A Kind of Homecoming

  “Talking about independence?” I asked, and explained that I had hitherto encountered no one who willingly spoke about that dreaded subject.

  “Oh, they talk about it all right, but only when they’re mad at somebody. Some fellows came into the shop today and wanted me to give them credit. They already owe me money, so I said no. You know what one of them said? He said, ‘After independence you Lebanese won’t be so high and mighty. We will not ask you any favours, but just come and take what we want.’”

  “Oh, don’t worry about fellows like him,” my friend suggested, “you’re sure to run into a few loud-mouthed crackers now and then. They’re quite harmless, only full of hot air.”

  “That’s fine for you, my friend,” the Lebanese replied, “but I take everything that I hear seriously. If these fellows say something like that it means that they’ve been talking about it. They sleep about the place all day long and don’t care about working, but they think that after April 27 all they have to do is take whatever they like—and it would not take much to start them going. I know.”

  “Has there been any serious discussion about independence here?” I asked.

  “It depends on what you mean by ‘serious discussion’,” he replied. “Governor Dorman was up here the other day and everyone turned up to listen to him talk about independence, but I’m sure that much of the time they neither heard nor understood what he was saying. As soon as some of these people sit still they fall asleep, or else they merely nod their heads wisely without paying much attention. . . . Since he left, nobody talks about it. Look at those fellows out there.” He pointed to a group of young men sitting on the grass verge on the other side of the road, talking, laughing and frequently spitting. “As long as they have enough for cigarettes and a drink now and then, they don’t worry. I’ve lived among these people for over twenty-five years, and I like them, but I don’t think that independence will mean anything to them, yet. Not unless something or somebody stirs them up. Then anything could happen.”

  This man was really concerned. He lived each day among Africans whose lives were a constant struggle for survival, and he appreciated that they must often look with envy on the comparative comfort in which he and his family lived. He seemed to be a well-balanced kind of person, so his fears may have been justified.

  When my friend was ready to leave, he took me outside and broadly hinted that if I were interested he could “get me fixed up for the night”. I guessed he meant that he could arrange female companionship. Since we had been on the road I had encountered very few women whom I considered attractive. Here and there the shy young wives of a chieftain were the exception, but most of the women were work-twisted drudges, just not my cup of tea. I said that I was fine, but what with the heat and the bumpy roads I was not in the mood.

  “You ought to sample what Africa has to offer,” he advised, but I said that I was more interested in putting in some sleeping hours.

  “Perhaps you’re thinking this is like Europe,” he said. “I’m not taking you to a whorehouse or to prostitutes. In Africa we have our own way of making our guests comfortable, and there is nothing for you to worry about.”

  I decided to try another line. “But suppose I came along and afterwards the woman became pregnant? What then?”

  “What then?” he repeated. “Women become pregnant every day. The child would be just another child in the woman’s household. That’s all.”

  Into my mind came the picture of the maternity room at the hospital. To my friend and to other Africans, women were there to serve their pleasure, expendable. Perhaps, as he had said earlier, I was too far away from Africa and African ways, but the thought of spending the night with one of the women I had seen about the town held no appeal for me. He gave up, considering me a rather hopeless case.

  After he left, my host and I sat on the veranda in the cool night talking about things like his business, a trip he hoped to make to his homeland, the growth of the town during the time he lived in it. I found him a delightful, interesting man, as the French would say, “très sympathique”.

  A car drew up in front of the shop and a young African approached us, crisply neat in short-sleeved sports shirt and lightweight slacks. He had heard that I was in town and, having read my first book, decided to take the opportunity of meeting me. He was the veterinary surgeon to the district, recently appointed, and lived with his wife in a new bungalow on the slope of one of the nearby hills. I was delighted to meet him. I am always delighted and very flattered to meet people who have read and liked my book. He was well known to my host, so was invited to join us in a drink.

  Soon we were talking about conditions in the town and its environs, and naturally talk of independence was introduced at some point. He was not hopeful of any observable results or reactions in the district, because the local people did not know or understand what it meant. They were not aware of any involvement in any of the processes.

  I asked about the young men, like himself and the medical officer, and probably others who were educated and trained and able to understand and appreciate the circumstances. Probably they could help to translate it to the rank-and-file in terms they could understand.

  “You must not make too much of the fact that some of us have been trained overseas,” he replied. “That can be a mixed blessing. First of all we have a job of work to do taking care of the health of the people and their livestock, and hampered every step of the way by bureaucratic obstacles and the age-old prejudices and beliefs of the local people. Then, there is the matter of communication. The African who spends three or five years away in Europe returns to discover that he is much more than three or five years away from the people and environment he once knew and understood.

