As Ishmael settled down in readiness to give the
sole audience to my story, I paused for a while to recap the
gist of where I was going to start. My little notebook was well
within reach as a backup, and at some stage, it would be the
main source of my tale. After a few seconds, I set off with
my narration, rather unenthusiastically.
"It's
a long story," I started.
"Oh yeah?" he asked.
"Oh yes," I answered. "You see, I was about
your age when, as a first year student at Fourah Bay College
(FBC), the idea of leaving Sierra Leone first crossed my mind.
Entering university in those days was not an easy task. Even
though it was exciting to be leaving high school, getting a
place at Fourah Bay College, as you may know, entailed a series
of tremendous challenges and hurdles. The first challenge was
passing the GCE Ordinary Level examinations (O-Level), and then
the Advanced Levels (A-Level) if one was opting for the three-year
undergraduate programme instead of the regular four years. But
then, the competitive nature of the process was such that there
was no guarantee of admission. Even when admitted, one had to
reckon with the exorbitant tuition and accommodation fees, which
many could not afford. Sometimes it was also a question of whether
education was enough of a priority to one's parents to justify
so much investment of time and money in it."
Ishmael looked intently.
"Once university admission
was obtained," I continued, "securing a scholarship
to cover tuition, meals and accommodation became the next challenge.
It was a daunting one that sometimes ended in abject disappointment,
since the applicants always outnumbered the available awards.
The government of Sierra Leone provided most of the scholarships
at this time. There were also the European Economic Community
award, dubbed the EEC, but this was restricted to only students
enrolling in economics, engineering and science. With this intense
competition, there was no guarantee of a scholarship even after
admission, which made access to tertiary education very restrictive.
Without a scholarship, a privately paying student had even more
challenges to endure, starting with the unavailability of housing,
and problems with the allocation of the meagre residential rooms
in the college hostels. Everything favoured scholarship holders
first, since the payment of their fees was guaranteed by the
government or the sponsoring agencies. Being without a scholarship
was hardly imaginable, but was often the ultimate fate of many
enthusiastic students who could not secure one.
Many of these were destined to go through an agonising experience
for at least the first one or two terms. Their ordeal included
arranging for accommodation downtown, and contending with the
very difficult, sometimes unaffordable, transportation costs.
It was therefore not uncommon for students to trek the distance
up and down Mount Aureol, where the college is located, on foot.
After one initial unsuccessful attempt, my entrance to college
in the mid 1980s was a relatively smoother process than I had
imagined. Our applications were submitted around June, just
before the A-Level examinations, all in one group from the Bo
Government Secondary School. By early September, the admission
notice for the next academic year, beginning in October, was
already at hand. I entered college in early October, and registered
for a four-year degree programme at the Faculty of Pure and
Applied Sciences. We had earlier filled in applications forms
for the Sierra Leone Government scholarship awards at the Ministry
of Education. The interview was conducted shortly afterwards,
and by the end of the first term of the school year, the eagerly
awaited results were released. My application was successful.
It was all like a miracle! Although I thought it was really
exceptional, it was not actually very unusual for science students,
whose chances of getting scholarships were always higher than
those of students in other disciplines.
Without a scholarship, I would have had to rely solely on my
mother's meagre resources from petty trading for my fees. This
would perhaps have been augmented by contributions from my elder
brothers who were employed in Bo, Freetown, and the United States.
Sources other than these were simply non-existent. I had lost
my dad just three years before completing high school. I am
the fourth of my mother's eight children. The three elder ones
had already completed university education, and the younger
ones were still in primary and secondary schools."
I had captivated Ishmael's interest in my story, and he gave
me utmost attention.
"As you were saying about your
family …" he urged me to continue.
"Yes,"
I continued, "my dad never had western education, so there
was no pressing need for him to send anyone to school. He was
the head of a very large and very extended polygamous family,
with five wives and over forty children. Even though he respected
schooling, it drained a relatively huge amount of resources
from his wealth. I am not sure whether he was convinced that
this expenditure was justified by an educational value that
he himself had not had the opportunity to experience."
"This was true of my parents as well, until recently when
they have started seeing people coming from overseas, especially
America." Ishmael explained.
