. Dr Nahim began interrogating the doctor in charge, a Guinean man who couldn’t produce any paperwork to prove that he was a certified medical practitioner. So amidst great pomp and protest we threw them into the police car and bolted the clinic.

Now comes the sad part, the patients who were admitted there. The ministry had obviously not thought this through very well and had no idea what to do with these people. They were simply told to “go to the nearest government hospital.” No one helped them remove their IVs or fetch them their crutches. “They’re better off without these fake doctors. This is dangerous,” Dr Nahim said to me. Surely there’s a reason they’re here. I winced as a young woman bled all over dress trying to pluck out the needle from her fore arm.

Same story at the next place. I was stunned by the fact that all the patients complied and agreed to be thrown out even though they had paid to be looked after. There was also no talk about whether they would get any money back.

By late afternoon everyone was pretty exhausted. Word seemed to have spread and every successive hospital we went to was shuttered already. Not sure what the point of this exercise was really, beyond publicity. It’s not going to stop illegal medical practitioners from treating desperate patients or mothers from dragging their daughters to unlicensed abortion clinics. The owners of these hospitals will bribe someone in the ministry and be back in business within a day.

That’s the cynic in me. The optimist however would like to believe that we stopped crime, saved lives and were heroes for the day.

Yenga is still the issue (for John Pilger)

Musa Tamba Sam is a troubled man. He’s just stepped out of Parliament where his attempt to slip Yenga into the agenda was shot down by the speaker. “I’m from the opposition you see,” he explains to me. Sam, an SLPP (Sierra Leone People’s Party) parliamentarian from the east of Sierra Leone is trying to make sure no one forgets about his people in the tiny border town that has been under Guinean occupation for almost 10 years. He is also part of ‘Save Yenga Save Salone’, an advocacy-through-music campaign that kicked off recently with a concert in Freetown. The aim is to rally support for government intervention in the region.

Yenga is a hamlet in the eastern Kailahun district of Sierra Leone, bordering both Guinea and Liberia. Situated on the bank of the Makona River, the fertile tract of farmland is also believed to be rich in diamonds. Guinean troops first entered Yenga in the mid ’90s to help fight the Revolutionary United Front rebels during the civil war and block their exit routes into Guinea. After the war ended in 2002, they retained their military presence in Yenga. Over the past week reports have poured in about Guinean officers trying to tax the locals.

Back in 2005 tensions were quelled with the signing of a memorandum of understanding between the two countries; Yenga belonged to Sierra Leone and the Makona belonged to Guinea. The borders reconfirmed, then Sierra Leonean President Ahmed Tejan Kabbah declared the issue resolved.

Not quite. Like with all border disputes, quick fix political solutions are often ignorant of ground realities. Even today Guinean military personnel continue to guard Yenga from a base just across the river. “They claim that the boundary should be another 800m inland, covering Yenga,” says Sam. Approximately 500 people call Yenga home. Sam’s mother lives close by and he fears for her safety if the situation gets out of hand.

It is hard to say exactly how many soldiers remain in Yenga but there is no ambiguity about the Guinean armoured tank on top of the hill overlooking the area. Recently the Sierra Leonean Parliamentary Committee on Defence and Presidential Affairs was halted from entering Yenga by Guinean personnel. The committee maintained their right to visit their own people and was eventually let in after a 90 minute standoff. “They then informed us that we were now in Guinea,” adds Sam.

The ruling APC (All People’s Congress) administration’s official response is that there is no problem in Yenga. A friend at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs claims that Sierra Leoneans and Guineans are living peacefully as they share both language and culture. But the situation on the ground undercuts this argument. Media reports tell pitiful stories of residents that are starving because soldiers have usurped their farm lands. People are frequently threatened with arrest. “There are no schools or hospitals,” says Sam. This, despite the fact that the people still pay their local taxes. A few years ago World Vision tried to build a school there but were hindered by the military. For this same reason other NGOs hesitate to go there. So how do the people survive? Mostly on handouts from relatives in neighbouring villages and “by miracle”.

