As darkness fell at the Sisters of Mercy mission in Makeni the metal gates of the compound were closed and several of the vehicles backed against it. About twenty aid workers, all male, were spending the night here. There had been a few other women among us, but they had been found separate quarters. I had elected to stay where I was since Simon and I would be leaving at dawn. Once the elaborate security precautions started Ali, a young deaf boy whom we had spent the last half hour teaching an improvised game of black jack, had departed. The Sisters of Mercy was close to the RUF base and had on several occasions in the past been attacked by drunken fighters who took pot shots at Father Victor, the old Catholic priest who ran the mission, as well as several of the western aid workers. Over the years everything had been looted, including the mattresses on the beds, removed from beneath the patients who had been lying upon them. Later we gathered around the fading beam of an upended torch, smoking furious quantities of cigarettes, playing cards. There were a couple of jokes, in a spirit of bravado, about the chances of an attack that night – particularly in light of the day's events.
I lay on the metal frame of my cot, listening to the sounds emerging out of the darkness, to the snoring from the other beds, the occasional animal cry from behind the walls of the compound. I asked myself, for perhaps the fiftieth time that day, what I would have done if Colonel Issa or any of his men had tried to hold us. Would I have revealed my identity? Certainly that was the advice before I left Freetown: tell them who you are, they will never harm you. Yabome had believed that, reassuring herself that we would come home unscathed. Yet if I had suddenly decided to declare myself, would they even have believed me: travelling under the auspices of the UN, accompanied by a British husband, posing as a journalist? I wondered about that. On hearing my name, even our Temne driver had at first regarded me with incredulity. In Britain, living in a large, industrial city with home, career and friends, in a life I had created for myself, I rarely paused to question my identity any more. Out here, caught on a high wire between my past and my present, I had never felt less certain of who I had become. I slept fitfully, dreamt of being shot at, and woke before it was light.
By midday we were back in Freetown. Among my many regrets was the fact that I had not been able to see the Bumbuna Falls again. I wasn't even sure if they were still there. They had once been threatened by a planned hydro-electric project, but I presumed the war had put paid to that. I had asked our driver, but he did not know the way to the falls, and besides, we were under instructions to go straight back to the city. On the way into town we were caught behind a procession. People on their way to a wedding, I thought at first. They were mostly middle-aged women resplendent in silks and embroidered gowns sporting elaborate hairstyles. Six male drummers followed behind, toting enormous goatskin-covered drums. People leaned from the balconies above. The traffic inched by up the long, steep hill. A diminutive figure led the parade, wearing a wooden mask that fitted entirely over her head, carved braids of hair around a finely featured face; cascades of black-dyed raffia fell around her shoulders. It was the Bundu Devil, mascot of the women's secret society.
Six weeks after our encounter in Makeni, following an altercation with a UN peacekeeper, General Kallon shot one of the Kenyan soldiers in the face at point-blank range. Under the orders of General Issa the RUF took five hundred peacekeeping troops hostage, including three British soldiers. The killing sparked an international incident involving the government of Sierra Leone, Kofi Annan, the UN secretary-general, and Tony Blair, the prime minister of Great Britain. The British men later escaped through the bush to a hero's welcome in the British newspapers. By the time I heard the news I was far away, back in my study at home in London.
45
Momodu was born the second son of Pa Roke Forna's fourth wife Marie. He was the old man's sixth son. Mohamed, my father, was the second male child born to the fated Ya Ndora, Pa Roke's sixth wife. But the untimely death of two brothers in between them placed Mohamed directly behind Momodu in the family ranking. This is the way it was, and would have remained, except for a slip of fate that sent Mohamed away to school and eventually to Britain to become a doctor. When the letter arrived to say he was on his way home with a British wife and three children Pa Roke prepared to welcome home his son. Momodu alone stood apart from the family's celebrations. ‘I hope that Mohamed does not think that by marrying a white woman his children will be treated as superior to ours,’ he was heard to comment.