"Yes, but you see,"
I continued, "in our case, there was also the religious
factor as a setback to western education. We are Muslims, and
aspiring for western education was never a burning issue in
a Muslim home. In fact, sending kids to school was strongly
believed to jeopardise their chances of following the religion,
which everyone knew was our Dads ultimate wish. Given these
premises, there was every reason for Dad to be apathetic towards
the idea of western education for his children, at least in
the beginning, many years before I was born. Schooling in my
family started only with my dads fourth son, but was never consistent
with the rest of the children that were born to the family.
It was purely by chance that one was selected to attend, so
some of my siblings never got the opportunity to go to school.
Quranic education, which entailed home tutoring in Islamic verses
and prayers, was the popular form of education received by all
of my brothers regardless of whether or not they were fortunate
enough to be sent to English school. Sending girls to school
was quite inconceivable in my home. It was simply incompatible
with customs and intolerable to a strict interpretation of Islam,
at least at that point in time.
However, by the time I was born in the early 1960s, things had
changed dramatically. The good precedent set by my few elder
brothers who were tried in school before me – six of them –
had created a powerful impression on my dad, justifying some
investment in schooling. All of the six excelled at school,
and at least two of them were already in secondary school, with
every determination to enter university.
Though impressed by the excellent performance of his first few
children in school, my father was for a long time not fully
convinced that western education was indeed an appealing option
for all his children. For him, sending some children to school
was indeed justifiable, so that they could read and write English,
but that did not justify sending all of his children to school.
A few in school would have sufficed. Other reasons that augured
for more children in school had much to do with the complex
book-keeping exercises related to his extensive business ventures:
three shops in our home towns of Tambiama, Madina, and Mayatta
in Bombali District in the Northern Province, and a fourth in
our southern home of Kpetewoma Lugbu in Bo District, Southern
Province, where he also intermittently traded in diamonds.
For my dad, however, all these benefits could not outweigh the
apparent potential of western education for negative acculturation
of children and subsequent reduction of their chances of growing
up into good Muslims. This problem was aggravated by the fact
that sending kids to school also detracted from the potential
labour force in the house, as the children, perhaps even after
they grew up, would never be available to assist with household
chores and other, business-related, work. This kind of work
was viewed as a critical and expedient exercise for training
the child into manhood, by teaching him, at an early age, the
basic strategies of securing a livelihood and becoming a prosperous
person. By getting a child involved in all business trips and
having him witness all transactions, he was made to acquire
the necessary business acumen, which facilitates an early assumption
of responsibilities and independent life. These are the fundamental
principles on which the very business-oriented Mandingo culture
and tradition are based. Being a traditionalist and a strong
believer in the Mandingo custom, my dad's ultimate wish was
to have all his children follow these business-oriented principles
and traditions.
These issues, which must have been a subject of constant debate
and recurrent discussion between my dad and his colleagues,
could possibly have created a momentary fear that may have dissuaded
him from sending all his kids to school. The opinions of his
colleagues could hardly have favoured any positive decision
on schooling, as many of them had very strong reservations about
the subject, for reasons strongly related to those already mentioned.
Sadly, many of his friends and relatives never sent a single
child to school.
With his apparent fear of losing his children to a western life
style, particularly to Christianity, he made sure that all of
us went through the home-based tutoring and learning of the
Holy Qur'an, until such time when he was sufficiently convinced
that we had acquired the minimum basic understanding of the
religion. His requirements ranged from being able to read the
popular scriptures and verses fluently, to being able to take
the lead in all forms of the five daily prayers, either alone
or while leading a congregation.
So for all of us, childhood days were dominated by dual conditioning
of Qur'anic education at home, and western education at school.
In fact, during the early days of my primary schooling, I had
to discontinue school for a couple of years to first master
the Qur'an before eventually returning to school. This physical
interruption in schooling was quite rare even for my father's
kids, and as far as I can remember, it only started with me,
but it continued with a few of my younger brothers.
On a typical day, the early part of the mornings, just after
dawn prayers, were devoted to intense reading and memorisation
of important Islamic scriptures and verses that were neatly
written wooden tablets. This would continue for an hour or two
until breakfast was served shortly before we left for the English
school. In the late afternoon, after our return from school,
we would resume reading for several hours. This was a regular
daily routine. Once in a while, especially during the cold Harmattan
season, the reading would be extended into the early hours of
the night after supper, with the students converging around
a small fire that served the dual purpose of lighting and warming.