Part of the reason for the official silent treatment is that Sierra Leone does not recognise Guinea’s military government and are unwilling to engage in talks. Unofficially I’m told negotiations are underway but obviously with no visible results. War is not an option. There are enough scars here to remind people of the last time soldiers roamed the streets. “We need to increase pressure for a diplomatic solution,” Sam asserts.

Since I first wrote this post on The New Internationalist three weeks ago, a technical committee from Guinea has been mandated to evaluate the situation in Yenga.

The A-Z of food in Freetown

Sierra Leonean food for me has its ups and downs. Some days it can be comforting to drown your sorrows in a greasy bowl of cassava leaves. On other days the very smells make me want to hurl. Glutton that I am, I think I have gone through a fair number of local restaurants in Freetown and have gathered enough culinary expertise to write this bibliography. I’m missing a few letters in between, but I promise to keep eating until the list is complete.

A

Attieke: couscous with fried onions, tomatoes and cucumbers. Served best with grilled barracuda.

B

Banga soup: palmnut stew served with rice

Benachin rice: A Guinean version of jollof rice (see below), spicier.

Banana cake: Deliciously greasy banana muffin.

Bangku: cornmeal dumplings

C

Casaava leaves: The staple food of Sierra Leone. The omnipresent starchy tuberous root that manifests in many forms, cassava curry with rice, cassava bread with fish and even dried cassava chips.

Crain Crain: A slippery leaf cooked like cassava.

Checked rice: Rice mixed with crain crain.

D

E

Ebba: Now I haven’t actually tried this but I’m told it’s a pasty dish made from maize meal (gadi).

Efo: Nigerian spinach soup

F

Foo foo: A thick paste or porridge made from cassava or corn. Very sour and can’t say I care much for it.

Fry soup: Fried balls of onions, tomatoes and peppers, stuffed inside bread and served on the streets.

G

Groundnut soup: My personal favourite. Crushed groundnuts stewed to perfection with fish or meat. Served with rice.

Green Green: I’m told this is a local version of spinach. Again cooked like cassava with meat.

Ginger beer: Available wherever drinks are sold. Very pungent.

H

Humus: Safe bet when all else on a menu sounds dodgy.

I

Ice cream (the street version): Frozen plastic pouches of flavoured milk. Made with milk powder and tastes like sawdust.

J

Jollof rice: Prepared almost like risotto. Rice slow cooked with tomatoes, onions, spices and stock. Served with spicy chicken. Yum.

K

Kebbe: A lemon shaped cutlet deep fried. Normally filled with meat.

L

Lebanese bread: Flat bread available at all the supermarkets.

M

Mina fish: Finger sized fish served deep fried. Great snack food.

Meat pie: English pastry filled with meat.

Mayonnaise: Popular ingredient, liberally ladled onto burgers, sandwiches and even tea according to one source.

N

Nescafe: Quintessential Freetown coffee. Can be purchased from Nescafe carts around every corner. Frothed by juggling between plastic tumblers.

O

Omole: Very strong local gin. Not advisable.

Okra soup: Okra cooked in palm oil with shrimps and beef.

P

Plantain chips: Delicious deep fried plantains served with beef stew.

Potato leaves: Cooked the same as cassava

Pepe soup: Fiery goat stew made with crushed chili peppers. Will burn a hole in your stomach.

Palm wine: Sap from the palm tree. Don’t know what the fuss is about.

Q

R

Rice rice rice: It’s part of almost every meal. Imported from Thailand, India, China.

S

Sauce: all gravies are called sauce.

Snapper: Awesome local fish

Star beer: Light Sierra Leonean beer.

Sawa Sawa: Another leaf, once again cooked like cassava.

T

Tatale: plantain cake

V

Vimto: Sickly sweet soft drink that tastes like fizzy cough syrup. The locals love it.

W

X

Y

Yassa au poulet: West African chicken marinated in lemon, chiles and garlic.

Z

A Short Guide to Freetown

By Tristan Reed

Just found a very good guide to bars, restaurants, hair salons and all things essential in Freetown.

The Concise Freetown Dictionary

If you’re going to live in Freetown, you’ve got to speak the language. Here’s my take on the local lingo, a mix of Krio, and slang. Will update as my expands. For a basic guide to Krio check out The Peace Corps Krio Language Manual.

