When the Sun refuses to Shine

hen the Sun refuses to Shine

  By Mariama Kandeh

  It was 6 am on 29th April 1992. I’ve just been woken up by the normal cock-a-doodle-doo of one of our cocks that slept in our pantry but I’ve refused to wake up. I just lay still pretending I’m sleeping. The pantry is a very small square storeroom that is positioned at one of the four edges of our squared parlour. It housed some old household and building materials. Mama was ambitious enough to have been buying building materials even though there was no plan yet to build a family house of our own. We lived in a one-bedroom flat at the Kingtom Police Barracks. It was in the pantry that a home was created for our fowls. We had over 10 of them, all of which squeezed in the small available space in the pantry. I and three sisters shared a bed in the parlour just opposite the pantry. So whenever one of our cocks crow, we are the first recipients of its ‘Coco-rio-ko’.

  The sound of the cock will be followed by Papa’s screaming at us to wake up and perform the Fajr prayer. It was normal for us to be woken up by him in that way. ‘Get up’ he would shout..... ‘It’s time for prayers’, he would add, sprinkling cold water over us. Papa has developed this habit over time and there was not a morning he did not perform such ritual. Each one of us would get up very briskly, collect water pots, do the ablution and came back to stand behind him for prayers. The prayer is normally followed by my morning chores, sweeping of the veranda, and packing the parlour after everyone has gotten up.

  In Sierra Leone, the sun rises in the east and set in the west; this pattern never changes, not even when we experience the so-called Johnson Spring or when it rains continuously for seven days and nights usually in August. The sun always found its way into our kitchen made of zinc and mud. That morning, as Mama was preparing our breakfast of boiled rice, palm oil, pepper, Jumbo Maggie and onion stew, our neighbour aunty Hawa came over to greet her as usual.

  ‘Good morning Neneh (Neneh means Mama in the Fullah language of Sierra Leone). ‘Hawa morning,’ Mama replied. ‘How the morning Ma? Aunty Hawa asked. ‘The morning is not going bad, just that the sun has refused to shine this morning and only God knows how many people they will kill today,’ Mama remarked.

  In Sierra Leone, cloudy weather signifies bad omen and during the war it was believed that whenever the sun refused to shine in the morning it signified massive killings of civilians by rebels of the Revolutionary United Front; most times a village or town is attacked and hundreds if not thousands of innocent lives lost.

  I hurriedly finished my chores, bathed, ate breakfast and dressed up in my blue and green uniform. Off I went running behind Papa as we walked from Kingtom to State House, the office of the President where Papa worked as a police officer. Along dusty paths enveloped by trees which formed a serene canopy; across Battery Street on to the police guard room with its gigantic cotton tree adjacent to the Kingtom police station. We walked through police field with its damaged pavilions that formed the perfect rendezvous for pupils from Saint Edwards and Prince of Wales secondary schools who escaped classes, some to smoke Indian hemp or Marijuana, others to play football or cricket, some just to relax and enjoy the sweet breeze that flew in from the river Rokel and the Atlantic Ocean.

  Walking along side Papa, I asked him questions from why birds fly to why the roads drowned us with dry red dust whenever a vehicle passed us. Papa has got answers for everything; in fact he should; he has worked at State House for over thirty years. He prided himself to have worked with almost all the Presidents Sierra Leone had had then.

  We passed through Hennessy Street and Kroobay, Sierra Leone’s most famous slum; I always wondered how humans and pigs not only dwelled in the same place but defecated, peed and drank water from the same river; for people of Kroobay it is nothing to write home about; it is what many Sierra Leoneans would describe as ‘life goes on’. Papa and I always found a short-cut so that we got to our destination on time.