By the time I entered secondary school, however, it was already
evident to my dad that the rewards of schooling went far beyond
the simple benefits of reading and writing letters and helping
with business calculations. As more of my elder brothers graduated
from university and picked up jobs without the slightest deviation
from Islam or the Mandingo culture, he became fully convinced
that western education was an equal means of securing a future
for one's children. His initial reluctance towards schooling
was soon transformed into an increased commitment to western
education, and encouragement of every child who was interested
in schooling. While he emphasised the need for some basic Qur'anic
education, there was no longer any threat of removal of any
child from the English school in favour of Islamic education.
Thus my secondary schooling was relatively smooth, but relied
very heavily on my elder brothers not only for used books, used
clothes and the like, but also for school fees, especially after
my dad's demise just when I was promoted to Form Five in 1983.
So when I finally entered Fourah Bay College a few years afterwards,
it was beyond imagination that I would ever quit for any reason
without completing my undergraduate degree.
College had just reopened for the second term of the 1986–87
academic year. It was my second term ever at the University.
The first week was normally a grace period with few intense
lectures, as students still feel their way through the course
selection.
This period was characterised by constant movement of students
up and down Mount Aureol, accomplishing various missions and
errands that constituted part of the necessary adjustments that
must be made in preparation for the challenges of the new term.
It was a period when people had to find their bearing as regards
the scheduling of lectures, and hustle for books and other basic
necessities. During this term, however, there was an added dimension
to the traditional routine: the unpleasant but inescapable task
of making alternative food arrangements. This was necessary
to complement, if not substitute altogether for, the ever-diminishing
food ration the livewire in the cafeteria system that had emerged
out of what used to be the enviable dining hall system.
Run by the monopoly of a private proprietress, the dining hall
system had degenerated agonisingly into a business enterprise,
a cafeteria, where the sole objective was to maximise profit,
rather than to ensure student welfare. The initial arrangements
that engendered this enterprise had not emerged out of the blue.
They had actually come as a government response to the frequent
student uprisings against the poor condition of food and shortage
of basic necessities on campus. This resulted in the creation
of an alternative system based on a cafeteria that allowed students
to handle their own cash for the term's food requirements, paying
for food as they ate, and buying provisions as they required.
At its inception, the ‘cash at hand’ slogan was lauded by a
jubilant and unsuspecting student body, and was cheerfully echoed
across all campuses of the University. However, the short-term
goals of this ill-conceived solution later generated unanticipated
long-term consequences that threatened the welfare of the very
students whom it was purportedly intended to serve. By the time
I entered college a few years after it had been introduced,
it was a different story altogether from that which the students
had expected. The global and national economic stresses of the
late 1980s had blown prices out of proportion, without any corresponding
increase in students food allowances. This was a generic problem
that agonised campus life at all the constituent colleges of
the University of Sierra Leone (USL).
As hopes for an immediate remedy or a favourable government
response to the problem dwindled, the traditional collective
approach of taking to the streets in student demonstrations
lost its significance this system was not one that had been
imposed from outside. Students had actually hoped for it, or
at least acquiesced to its terms, without adroitly or objectively
assessing the long-term implications. As a result they had to
resort to exploiting alternative avenues individually to solve
the colossal food problem. Located in the middle of nowhere,
Njala University College, the sister campus to FBC, could only
have seen its students agonise with an even greater ordeal than
ours."
Listening with undivided attention, Ishmael had been staring
at me with a stillness that affirmed how astonishing the story
may all have sounded to him.
"Are
you following?" I inquired, inviting a response.
"Yes
I am," he responded, seeming more mesmerised than I had
expected.
"Good,"
I continued. "This is just a retrospective account of
how it all came about."
"I
know. I am following perfectly," he re-affirmed.
"You
see, going to China was a very unusual adventure, which many
envisaged as ironic, because it was apparently not commensurate
with the prestige of being a student at FBC. A few years ago,
no one would ever have imagined that anyone would leave FBC
for any country in the Eastern Bloc.
In fact, FBC was so prestigious that my eldest brother,
Bra Sheikh, who first made it there, turned down an opportunity
to the USA until after his graduation. So for a student to
leave FBC to go to the Eastern Bloc was out of the question
and totally unheard of."
