The following is the fictional backstory to
the real experience I had in Sierra Leone.
He
awoke to the sound of thin tin pans being scattered across the crumbling cement
slab outside his door. He could hear a man and woman shouting as a crowd of
their neighbors gathered to watch. He sat up wiped the sweat off his neck and
tried to shake off the heaviness of his slumber.
The
fighting continued.
“Eh
Bo! Get oat me ouse!” a female voice screeched.
“Ooman
if you kick me oat , I de go.” The male
voice promised.
Sobbing
she managed to say, “Go!”
Grabbing
his dirty shirt the man strides off angry and bare chested.
“Good
luck feeding those bastard Children.” The
man mumbled loudly enough so that the spectators heard his targeted insult.
Now
fully awake he was acutely aware of his hunger. It had been a day since his
last meal consisting of dried Cassava flakes, bright orange palm oil and Maggie
seasoning, the food of security guards and domestic help. Without the noise from the fight disturbing
him he would have continued to sleep through his hunger. Unemployment rate of
eighty percent meant that decent work was hard to find, especially for his
generation that grew up during the civil war. He had been too young to fight in
the war but due to the disruption that wars cause his education was sporadic
and incomplete. The war left him behind like so many others who were left with
no family, tribal connections and no hope of a better future. These were not
the kinds of things a hungry man contemplated. The only thing on his mind was how
he could temporarily satisfy his hungry belly.
Slipping
on his jeans, T-shirt and flip-flops he stepped out of the dark dilapidated
room he rented and into the yard; everything seemed back in order. There was no
evidence of the ruckus that just occurred. Dogs resumed their sun bathing on
the drying slab while chickens moved about pecking at shiny pieces of garbage.
Driven
by hunger he decided to head to Lumley beach, maybe he would meet some
fishermen as they brought in their last catch. He hoped he could convince them
to spare him some of their unsellable leftovers. He looked down at his gold colored watch, even
though it stopped working some time ago. He kept it because it looked nice and
made his younger brothers jealous. Forced
to estimate the time he glanced up at the horizon he guessed that there was
about two hours of daylight left. Again
his stomach ached for something to fill it. If only he could turn the sand into
rice.
He scanned
the shore for fishermen. There were none. He kept walking. It was too late; he
had slept though the last catch of the day, missing yet another opportunity to
eat. The only people who were still working the sand were hawkers draped in
trinkets, amputees who squatted in the half built hotels along the shore and
prostitutes waiting for their evening meal. They, like him, were desperate to
live in spite of how hopeless life appeared. A small part of him was thankful
that he wasn’t a woman. As a man he had it easier by comparison. Physically strong
he could take, by force, what he needed.
Giving up on a meal, he turned and began the slow painful walk back down
the beach.
THE REAL EVENT.
It
had been a ruff day nothing out of the ordinary had occurred yet everything
seemed harder. Perhaps it was
combination of heat and isolation that was making me desperate to get outside
of the walls of our compound. I decided to pack up my tuna sandwich and water
and head down to the beach for a spontaneous picnic dinner. I was hoping a change of location would be
enough to help me change my mood. My
roommate agreed to join me and we left for Lumley hoping to catch the sunset
and cool ocean breeze.
Lumley
Beach is the closest beach to Freetown located on the Northern tip of the
Freetown peninsula. It’s a beautiful location
with soft sand and breezes that match, providing some relief from the
sweltering year round heat. Now that the war is over its become prime real-estate. The northern shore has some older established
business that survived the war like Family Kingdom, a “resort” hotel and
restaurant. As you drove south along
beach road there is one half built building after another. Some are future guesthouses
owned by famous local footballers and others; I suspect are being built by
corrupt government officials investing the loot they have siphoned off foreign aid.
I
wasn’t in the mood to deal with the ever-present prostitutes, hawkers and
beggars, so in an attempt to avoid them we headed to the undeveloped southern
end of the beach. Parking between the road and the sand we got out and walked
toward our undesignated picnic spot. Still holding the car keys I decided to
give them to my roommate. As I tried to put them in her purse for safekeeping
she took them out of my hand and placed them in her pocket. I shrugged,
thinking I guess her pockets are safer than mine and kept walking.
It
was good to be out of the compound. The fresh salty air, and a chance to dip my
toes in the ocean were just what I needed. Soon I realized that it was getting
dark and so we decided to make our way back to the car before the sunset
completely. It was only six o’clock in
the evening but when you live near the equator it means that the sun sets fast
and early. We picked up the remains of our dinner and made our way to the car.
