This is a journey through the reality of Sierra Leone, a country in which the Augustinian Recollects have left their mark. The author, with his soul in pain but in love with Sierra Leone after a year in the country, tells us the story sometimes in the first person, other times from the point of view of the objective observer, with traces of humor and dreams for the future of this country.
Witches fly. If you see the ceremony of the Bangbani without being initiated, your nose will fall off and you will bleed forever. If you sleep between 6 and 8 in the afternoon, in the first hour of dusk, the dead will pass through your dreams and take you away. There are powerful “witch guns” which for a modest price will allow you to give someone pains in the knee forever. If you breastfeed a baby which is not yours and maintain sexual relations with your husband you will not have children, or if you have them they will die. The “supernatural men”, the know it alls, also for a “reasonable” price will resolve anything: if your wife is cheating on you, who stole your ball, what illness you have. Also, don’t forget certain forests that are full of ghosts where it is better not to go alone. In truth, the forest beside the mission is one of them. Of course, the secret societies are the only war to grow in society and make you a man (Bganbani) or a woman (Bondo), depending on your sex. Including taking out forever organs from your body.
These seem to be stupidities or jokes, but they are blindly believed in. To attempt a logical discussion about these things is like banging your head against a wall. This wisdom is better than any other, be that religious (Muslims or Christians, it means the same thing) or scientific.
The worst is that imposes a society of fear, with the lack of freedom associated with this; and, what is sadder; they are sustained as always by money and power. Behind these beliefs there is a fortune which stays in the hands of the chiefs, the supernatural men and the sly tricksters. Also there is a strong influence which means that the decisions of those who command will be easier: the people are never going to complain.
They celebrated a meeting of the Bganbani, the male society. At daybreak, every section goes back to its village. Those from Kassassie have to pass in front of the mission. As soon as heard the announcing drums (some children play a peculiar beat that means “if you are not initiated, run or hide”), I looked for my camera.
Immediately some children, amongst them Yeabu and Semptu, who were going to sell firewood entered running into the mission and terrified they hid behind the house. In this way they would not see the Bganbani, nor would the Bganbani see them. Therefore their noses wouldn’t fall off.
After fifteen minutes the Bganbani section has passed, which no-one uninitiated could see. Well, apart from me. I had a camera and didn’t want to miss it. I took a photo of the small ones full of fear and went towards the door. If someone had sais something, I had prepared my answer: I am in my house, and in my house no-one is going to tell me where I can or cannot be. But no-one said anything.
It was a journalistic deception. What I saw and recorded was a group of drunken men, no more drunk than the rest of the world, some even lying down. Only one of them got cross, it was probably the chief, and I asked them to keep walking without looking at me or posing for the photo, but they said nothing to me and none of his companions paid him any attention.
Some hours later Sorie arrived, the man who looks after the mission house. He is a member of the Kassassie Bganbano, although he wasn’t with the group that morning. I wanted to tease him: “Look, Sorie, I have recorded the Bganbani and my nose hasn’t fallen off and I´m not bleeding”. His response was, for me, pathetically clear: “We now know that this doesn’t work with white people”. Well, at the end It’s a question of race.
In the afternoon I explained this matter to some of the young boys, only to see what they said. Their answer was a bit more threatening for me, although they laughed loudly at my unbelief. Mohamed, one of them, said: “But it doesn’t have to be immediate; wait, wait and later on you will see”. Mohamed isn’t even one of the Bganbani nor does he want to be. But he will continue running like a hare when he hears the warning drum.
A month later I am still writing with my nose still on and without bleeding, and I doubt as to when it will happen: it could be long-term, very long-term. It would be funny if it wasn’t real. Because fear and the influence it provokes is very real. The economic drain that Bondo, Bganbani, and the supernatural men, chiefs and witches create in the families is also real. Also the female genital mutilation is real. Therefore it is no longer a charming anecdote but is becoming a nightmare that comes reality.
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