Non-negotiable

I will explore the hidden depths of this fine country,

With its narrow streets and its broad waters,

That connects continents and divides generations .

I will walk all over the grass,

That lay across my yard,

And say ekushe to the passer-by,

Who whispers back something in an ancient Mende, maybe vai or something else.

Nevertheless, our hellos and our goodbyes,

Are forever linked in a slow pursuit to one nation,

One people.

I will taste fry fry in Waterloo and drink Palm wine in a Limba village with my Temne friend,

Because although our politics is too elastic for our emotions,

Our peace is always in our animated joy.

I will light a lantern on a lantern,

Parading through the beach like I own it,

Because it’s mine.

Because I’m free,

Because I was born here,

Between Number 2 and Lumley.

Sand is no stranger.

I knew water before Virginia Beach.

I will walk on both legs and be normal,

Or whichever I choose, I know,

I’ll earn a nickname or two because of my shortcomings,

But it’ll be in light of my pitfalls not in spite of me.

I will look for rose apples, the sweet ones.

I haven’t had the sweet ones since I left home.

So I will make sure to climb the nearest mango tree and pick as many as I’d like,

Because in my nostalgia,

Fruits are unlimited, absent of Giant and Safeway.

My shopping hours were anytime and anywhere,

Pick and eat.

As long as technique was your friend with cloth tied around the end of the stick,

As you dress your choice of fruit with a hug and tug,

And there, bananas.

I grew up thinking my country was my world and my world was my country.

I was sufficient with knowing my way from Aberdeen to Adonkia or Magburuka to Babadorie.

I will ask for Fanta, and we will spend the Saturday at Aqua, until evening starts out proper at the Office or the Warehouse or some other nightclub with easy access to a Kekeh.

And the breeze will blow my thoughts,

Into a calabash,

Among all the other thoughts of Grandparents,

And traditions.

I will look upon the clocktower,

In Kenema,

To make it home in Bo,

Inside the poda poda,

Squeezing and pushing, in love,

Until the next passengers drops off,

And I enjoy my space.

I will play lodo and hopscotch,

By any river I choose,

As long as lobsters will make a poor man’s meal,

And wash it down with Palm wine,

Until it’s time to lay my head down,

And welcome the dreams,

That Mama will explain in the morning.

I will enjoy my time in Sierra Leone,

Like I own it,

Which I do.

And my other Sierra Leoneans too.

We will not sit by and let the harmattan

Sweep by,

Without claiming what is ours.

That is not how the story will go.

You will recognize our narratives in our faces

In the way we walk

We will be bold and seem arrogant

But we just don’t play around

With what we know is ours.

I will unravel all my emotions

In this barray,

Where the foreigner,

Will have to understand

That my love for Sierra Leone

Is non-negotiable.

Akindele TM Decker is a Poet and Writer based in Washington D.C

I Am The Sierra Leone

I am the Sierra Leone that collared a tripping mouthed stranger

whose intoxication challenged my existence before his arrival

O' how he aroused the sentries watching over my fathers' land

whose thunderous growls must have sent him back to the coast

I am the Sierra Leone whose belly is home to to a thousand treasures

adorning a suit of resilience, I splash in exotic waters of patience

and laze on beaches paved with marble sands under the Sierra sun

a picture of queenly flair to all who graze upon my lush greens

I am the Sierra Leone that birthed the Senghe Pieh's heart

of defiance and will to live or die fighting for a right to live

one whose humanity was shipped away on high seas of slavery

to feed the lowliness of colonialism through gullets of racism

I am the Sierra Leone that nursed and taught the Davidson Nicols

of this world, to grace the Halls of the Great Athens of West Africa

whose apparel of glory left to dive, shall fly again in the African skies

for ours is a people with a vision to mark our handprints in history

I am the Sierra Leone where the 'Yokos'

of every generation

dance to the traditional drumbeats of virtue and pride of womanhood

amid deafening citations of high infant and maternal mortality

while the shadow of morbidity stubbornly lingers around our homes

I am the Sierra Leone that an eleven year conflict and carnage

left behind to rise from the shambles of past mistakes, to sing

with one voice that never again shall we swim in rivers of our own blood

just because our voices are stifled by voices stronger and powerful.

Samuella Conteh is a writer, poet and human rights professional from Sierra Leone.