"Did
you say a block? What block?" he interjected.
"The
Eastern Bloc! This is a generic term that refers to the socialist
countries mainly in Eastern Europe, a set of countries characterised
by a socialist system of government," I hurriedly explained,
in a bid to avert any delay in his understanding.
"I
have heard of Socialism many times. What really does it mean?"
he insisted.
"In
very simple terms," I said, "socialism is the idea
that a country's resources should be controlled by the state
and used in the interests of all its citizens, rather than
allowing private economic agents to invest their resources
as they deem it rational. This principal divergence of political
philosophies and ideologies is what creates the fundamental
difference between proponents of the former view, the East,
and those of the latter, the West. Did I make it clear?"
"Oh
yes, much clearer," he conceded.
"Also,"
I continued, "the overwhelming bulk of less powerful
nations, including Sierra Leone, organised themselves into
the Non-aligned Movement, which became the fertile ground
for the two Blocs to clamour for ideological alignment and
political support."
"Wow!"
He exclaimed in excitement. "It's all making sense to
me now."
"You
see," I continued, "I don't want to get you ensnared
into a confusion of terms at this stage. These terms will
explain themselves much more interestingly as they naturally
emerge in the different episodes of our conversation."
"Okay,
but one more question!" he pleaded.
As
I awaited his question, he persistently stared at me, gesticulating
as if to admit that the question had momentarily eluded him.
After a fleeting moment of uncomfortable silence, he went
on.
"Emm
…, well… where does America fit into all this?" he inquired.
This
question was, of course, not an unexpected one. I could understand
his impatience and curiosity in trying to fit America into
the theme of our conversation. It was, after all, his ultimate
destination. His arrival in America would finally bring years
of imagination and suspense to an absolute end, or throw him
into more disappointment and confusion as the case might be.
This destination, whether it turned out to be heavenly or
something else, might well become his domicile for the next
several decades, painfully claiming the most productive span
of his life. So whatever he expected to hear, as far as he
was concerned, should not digress too much from his expected
theme – America, and obviously something about the much-exaggerated
affluence and skyscrapers seen in western movies.
I
wondered momentarily whether I would be lured or tempted into
revealing the realities that lay behind this glittering façade.
By mentioning the name ‘America’ just apropos of the mention
of the East-West alignments, Ishmael seemed to demonstrate
a considerable degree of smartness in timing the sequence
of his questions. This particular one could not have been
more timely than it had been, as the controversial topic of
alignment would indeed hardly have been concluded without
the mention of America. With this in mind, I responded.
"Your
question is very well synchronised to the tune of our conversation.
As you may expect, America belongs to the West, and is in
fact counted among the foremost proponents of capitalism and
the so-called leader of the ‘free world’. The capitalist system
is essentially the opposite of socialism, which you already
know. It is a system that is largely based on private property
rights, where a dominant proportion of economic activity is
carried out by profit-seeking individuals and organisations.
Until the emergence of Japan, and recently the East Asian
Tigers (Hong Kong, South Korea, Singapore and Taiwan), the
US and West European countries have been the dominant players
in the capitalist arena, while the Soviet Union and China
enjoyed hegemonic positions in the East," I concluded.
"Well,"
he started, "I
feel much enlightened now. I must admit that my knowledge
about some of these issues is very vague. I only know, for
instance, that Sierra Leone and other former British and French
colonies are capitalist countries. These details about socialism
or communism, and this global alignment of nations, have,
until now, been very elusive, but I believe that the farther
one travels away from home, the more important these issues
become."
"Indeed,"
I concurred, "that's perfectly true. When you leave home,
many things that would otherwise be mere trifles become very
important."
"At
least I now have a broader insight into this issue. Sorry,
though, that I caused the untimely digression," he apologised.
"That's
fine," I responded. "It's quite normal, and it always
pays to be candid on issues we do not understand, especially
with the emergence of an opportunity to have them clarified."
After
a few seconds of unwarranted silence, it became obvious from
his looks that Ishmael was once again ready to let me go on.
My
guess was right! In no time, he jogged my memory on the cafeteria
saga at FBC, which had constituted my last sentence before
his sudden questioning. I was pleased with the kind gesture,
but deliberately declined the courtesy of thanking him, for
it was his unabated questioning that had caused the digression
anyway.