  “All kinds of changes have taken place in his absence, some so subtle that they pass unnoticed. New or different forces might have been at work to change the old leadership; people have died and have been born, and all these things have been happening in his absence. Also, he has been associated with different and probably higher standards of food, clothing, housing, hygiene; different mores relating to association with groups or individuals, and sexual matters. Sometimes, without his being aware of it, his exposure to these things, quite apart from the new techniques he has acquired, have produced some irrevocable changes in him. He is no longer an African African, if you see what I mean, although this is what he might most urgently want to be.

  “You know, I have a theory. I think that some of the African leaders who seem to be the most reactionary, deliberately assume that role in order to quickly bridge the gap between them and the stay-at-homes. It is a dramatic way of selling themselves and their ideas to the rank-and-file, who, though fully involved in the struggle for freedom and independence, can easily find time to dislike or mistrust their leadership on the flimsiest of pretexts, and the pro-European label is very easily stuck on.”

  “But how do you yourself view your country’s approaching independence? What do you as an educated African expect to see in Sierra Leone as a result of independence?” I asked.

  “I cannot answer your questions because I must confess I have not seriously and sufficiently taken myself to task about them. To be frank with you, I feel no burning enthusiasm about independence, nor any resistance to it. I may be considered apathetic, although I do not think that that word would adequately describe my position. I was in Europe at the time another African State became independent, and I, like most other Africans in Europe, felt a close identity with that State and its achievement. I felt an immediate identity with those who had struggled to be free and were finally reaping the reward of their struggles.

  “Somehow, here at home, there is no struggle, no cause, no stimulus. I feel no excitement and no commitment, and I cannot work up an enthusiasm for something I can’t feel. Way up here in Kabala I feel remote from whatever is going on in Freetown, probably because I feel no urgent involvement. Perhaps
that will come later. Perhaps some form of struggle will present itself into which I, and others like me, will be drawn or deliberately engage ourselves, but, as things are, I must address myself to the job I am paid to do, which has become much more than a job to me. The health of livestock in these remote districts is very important to all of us, and my job is to keep every animal hereabouts in the best possible condition, and to help the local people to appreciate the need and economic advantages of healthy livestock.”

  “Are you making any progress?”

  “Perhaps. More than half my efforts are directed to breaking down barriers of legend and myth, besides being forced to accept certain realities in spite of one’s scientific training. For instance, it is very difficult trying to persuade someone that any infected animal should be destroyed in order to safeguard the rest of the stock, especially if he can see little evidence of illness. Then, there is the matter of feeding. It will be a long time before Africans accept that animals cannot survive healthily by merely foraging off the land. Why should they buy special feed for cows or chickens? But gradually we are gaining ground.”

  So the evening passed in pleasant conversation with two men of different background, both loving the country and each in his own way concerned about its future and willing to make his contribution. To see their reaction, I mentioned my visit to the school for the children of missionaries up on the hill.

  The African said, “I’ve been up there. It’s wonderful to see what those people have done in so short a time with land nobody else wanted. Personally I think it is a good thing for everybody that the school is there, and if we are worth anything, we Africans can learn an important lesson from it. They didn’t use magic to do what they’ve done, but knowledge and hard sweat. We’ve got to learn to work in order to enjoy better standards in every aspect of our daily life. The time may come when somebody, some strong leader, will put the chronically idle hand to work, and then it will be discovered that what the Americans can do is not beyond the scope or imagination of Africans.”

  “That’s fine,” the Lebanese said, “but it might be a good thing if one or two African children attended the school and learned something at first-hand about Americans instead of only seeing them from a distance and thinking of them now with a kind of awe but probably later with distrust. At the same time the American children could do a lot worse than find out who an African is besides someone whose black soul their parents are striving to save.”

  He spoke with a quiet fervour which I found surprising. I had probably imagined that men like him were occupied only with thoughts of adding to their business, and this deep interest in socio­logical things was very revealing. Perhaps amid the clutter­ and squeeze of business in Freetown and the protectorate, others­ like him entertained the same deep concern, because for them Africa was now home.

  Maybe in time they would cease to be Lebanese living in Africa and become truly Africans.

  “They are not the only ones carelessly making a big mistake,” he went on. His choice of words was refreshingly direct and expressive.

  “We Lebanese are just as bad. All business, nothing but business. It would be good to see Lebanese teachers in the schools, Lebanese farmers, nurses, carpenters and,” he hunted around in his mind for the word, “even labourers. You know, being just like the local people. At the present time we’re set apart, a recognizable minority group, and no matter how earnest we might be in our wish to fully identify with Africa, there is a distance between us and the local people, and we are mainly responsible for maintaining that distance. If we are truly concerned to make our home here we must take some responsibility for the country’s development, not only economically but socially.