That
was when I noticed a young man walking in our direction. He wasn’t a hawker, so
I assumed he was just enjoying the sunset like we were. As I watched he stopped and removed his
flip-flops, but I thought noting of it. I turned and looked toward my roomie
she was swinging her camera that was lassoed to her wrist on her way back to
the vehicle. I hurried to catch up.
Suddenly I saw a figure moving out of the left corner of my eye. The figure
lunged toward my roommates dangling camera.
It was that young man with the flip-flops I had noticed moments before.
As he lunged I yelled, “Krisnee!”
Surprised by my yelp she yanked her arm and turned toward me. Causing the man to miss the camera by a few
inches.
Determined
flip-flop man circled back again this time trying to grab Krisnee’s purse. She pulled
her purse close to her chest in response and, began to back peddle and yell, “NO!
NO!” Without thinking I ran over to the
man and began to wrestle with him. I’ve head people say that in emergency
situations you never know how you’re going to react, and they are right. It felt as if we were playing Capture the Flag
at a youth camp. While tangled up with the thief, I yelled for my roommate to
run, as if this would have helped.
Where was she going to go? And if she did manage to run away then I
would have been left alone with our attacker.
But I wasn’t thinking I was reacting. As our wrestling match continued I
tried reaching for the attackers face like I had learned in a self-defense class. Unfortunately he was much stronger and taller
and had longer arms than my 5’ 5” 160 pound frame could manage even with the
help of adrenaline.
Again
he came at us and managed to get ahold of my roommate’s purse. While my roomie
held on for dear life I lunged and grabbed on to the purse stings too. The very
strong man then proceeded to drag both my roommate and I though the sand on our
stomachs. I was thinking, “let go you idiot!” I’m not sure if my thoughts were
directed toward him or myself. Finally, the straps on the purse gave way. And the man ended up with the purse and we
ended up with the straps.
Lying
in the sand we watched him run away with his new purse. I felt relieved and
sick at the same time. I saw the beach
patrol headed our way they shouted to us from the road asking if we were ok. We
shouted back, “Yes!” One of the patrolmen jumped out of the army green Range
Rover and started chasing the thief. We
watched as he pursued the thief across the beachfront road and over a wall and
into the mangrove swamp on the other side. We stood up trying to catch our
breath. After a few minutes the beach
patrolman came back empty handed. It was no use. He was too fast. The thief and the purse were gone.
We
were numb from the event. The beach
patrol proceeded to take down some of the details of our picnic ordeal.
Including our contact information in case they caught the guy later. They then cautioned
us and left. We walked quickly back to
our vehicle. At once I remembered the car keys I had tried to place in my
roommates purse earlier. I asked her, “Do you still have the keys?” Unsure, she
reached into her pocket and pulled them out.
We both smiled with relief. In
that moment we realized that God had been with us. While we lost the purse and
money, we were safe and unharmed. We still had the keys to our vehicle, house and
the thief’s original target, the camera.For
the next few nights I think Krissnee and I both had nightmares about the
mugging.
This experience has affected me in ways I couldn’t have predicted. For
instance, a few years ago while I was waiting for a friend on a busy street
corner in my hometown of Portland, Oregon. Someone sunk up behind me and placed
their chin on my shoulder. I jumped! It was my friend. She giggled, and as
calmly as possible said, “Please! Don’t, EVER, do that again.” She smiled sheepishly and said, “Sorry.” Now
over five years later I still flinch when I sense someone is coming up behind
me too quickly. As a precaution when I walk through a crowded public area, I often think about
zipping up my purse and holding it tightly under my arm just in case. All
things considered these are minor residual impressions.
Many
people in Sierra Leone have experienced far worse than being mugged by an
unarmed man. Like those who survived ten
years of civil war, they saw and experienced countless acts of brutality, which
undoubtedly left deeper wounds than our mugging. We were lucky. We weren’t injured or raped. Yes we experienced a degree of trauma. Yes it affected us in ways that are not
pleasant. Yet, I can’t help but think about the young man who mugged us and
what his life was like. His situation must
have been infinitely more complicated if he felt that he needed to steal. I’ve never been that desperate. I’ve never
had to steal or sell my body so that I could eat. By comparison my life has been easy.