Their relationship was characterised by fraternal love and sibling rivalry. Momodu was a frequent guest in his brother's house in Freetown, where he went on business, and he grew close to his fun-loving Scottish sister-in-law. In the beginning Mohamed often sought the counsel of his brother and never made a decision on a serious matter without first calling together all his elder brothers. In his years as minister of finance he shared with Momodu his frustrations, his growing distrust of Siaka Stevens and his fears for the country. Momodu opposed Mohamed's decision to resign from the government, believing his brother stood a better chance of challenging the government's excesses from the inside. During the brief glory days of the UDP, as the stakes grew higher, Mohamed confided in his brother less. As the UDP began the tour of the provinces, Momodu confronted his younger brother in Magburaka, and demanded he accompany him to consult with the brothers who were waiting for him at home. Mohamed declined. That very evening Mohamed was arrested in Makeni and placed in detention at Pademba Road Prison. Momodu too, who had never been part of the UDP, was imprisoned at Mafanta and released after three years, just one month before his brother.
When his sons were freed from detention Pa Roke warned Mohamed: ‘Your enemies will only miss you once.’ Intrigue and manipulation had become the currency of Sierra Leone under Stevens. Within six months rumours were rife that Mohamed's life was in danger from his enemies within the APC. Momodu took a warning to his brother and soon after Mohamed left for Europe. Momodu thought he might stay away, but in Mohamed's absence a whispering campaign began that he was plotting against the government. Mohamed cut short his trip and flew back in an attempt to put pay to the rumours.
Though they were engaged in the rice business together, in all that time Momodu saw his brother on fewer than a handful of occasions. When Mohamed was arrested on 30 July Momodu was in Magburaka. The news took several days to reach him. As soon as he heard it he made his way directly to Freetown. On his way to Samuel's Lane he was intercepted by a soldier by the name of Steven. Momodu did not recognise this man, but listened when he told him of the whereabouts of a wounded soldier who had been treated by Dr Forna and subsequently taken to a hospital in Magburaka. The soldier mentioned Abu Kanu's name: it was he who had driven the man up-country and delivered him to a certain Dr Osayo at Magburaka.
Momodu hastened back to Magburaka. Late one night, together with his brother Ismail and with the connivance of a male nurse on the ward, Momodu crept into the hospital. They took Kendekah Sesay from his bed, dressed him in the long, blue gown of an Alpha, the trailing sleeves of which concealed his injured hand, and drove him with haste to the family village of Rogbonko. There he was hidden in a little used hut, under the care of one of their sisters, who was sworn to secrecy.
The Russian pathologist at Magburaka Hospital said that by the time Kendekah Sesay was admitted to his care he was already a dead man. The extensive injuries to his hand had turned septic, the poison had entered his bloodstream, his skin was clammy, a rash covered his body. He was past the critical stage for treatment and his internal organs, already invaded by the bacteria, were beginning to fail one by one. The doctors recommended the hand be amputated. Kendekah Sesay refused. They did not seek to persuade him: in truth he would die either way. A second doctor I interviewed, one who had jointly conducted the post-mortem on his body after it had been fished out of the river behind the houses in Rogbonko, said there was no evidence of foul play. Kendekah Sesay had not drowned – his lungs were clear of water. Nor was there evidence of
any toxic chemicals in his blood. Although the pathologists came under great pressure from the government to produce findings to the effect that the man had been murdered by someone, a doctor possibly, their investigations showed nothing. Kendekah Sesay had almost certainly died of his wounds.
Momodu disposed of the body. He placed the corpse in a rice sack with four nine-inch blocks and he carried it beyond the boundaries of the village, where he heaved it into the river Rosana. It was the rainy season and the water flowed swiftly through the narrow channel. The sack disappeared from view. Later, back in Freetown, Momodu confided all this to just one person: Ibrahim Ortole, a former member of the UDP from Port Loko, an erstwhile confidant and a business associate of his brother. Unknown to Momodu, Ibrahim was tainted. The information was passed to S. I. Koroma. Momodu fled to Kono. The CID arrested his wife and forced her to lead them to where her husband was hiding. They used her head wrap as a banner tied to the antennae of the Land-Rover as they entered Kono in triumph to bring Momodu back to Rogbonko. Police divers retrieved the sack containing the soldier's remains from the water. Momodu, chained and shackled, was forced to carry the dripping bundle back from the river and through the streets of the village.