Opposites

I am a soft flower

A pink bud

Plush petals

Covered in gentle dew

Under a blue sky

Little wisps of clouds

Fly by

Chased by the gentle cool wind

You are harsh

Like an emotion

Like a story

Told around the bonfire of Ananse and his antics

I absorb your negativity

Shocked, I find you ridiculous

You wound yourself

And in your wounding

Wounding me

I have been dreaming of rescues

By a prince who comes to kiss me

And you have been dreaming

Of dominating and tapping that

Adding notches to your bedpost

To show your bedfellows

Your proud scores

We are both stupid.

Rosaline Johnson is a poet, singer and law graduate from Sierra Leone.

Live While Living

We're on a roll and each kiss of dawn, takes us closer to the edge of time

for our time here is as fleeting as cloud flakes,

melting too soon in the hot sun we build and break till we get it right,

we plant and prune till the height is right this edge that surrounds us, with its thorny jokes, we stitch mirth into our tears

Every embrace with the uncertainties of sleep takes us closer to the edge of time

for we turn and toss, dream of strange or familiar faces in distant places or near we rock in our groove,

we stand like dummies wondering what life's all about we dig our feet in and out again, strutting forward, living is not for cowards.

Samuella Conteh is a poet, writer and human rights professional from Sierra Leone.

Undecided

Flames twisted and tongues tied.

The question is whether they are surprised.

Lappas folded, kotoku tied.

Mama Koju from over Congo Town side,

Made her own way, and walked all on her own accord.

Her voice, no louder than screams we’ve heard before.

It’s the echo that’s eerie!

Her back is weary.

She’s been carrying Salone for too long.

Santigie offered to help, standing at the corner of Port Loko.

So did Omolaja at the tip of Waterloo.

But she kept trekking, like a Soldier,

No bolder than what we’ve seen before.

It’s her attire that’s stunning!

There are no RPGs by her side.

Inside a calabash she has no grenades,

Just a couple of kola nuts,

And water.

She is no daughter of Kings, or Paramount Chiefs,

She is an old woman who has seen it all.

Who breathed smoke from the nostrils of AK-47s,

And exhaled courage into the life of the bush,

Where she ran then from Pademba to Mile 91.

She walks now, not because of pride, or obligation.

There are no fortifications, she hasn’t stormed through.

Pa Alimami inquired no justification,

He picked up his wooden carved cane, and walked too!

Fear in their eyes, swollen from the strain of wisdom.

What they know they must have seen in Makeni,

That they do not want to see again at Kingtom.

Sabina ran to their side, tugging for an answer.

But they walked and continued silently.

No more silent than six feet underneath the dust of past epidemics that are now settled.

It’s the focus of their eyes that’s heartbreaking!

Their protest is becoming more clearer.

Who in this world does not want alafia?

After you have been hit with stones, bullets, bones, bodies,

Stories of survival haven't been enough to empower you?

You still run to fire, smoke,

Away from water, hope?

What else are the elders to do?

Sit by you still?

While you still sight your kill?

Even when it pays to be a different kind of hunter,

Who pray instead of prey,

On the lives of all your kin.

Mama Koju and Pa Alimami desire to bring,

On their walk,

From Congo Cross to Koinadugu,

No words, eyes straight, back weary, cane slapping the ground!

No other companions.

This is a trip for the Elders.

All our lives they’ve been whispering parables into our ears,

No more wiser than what we’ve seen and felt ourselves.

It's our stubbornness that’s confusing.

So they have had enough.

If we refuse to learn from their mistakes,

What we inherit becomes what we create.

Hate that grew from the crack in the concrete,

That has been dividing Sierra Leone

from pre-colonial to partisan conflicts.

We seem to always seek to thrive,

Wherever hate and politics collide.

As if we only see the good in us divided,

Provided we benefit.

But this is it, the Elders say.

No more words,

Nothing we haven’t heard before.

If we cannot learn from the past, surely one day, the past will be lost to us forever.

And we will continue burning, killing, fighting, shooting, running, politicizing.

Just to be King over Kin.

As if we only know the good in us divided,

In the end, no one left to confide in.

Back again to square one,

King or Kin.

King or Kin.

King or Kill.

Akindele TM Decker is a Poet and Writer based in Washington D.C