A Tour of Freetown
A good friend of mine recently advised me to think of all the things I wanted to do before I left … and do them. Time is ticking down after all. One of the things on my list was to get a tour of Freetown from a certain young man in our Lighthouse program. He has been special to me during these past several months. I wanted to spend some time together and to see parts of town where I’ve yet to explore. The experience was one I will not soon forget. I asked for a tour, which I received, but I also was privy to a display of history and hope.
The young man took me to a street I’d walked up my first week in town. All was as expected until he opened a door with a staircase going down to the waterfront. We stepped inside and in an instant I felt as if I was in another world. My impression was not too far from the truth. The smooth concrete staircase led down to an underworld of Freetown, complete with rough individuals, drugs, gambling, and prostitution. My friend introduced me to several of his old friends sitting on a bench with a beautiful view of the Sierra Leone River. People were a little taken aback to see an apoto (“white man”) in their territory; I was quite the spectacle. We continued down to the narrow shore, climbing down through a demolished building to get there. Once there I met several old friends of my guide as they gambled away the little money they had. They didn’t stop even as I approached. I met several young men, shook hands, and was relieved to head back up the staircase.
As a large man, I do not usually feel in danger. However, in retrospect, I probably would not have been safe in that situation if I had ventured there alone. But I was not alone, I was with my friend. Those that would have meant me harm were his old friends. This young man, many pounds and inches my lesser, was my protection. The people we saw were surprised, yet grateful to see him. He had been well known and liked. But those times were gone; this world was part of his history.
We continued on for many miles, walking outside the city and making our way back by a different route. We reentered the busy streets of town and made our way up to a small bridge. It was here, he told me, that the rebels had captured him during the war. He was 10 years old at the time. He was on his way to return a book to a friend when he was called out and made to carry a load down the hill for the rebels. Once there, amidst gunfire, he saw them light a man on fire.
He had a sheepish grin on his face as he told me these stories. He rarely leaves home without the grin, yet it seemed out of place for such a story. Such countenance is normal here when people talk about the war. Humor is an amazingly out of place coping mechanism.
As we walked out and back, I lost count of the number of times my friend waved to and shook hands with friends. His friends would look at me and explain that my friend was a brother to them. The sheer number of brothers he has must make buying Christmas presents a real chore. I couldn’t help but think that both his outgoing personality and the bonding done during wartime made him dear to many people.
I am so grateful that he would allow me this glimpse into his story. Such a glimpse allows me to realize how far this young man has come. And indeed, he has come very far. He exudes hope for the future, yet does not forget his past. I wouldn’t be surprised if he returned to the places of his past one day to bring them his hope.
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