* * * *
"Students thus started cooking on campus for the
first time in the history of Fourah Bay College. Restaurants
were later to spring up in all corners as alternatives to
the cafeteria, from the Lower Faculty flats at the spur of
Mount Aureol along the road to town, way up to ‘Bangladesh’
on the upper end of the main campus. Operated by the wives
of junior lecturers and other college employees, the restaurants
proved more efficient in terms of both quantity and quality
of food than the monopoly of the official cafeteria. However,
the food prepared by these restaurants, locally called ‘cookeries’,
was served in provisional stalls that were less orderly and
less hygienic, making them somehow inferior. In the beginning,
therefore, those who ate at such places were frequently looked
down upon as frugal and unworthy of ascension to the class
of elite college students. So initially, you would sneak in
when no other student was around -
especially of the opposite sex -
and sneak out with a full stomach that was just enough to
take you through the day, keeping your mouth shut about where
you had had it filled. In general, the regular clientele at
such places comprised only male students. However, it was
frequently rumoured that the ladies did something similar,
but had better arrangements with the restaurants, including
special deliveries of nicely packaged meals to their rooms.
Well, it was nobody's business to take up the task of verifying
this, nor was anyone interested in tracing the authenticity
of the sources of such rumours.
But
with further deterioration in the situation at the cafeteria
– some even branded it ‘starving-teria’ – the hide and seek
gave way to open groups of students sitting at restaurant
tables, usually absorbed in a hot argument while waiting for
the meal to be served. Eating at the restaurants became an
open secret, and it was certainly nobody's business where
whoever took his lunch or dinner. As large numbers continued
to dodge the cafeteria, the surrounding restaurants steadily
boomed with customers, and the traditional role of the dining
hall as a place of convergence, interaction and socialisation
for students from different faculties slowly faded away.
Emerging
with this change was a newly invented slang that was quickly
adapted to the existing campus lingo to ease the description
of the new adjustments on campus during regular conversations.
A decadence of feeding morale was quick to emerge, along with
a disappearance of meal etiquette and a declining frequency
of meals. Before these hard times, three square meals had
always been available to all students every day, throughout
the 150-year history of FBC before the 1980s. At this time,
however, meal frequencies had changed to reflect what the
new campus lingo described as 1-1-1 (breakfast-lunch-dinner),
the perfect case for students of wealthy origins, to the more
popular scenarios of 0-1-1, 1-0-1 or 1-1-0 for students whose
alternative sources of immediate cash were lacking. This latter
situation, into which I fitted most of the time, as indeed
did most students, soon became the norm rather than the exception.
It characterised most students whose parents or guardians
resided outside Freetown.
I was lucky because I had some relatives in Freetown.
But for those who didn't, even the much-celebrated relief
of spending weekends downtown surfaced only once in a blue
moon, with the invitation of a Freetonian college mate or
a family friend residing downtown.
As
prices in the cafeteria surged up, the meal configurations
were constantly adjusting, giving rise to even more complicated
arrangements. The only configuration that did not emerge was
0-0-0, which was obviously tantamount to downright starvation.
Nevertheless, this predicament, at least in the beginning,
did little to deflate the traditional conceit of being up
at Mount Aureol, being a Fourahbite,
which by all standards implied elitism and commanded veneration
in its highest esteem. Ask a student "How is life up
there?" and a typical response would be "Great!"
or "We are managing!" The problem was certainly
not explained to those who had little to contribute to the
solution, for this would merely have detracted from the honour
accredited to the student status nationwide.
But
time that could otherwise have been spent in the library was
now effectively diverted to cooking, or trekking up and down
the hill in a bid to manage subsistence. In this context,
we all became managers! As everyone adapted to the absurd
and unprecedented entrepreneurship of procuring food and other
necessities, managing life on a day-to-day basis instilled
more fear in us than the traditional anxiety of the June
breeze, the
sole examination, which could bring with it the ill
fate of a total reference to re-examination for students who
did not pass. The unfortunate catastrophe of total reference
befell a student whose average performance in certain subjects
-
in a single examination -
fell below a certain grade point.