  As we passed through Lightfoot Boston Street, I realized it was still too early and quiet; only a few vehicles passed us. The streets were filthy with rubbish filling the gutters and feces could be noticed in polyethylene bags. The mortuary at Connaught hospital smelled of stale dead bodies as a result of a long and sustained blackout. There was a high pile of rubbish just in front of the mortuary gate and flies were singing all around it. The city is normally without electricity supply and this did not only disturb the living but gravely affected the state of the mortuary. Amidst all this, the morning breeze was fantastic. The town was still quiet with the exception of few early risers rushing to work.

  One thing missing on that Wednesday morning was the usual life in the city of Freetown. Like many cities in Africa, Freetown is very busy in the mornings as traders go helter-skelter getting goods and packing them on their stalls and workers heading for work; school children going to schools as house wives rushed to get food items to cook for their families. But on that day, the picture was bizarre. Was it because it was too early or was it just a sign of something totally strange looming? An incident that was going to change the history of my beloved Sierra Leone forever was about to happen.

  Renegade soldiers who were at the war front fighting the rebels on behalf of the country but felt aggrieved over the government’s lack of good governance, better leadership and poor conditions of service for the military had plotted a coup which was to oust then President Joseph Saidu Momoh (late) and his All People’s Congress party that had ruled the country for 24 years; 14 years under one party rule.

  Through Walpole Street we got to the giant Cotton Tree. A huge Ceiba Pentandra and one of Freetown’s most historic symbols. It is as old as the city itself. It stood just adjacent the American Embassy where every morning I saw a long queue of people waiting to be interviewed for American visas. Most of them were tired of the heat of the kitchen and could not bear it anymore and were leaving Sierra Leone for a greener pasture. The visa that will ensure they enter the United States of America; the land of milk and honey as we knew it to be. Under the cotton tree, I was now sweating profusely and for any time I heard the ‘kiki kiki’ sound of the bats. It seemed continuous and I ran under Papa’s caftan to escape their poo from messing my uniform even though bats poo is believed to give good luck.

  At the police post at State House, Papa stopped by, dropped his bag and told one of the guards that he was dropping me off to school. At school, I was always proud to tell my friends that I’ve seen the Inspector General of Police Bambay Kamara (late) and even President Momoh. I once passed the IG on the circular stairs of State House and President Momoh was sighted several times with his many guards around the building; especially when he was leaving the lift to go to his office at the top of the building. I was especially proud to describe State House to my friends; it’s like an American describing the White House or the Pentagon or a Briton describing Number 10 Downing Street. I especially loved to talk about the top veranda, located just at the top of the president’s oval office. There, the bats are said to come every morning as a sign of honour to the seat of power. However, it is also believed that whenever a coup is being plotted the bats will not do the morning ritual. They would rather go away. I also used to play ‘gegeh’ (a game we play with granite) at the top veranda with other children whose parents also worked at State House. One can also have a great look of the centre of town and especially the river and the ocean at the edge of Freetown.

  At around 8 o’clock, the sun has still refused to shine. It was around then I heard the first set of gun shots. My friends and I were playing in the school grounds. Our school was on Tower Hill, overlooked by parliament building and adjacent to the National Electoral Commission’s head quarters. It is on a red dusty and stony ground; the buildings were painte
d in dark brown and beige which looked like it was meant to match the red dusty school yard. In the mornings before school assembly, my friends and I would chat little girly chats; we would discuss about new clothes or shoes our mothers bought and did spelling test of boys versus girls or multiplication tests amongst ourselves, just to prepare us for the day’s hot mental.

  When the shots became continuous, we ran to class 7 Blue; Mr David was its class teacher. He was a very strict, with medium height, very articulate teacher. His class was always the best among the class 7 classes and parents always urged their children to work hard to be in Mr. David’s class when they got to class 7. We rushed in, pupils, some parents, passersby and traders. Our school is a route for many female traders who always carried baskets we called blaye. These women sold fruits and gravy of salt, kanya pepper and lime; we called the combination ‘Gron Soup’ in Krio.

  Before that day I did not know who rebels really were. I thought they were animals. On many occasions I had asked Papa if they were human beings. When the war started which was just about a year, Papa always told me the