In Freetown Momodu stood by the side of the mortuary table, on which lay Kendekah Sesay's body. The cool water had preserved the corpse remarkably well. On the opposite side of the table was Mohamed, along with the other men who had been arrested. In front of Mohamed Momodu was forced to formally identify the corpse and confess to his role in disposing of it. He could see the shock and disbelief on his younger brother's face. When it was over he watched as Mohamed was led away to make his first formal statement in front of Bambay Kamara.
This was the fate, as recounted by my uncle Momodu, of the man I had helped my father tend when I was ten years old. I had given my little bottle of Dettol and sewn bandages. My father had cleaned and dressed the wound, but Kendekah Sesay was already in shock, beyond the care of an ordinary physician. He needed to be taken straight to a hospital, my father had instructed. I remembered the colour of his face, the terrible ashen pallor, a ghostliness emerging from under his skin: the colour of death.
Uncle Momodu had finished his story. He was silent for a moment.
‘In the end this was one of the reasons for the verdict,’ he said, finally. I was quiet. It must have cost him a great deal to admit. He had thought he was helping his brother and he only ended up making matters worse. I knew that Momodu had long laboured under the responsibility for what he had done within our family. And yet, to a certain extent he was right, but not entirely. During the trial the prosecution had maintained that Kendekah Sesay was the soldier who had thrown the dynamite at Kamara Taylor's house, but beyond that he had been relegated to a curiously minor role in the whole affair. When he cross-examined my father Tom Johnson had barely asked about Kendekah Sesay. He had posed one or two questions about Momodu's involvement, which my father had not been able to answer. That was it.
Uncle Momodu spoke for a few minutes more. He was back in 1964.
‘Mohamed took the train to see us in Magburaka. He had met a friend on the train, but he wanted to talk to me alone, as his brother. He told me he wanted to join politics. I told him, “You are a small boy, yet. You are not ready.” In turn he told me there was too much need, not enough time. By thirty he wanted to be in a responsible position.’ Uncle Momodu paused, shifted his position. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, opening and closing his hands as he spoke. ‘He was brave. Not afraid at all. When he was a small boy he was just like any other. He was docile, polite. I warned him, in 1974, that there was a danger to his life. He did not seem to care.’
‘How could he not be concerned?’ I asked.
Momodu shrugged and gave his explanation: ‘It seems he did not believe me. I thought perhaps he had spent too much time in Britain. He did not know this country and its ways any more.’
I pondered the mystery of Kendekah Sesay for a long time. The soldier had been the one real tragedy in the prelude to the entire affair. Who was the mystery Steven who told Momodu that Abu Kanu had taken Kendekah Sesay to Magburaka? That simply could not have been the case. Abu Kanu was arrested early the next day – he could not have made it to Magburaka and been back in Freetown by then. It would be difficult enough to make the round trip in that time today, twenty-five years later, when the tarmac road stretched the entire distance – impossible back then. Kendekah Sesay's state when he arrived at Magburaka Hospital suggested he may have been hidden somewhere else first; by the time he was taken to a hospital he was dying from septicaemia.
Kendekah was the only link between my father and any of the events on that night. My father was followed wherever he went, his every activity filed and reported. Our house was watched around the clock from Nancy Steele's windows. It was simply inconceivable that the authorities did not know my father had treated the wounded soldier.
It seems so apparent now. Obvious, in fact, from the moment it dawned on me. I guess at the time I was deluged with information, trying to sort the material facts from the irrelevant, make sense of the conflicts and contradictions, desperate to work out whose account I could trust and who was a liar. It took me for ever to grasp what later seemed so glaringly self-evident. The prosecution's case against my father had rested almost entirely on the evidence of the four witnesses who each swore they had seen him at the Murraytown cemetery in the dead of night, issuing orders to men gathered there, sending them out to attack the homes of government ministers. To admit they knew my father had given treatment to the wounded Kendekah Sesay meant placing him somewhere else on that night. It was not a treasonable offence to attend an injured man. In order to obtain the verdict and the sentence they wanted, they needed to place him at the centre, at the very heart of the alleged crime.