Once
ensnared in this embarrassing situation, students were doomed
to re-examination in all the courses they had taken that year,
regardless of whether they had scored ninety percent in the
other subjects or not, and regardless of their aggregate mean
grade point for that year. The psychological impact, alone,
of falling victim to this ill fate was enough to derail one's
academic ambition for life. Worst of all, the reference had
to be completely cleared within a seemingly impossible deadline
of barely two months. One is left to wonder whether this system,
imposed in the colonial days and now certainly defunct in
Great Britain itself, still exists in any other institution
on the face of this earth!
Left
alone to swim in this turbulent wave of uncertainties, a large
proportion of students painfully rolled down the hill in agony,
as students' average performances in examinations persistently
dropped each year to record-breaking levels. The fate of such
victims -
it's hard to call them dropouts -
in a third world country that had no clear agenda for technical
education or similar opportunities, is just another story.
*
* *
*
Meanwhile,
the shortest route to town, actually a footpath that was later
to serve as an emergency exit, the canal, was already in full
use. Students had no means of transportation. Parked somewhere
in town after a prolonged period of intermittently spending
more time in the garage than on the road, the only commuter
bus on the route, the student union bus, had now degenerated
into a state of permanent disrepair. This left the entire
FBC population, students and junior workers alike, at the
mercy of private taxis and car-owners. Group hiking on the
tarmac was to emerge as a popular adaptation to the transportation
problem that now seemed endless. Ironically, this physical
feat had its benefits. Hiking up or down the hill had the
benefit of a full-body aerobic workout. Aesthetically, it
exposed us to a much better vista of the city than could ever
be seen from the buses. But this was certainly not of interest
as there was nothing new that the aerial view of Freetown
had to offer: we saw it every day. Moreover, people were normally
too absorbed in interesting discussions or arguments to pay
attention to any improvement that a newly completed building
might have added to the aerial view of the city.
Others tramped down the hill via the canal,
a steep, bushy, very rocky and very narrow footpath that connects
the back of Davidson Nichol Hall at the College to the Kissy
Road around the Starco Cinema Complex area in the East End
of Freetown. Daring onto the canal was a very enervating venture
that was mostly undertaken only by students visiting the East
End of town to see relatives or friends. Being among this
lot, I was a regular user of the canal.
Occasionally,
I had the privilege of being driven to campus by my brother,
who would always describe, with pride, the comfort and convenience
that had defined his own days at the College. In most cases,
I really had to ask for the ride, since hiking up the canal
effectively consumed more calories than whatever amount of
food one could take in during a single visit. So, critically
assessed, rushing down the canal just to eat and then returning
to campus really was not worth the trouble at all; students
of the Faculty of Pure and Applied Sciences already calculated
the net metabolic effect of this daring venture to be equal
to zero -
by the time one returned to campus, one's stomach was as empty
as it had been before the trip had begun. Back to square one!
And so, while trekking down the hill by way of either the
canal or the main transportation arterial is an acceptable
proposition, hiking up to campus is not.
A group arriving in town soon split into smaller batches
that headed for different parts of the town. The batches emerged
naturally, without prior consultations, out of similarity
of purpose or destination in town. While one would head for
the West, another might be going to the Centre as a third
batch made its way to the East End of town, and so on.
On the way back to campus, students stood casually
at the foot of the hill, opposite the Government Model Secondary
School, which was the general point of assemblage for catching
a ride in a private vehicle or trekking up the hill to campus.
Occasionally, fortune smiled on us, as a benevolent docent
or his chauffeur stopped his car and drove off with one or
two from the group. Sometimes the magnitude of the tussle
as we tried to get into the half-stopping, half-moving car
merely scared off the driver, who would suddenly accelerate
and drive off, leaving everyone behind in utter disappointment.
This attitude was often misconstrued by students, who complained
bitterly of drivers' teasing them by slowing down only to
provoke a rush, and accelerating off after the first few arrived.
The truth was that no amount of benevolence or desire to make
a gesture could encourage a car-owner to continue waiting
while a desperate crowd descended on the car with speeds reminiscent
of the 100-meter dash at the Olympic games. Besides, insurance
companies in the developing world are so efficient that car-owners
will rather sweat to the teeth to avert potential damage.
And, of course, I need not mention the number of years that
people had to save from their meagre earnings to eventually
afford a car, which they must treasure and protect more out
of necessity than the cruelty or greed of which the students
accused them.
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