  “As I see it, my son will go to school with the African boys and will learn with them. What is important is that he’ll learn about them and to respect them. Perhaps,” and here he grinned, “as part of his education he will fight with some of them. Some African boy might knock the stuffing out of him, but he will learn to see them as people. As a matter of fact, such a beating might save him from further beatings, and even worse later on. My responsibility and my problem is to teach my son to live in Africa, and not to be merely another Lebanese in Africa.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” he went on, “because we have a lot to live down. My skin is white, and that identifies me with everything which, historically, is associated with the white man’s presence in Africa, especially those things for which he is despised and feared by Africans. I have to face facts, my friend. So far the Africans have had no reason to love us, and nowadays they believe they have every reason to hate us. Look at this shop. An African comes in and sees the shelves packed with tinned foodstuff and clothing and other things he needs but cannot afford. He knows that these things belong to me. That places me in the position of having what he has not. Then he asks for credit because he and his family are in want, and I refuse. What happens next? This is not like Europe or America, or even the West Indies, where people understand that business has nothing to do with personal feelings. I know that if I give him credit he might never be able to pay me. Can I run my business like that? So he hates me because he can see the stuff he wants lying there on the shelf. I can see the hate in his eyes, but if I give it to him I might as well pack up and leave because I would have to do the same for everyone else. And my refusal is another link in the chain of ill feeling and hate which is forged down there among the huts where they do not have enough to eat or wear, but plenty of time to long for the day when they can walk in here and take it all. How the hell can I tell them I care about them when I don’t give them credit for the asking? And it’s the same with all the Lebanese. We’re known as traders, and that means exploiters, because we must make profit to survive. So we daily contribute to the backlog of hate with the best will in the world, but also with that peculiar blindness which would not let us see the writing on the wall.”

  “You’re overstating the case,” the vet said. “I can’t believe that in this town the Lebanese are hated. All around me I see them mixing easily with the local people on the friendliest of terms.”

  “Perhaps I am,” our host agreed, “but I have lived here long enough to learn something about the people. Perhaps they don’t even think they hate me, but I would like to see some changes here before they get around to thinking about it. I would like to see some schemes for giving the people work, so they can come in proudly and buy from me, or if they don’t like my prices, tell me ‘To hell with you’ and go somewhere else. When that happens I will feel better and very much safer.”

  As we chatted I was half-hearing a persistent sound of intermittent drumming and singing. Now from a narrow side street some distance away there came into view a long, twisting line of torch-bearing dancers escorted by drummers, and a noisy crowd of small children and adults bearing home-made Chinese lanterns, all shouting and singing without much concern for tonal nicety or the drummers’ valiant efforts to maintain some rhythmic order. Nearer, I could see that some of the dancers wore masks, grotesque, white-streaked affairs which seemed strangely lively in the flickering light of the torches; these, held aloft by nearly invisible black arms, seemed to be floating against the tide of an unstable black stream, as their flames pointed backward from the revellers’ advance.

  What rather jolted me was the fact that, at this very late hour, there were so many small children in the procession, prancing about in the dust when they ought to have been soundly asleep. Perhaps it did not matter whether or not they attended school the next day.

  As the procession slowly passed by, several voices called out to my host, and he replied in the same dialect, evidently encouraging their efforts. Laughing, shouting, singing, completely blocking the roadway, they continued on their way, and long after their voices were but a faint buzz in the distance, the dust remained a thick, uneasy cloud hovering over the ground.

  “What was that in aid of?” I asked.
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  “It’s the Procession of Lanterns,” the vet said, “observed by the Muslims a few days before the end of Ramadan. If you’re up here on Saturday night you’ll really see them in action, the real stuff, dancing and feasting and everything. After all the months of fasting they really make up for it on one big glorious night. Then on Sunday they gather together from all the neighbouring villages for a big open-air ceremony. It’s very impressive.”

  “Are you a Muslim?” I asked.

  “No.”

  We talked a while longer, about the social and cultural limitations of the town, among other things.

  “Life is not all beer and skittles for us,” the vet said. “Up here I often feel desperate for stimulating conversation. One reads books and occasionally meets with the boys for an evening’s chat, but when it’s always the same people, after a while conversation tends to become ingrown and we are soon able to anticipate each other’s thoughts and reactions.”

  So it went on, and when I finally went to bed I lay awake for some time, my mind buzzing with the things I had seen and heard.

  Next day we left on the long haul back to Freetown. My friend seemed rested, refreshed, in excellent form; he must have had a good night.

  “We’ll change our route at Makem,” he said, “to bring us through the iron mining region at Marampa, then on to Freetown.”

  Now we were driving more slowly and I could take better note of the countryside and the villages through which we passed. Although I was constantly reminded by the heat that this was the dry season, all around, as far as I could see, was predominantly green; a deep, lush, strong green which somehow softened the sun’s glare. What I saw while riding down the gentle slopes of the hillsides, looking down on the mist-shrouded valleys, was so unlike the picture of Africa I had hitherto entertained. At any time we were within at least a mile of some habitation; we saw men and women along the road, or disappearing into the bush where, my friend assured me, their farms were located. At no time did I feel out of touch with people.