46
We were back at Hastings Airport among the huddle of passengers waiting for the airport gates to open. In my hand I held my passport, ticket and the police clearance all travellers required to leave the country. We would be shuttled from Hastings to Lungi in a small eight-seater plane. In Lungi we would catch the West Coast Airlines flight to Banjul. There was an overnight wait in Banjul and then on to London.
The last forty-eight hours had passed in a blur. Morlai had failed to appear at the house on two consecutive mornings. At first I had put his absence down to a mix-up over the dates I would be away in Magburaka. Morlai would not have known the trip would be cut short as it had been. I imagined he would be there on Monday.
On Sunday morning, as I carried a cup of tea out onto the veranda, the house vibrated with the rhythms of the church next door. The people locked themselves into the empty courtyard at evening curfew and began praying as Sunday dawned. The city was in the grip of a religious revival. I found Sarah, Morlai's wife, sitting on the balcony alone. I was surprised: on the occasions when she visited she always brought the four children along with her. Morlai, I assumed, must be out back keeping company with the household. I greeted her with enthusiasm, but Sarah's expression remained strangely blank, as though she were undertaking an enormous effort of self-control. No sooner had she returned my greeting, in a voice that contained no tremor, than she made an announcement: ‘Aminatta. Morlai has asked me to come here and to tell you that he is dying.’ Then she began to cry silently. From her bag she took a wadded handkerchief and pressed it to her cheek. I was silent. I asked her what on earth she could possibly mean.
During our absence in Magburaka Morlai's leg, which had continued to trouble him, had grown worse. When the painkillers and the anti-inflammatories supplied by the doctor did not appear to work Morlai had placed his faith in traditional medicine. The healer had given him a poultice of herbs to apply to the afflicted area, but it did no good. In a short time Morlai could neither walk, nor sit in comfort, nor lie. The pain took away his appetite and at night Sarah heard her husband's groans of anguish. That Sunday morning Morlai had awoken feverish; his breathing was
shallow, he was unable to move and barely even capable of speaking. Sarah was frightened. Though she did not want to leave him, Morlai begged her to make the two-and-a-half-hour journey across town to me to ask for our help.
How fragile is life in a country like this. Morlai had endured and survived so much. In the end he was almost felled by an ordinary infection. Early on Monday Simon and Dura had fetched him from his house and driven him to the doctor. The doctor took one look at him and called the hospital. The joint of his hip was badly inflamed, the poison had collected and was spreading to the rest of his body.
I had sat next to Morlai's bed in the long ward at Connaught Hospital. He was lying awkwardly on his side, his leg bent under him. He opened his eyes. His first words to me were words of apology: ‘I am so sorry, Aminatta. I am sorry for this trouble.’ He looked exhausted, his eyes were tinged with yellow, sunken, ringed by great dark circles. When Sarah had told me Morlai was dying I thought she just meant he felt as if he were dying. Who, after all, could die of an aching hip? I realised in those moments how close Morlai had come. I held on to his hand. I had an eerie sense of history repeating itself. I considered the fate of the unlucky Kendekah Sesay, who had died of blood-poisoning. His injuries had been far worse. There had been maggots feasting in the wounds of his hands towards the end, I was told. Nevertheless, in a western country or with proper and immediate treatment, Kendekah Sesay need not have died.
Connaught Hospital was once a good place for the sick to be healed. Two blue pillars mark the entrance on the corner of Percival and Wallace Johnson Street. Visitors and patients pass through an iron gateway beneath a golden crest of the lion and the unicorn. The pillared two-storey buildings housing the wards are built around a central courtyard. Covered concrete walkways lead from one building to the next. In the shade of the trees families can sit during visiting hours. Neat black-and-white painted signs point the way to the dispensary, the operating theatres and the different wards. Connaught used to be a model colonial hospital. But for most patients Connaught has become a place to die.
The Devil that Danced on the Water Page 42