‘Mind your business’ bag: A black shopping bag . Great for carrying around the thick wads of cash the ATM spits out.

I’m coming: means I’m going.

Make fast: Hurry up

Take time: Slow down

Block: A hundred leone coin. Bread is 5 blocks and cigarettes are 2 blocks for three sticks.

Okada: a motorcycle taxi. Don’t get on if you’ve just had lunch.

JCs (Just Comes): locals who’ve just returned from abroad.

White girl/boy: any foreigner with lighter skin. Even me who’s brown.

Swazis: chaps who change money on the streets.

Poda poda: overcrowded mini van. It means hither and thither. At 8 blocks it’s the cheapest way to get around.

Pear: actually an avocado.

Done done (i'm done), tie tie (knotted plastic bag), ice ice (cold water), small small (slow down, a little bit), waito waito (wait please). Rule of thumb, repeat for emphasis:

Upstairs/downstairs: Up the road, down the road

Relaxation bar: Not a brothel as flat mate Steve seems to think. Actually roadside shacks that serve up beer and soft drinks

Omolanki: A mobile wheelbarrow store used to sell everything from toothpaste to tampons.

Junk sellers: Peddlers of second hand ware, shoes, lingerie and T-shirts

Coolaid: Generic term for local cold drinks

Rubber: Refers to plastic bottles and canisters

Cookery: Cooked meals brought off streetside vendors. That's how my friend Chris got food poisoning.

Pega pack: Small pouches of whiskey, gin and rum. Sankerdas is the popular brand, turns out the guy's Indian.

Nail polishers: Young boys who roam the street painting nails for a living.

Chop chop: food

PHD: Pull him down, this means cutting down to size a relative who has become too successful.

The trial of Charles Taylor

It’s 8 in the morning, far too early to be going to court but this time it’s different. I’m at The Special Court for Sierra Leone to watch the live telecast of the Taylor defence opening from The Hague. Here in Freetown, we’re two hours behind European time. The proceedings actually begin at 10 am so we’re here at 8.

Charles Taylor, the former Liberian president and warlord was indicted by The Special Court in 2003 on 11 counts of crimes against humanity. He was allegedly at the helm of Sierra Leone’s decade long civil war, funding the rebel groups, the RUF and AFRC in exchange for diamonds. The charges set some important precedents. Both rape as a tool of war and the recruitment of child soldiers was criminalized. Also his indictment as a head of state paved the way for the International Criminal Court’s move on Sudan’s Omar al Bashir.

I’m more excited than I should be, given the gravity of the occasion. But I feel like I’m part of history. Some day in the future I might be able to tell someone where I was when Taylor broke his seven year silence and testified.

We huddle into a semi circular screening room with two large plasma screen TVs. I am joined by some civil society observers, members of the international media and local NGO workers. I glance around to see if I can spot any former victims. Of course I know they would look like anyone else so I ask Peter Andersen the public relations and outreach officer at the court if he recognises anyone. He doesn’t and I wonder why.

I’m told that when the AFRC and RUF trials were being conducted in Freetown the court house was packed with all sorts of people. But relocating Taylor—in 2006 his trial was shifted to an ICC courtroom in The Hague for security reasons—has evidently come at a price. People are no longer able to observe the process as closely as they had done in the past.

The opening by defence lawyer Courtenay Griffiths is fairly predictable. Of course Taylor denies all charges. Some excuses were that he was too busy rebuilding Liberia after a civil war to be bothered with neighbouring Sierra Leone. Snickers Mexican waved around the room. Here in Sierra Leone Taylor has always been guilty.

On the second day of trial Taylor finally testifies. Some bits were most amusing. When asked about diamonds that were transported to him from Sierra Leone in washed out mayonnaise jars, he replied, “This never happened, not in a mayo jar, not in a coffee jar, not in anything, I never received diamonds from the RUF.” Griffiths also asked him to spell out the names of every single African leader he mentioned. This took a good 15 minutes.

At some point I started to switch off when Griffiths began questioning him about how his father and his mother met and how she became pregnant with him. If a writer were paying close attention it is quite possible to pen a Taylor biography just from his testimonies.

The crowd in the screening room has not grown and I begin to wonder if people even care. Peter says that one of the reasons for the poor turnout could be the ungodly timing. I’m somewhat convinced but I still don’t understand why more people have not shown up to see the man that virtually ruined their country.

My short trousers/skirt

I must start off by saying that I’m not auditioning for another one of Eve Ensler’s monologues. But I do tend to get shooed out of government offices for turning up in linen capris which end way below my knees and are not short by any measure.

This first happened when one of my reporters Ibrahim took me to court. The guards at the entrance made a huge fuss about the fact that I was wearing trousers and that my head was not covered. Apparently it’s an unwritten rule, yes, unwritten that women must appear in court only in skirts. I caught a couple of women in pencils so obviously knees are not the problem. Coming back to my own trouser trials, Ibrahim argued with the guard and ushered me in before he could protest.

My second time at court I was not that lucky. I was wearing capris again—same style, different colour—and was standing by the cafeteria minding my own business. At this point a guard came up to me and said that I was in contempt of court because of my attire. I scurried off to the top of a flight of steps where evidently I wasn’t in contempt anymore. The distance between the two positions was approximately 5 metres.

I was fortunate to run into a prominent female lawyer and asked her if there was a formal rule about skirts and head dresses. He got all excited and said that they had been trying for months to get the guards to stop harassing people. Obviously this has not worked and easy targets like me—I’m whiter than most people here—are still wagged fingers at. So I’ve decided to relent and put on a skirt the next time I go to court, just so I don’t court any more trouble.

But that’s not the end of my wardrobe woes. The other day I accompanied my reporter Kai Samba to Parliament and was stopped at the gate by a couple of female guards who stared disdainfully at my crumpled capris (we haven’t had power at home so I haven’t been able to iron anything). “We only allow formal wear and Africana,” she said. I put on my ‘I’m so stupid’ look and my strongest British accent and tried to be as foreign as I could. I promised to cover my legs completely the next time I showed up. So they let me go with a warning. I haven’t asked but I’m pretty sure that there’s no written rule about women wearing Africana to parliament either.

I came to Freetown with exactly four pairs of trousers (capris included) and two skirts, one of which happens to be short. Why is Sierra Leone threatened by my short(ish) skirt and trousers? Hey this is turning into an Ensler piece after all.

For Aisata

Last Sunday was my worst day in Freetown so far. I had to attend a funeral of one of my female reporters who had succumbed to a severe bout of typhoid. No one in the world should have to die of typhoid. But in one of the poorest countries in the world, you’d have to be pretty privileged to be able to say that.

I last saw Aisata a month ago when she attended my first workshop. She was already ill and showed me some Chinese pills she was taking. Going to the hospital is prohibitively expensive for most people—you have to pay 20,000 leones just to be seen. After that I kept hearing reports about her but was convinced that she’d be back soon. I’ve had typhoid and I was fine in a few weeks.

But then the other day one of her colleagues told me that she’d put her faith in a traditional healer and her condition was critical. I slapped my forehead and thought that was the worst possible thing she could have done. A traditional healer’s first instinct is to tell you that you’ve been shot by a witch gun. Then they proceed to remove these ‘bullets’ by making ugly incisions on your arms and legs. Aisata claimed she was feeling better once these so called bullets had been extracted.

Of course, without proper medical care she got worse very quickly. I’m told at this point the traditional healers whisked her off to Waterloo, a suburb in Freetown and told her that she must not see or speak to anyone. A few days later, Aisata had passed away.

I attended her wake and watched her two young children stare blankly at the crowd of people gathered in their house. I know that traditional therapies are very popular in Sierra Leone, but are also very dangerous in a lot of cases. One of the reasons for the country’s high rate of maternal mortality is women’s reliance on midwives who use unsterilised equipment resulting in infections and death.

Medical care in Sierra Leone is pathetic to put it mildly. A fake drugs market thrives on people’s desire for cheap medication. You have to be really careful buying even Aspirin in Freetown. In one of my drawers I have a whole catalogue of rip-off drugs that are available on the streets.

Aisata was a reasonably educated woman who lived in Freetown. When she opted for traditional treatment she knew her options. I shudder to think of the scores of people in the provinces that don’t even know any better.