We left Kabala in the northern province of Sierra Leone around 8am for Bambukoro Village, my father’s (Stephen Karifala Marrah) ancestral hometown. I have been a few times to Kabala but never to my dad’s village. The road is dusty, but relatively passable thanks to our uncle, Dr. Kaifala Marah who had facilitated the grading of the road a few years back. Dust-covered green forest abuts the road on either side with patches of the onslaught on the flora by the scramble for timber. The journey to Bambukoro, , the place whose tales I had forged into a mental encyclopaedia, l
asted slightly under an hour. Our great-great-grand father, Sorie-Sengbe (after whom I am named) was the founder of the village. I was shown his great swath of plantation which has stood for more than a hundred years.
My father used to tell my brothers and I stories of how he would accompany his grandpa Sorie-Sengbe to this plantation – a story which one of my uncles confirms, adding that he was perhaps the grandchild who most enjoyed the fruits of the plantation being his grandfather’s chaperon.
Shortly after my elder brother Emmanuel and I had arrived, our uncle Dr. Saio Sorie Marrah’s arrival was greeted by a throng of kids who swarmed his vehicle, chanting his initials “SS” “SS”. Our uncle remarks that his initials are the very first letter of the alpha
bet that the kids learn. He proceeded to show us around the village. En route, a vehicle rumpled with dents on its body frame stood on the side of the margins of the main road that winds through the village. It was nothing but a carcass beaten into scrap in our eyes. But it was one of the vehicles dedicated to the plunder of the forest. It seemed disused but we were told it carried out its duty of conveying several logs of timber which beats the imagination. The homestead most of which were mud-constructed had signs of modern aspirations suppressed by poverty. The mosque which is perched on the navel of the village represents the dominant faith. There’s a small clinic in our village which by the services it renders to the neighbouring villages has become like a referral hospital. The descendants of the village have begun an ambitious project to build a healthcare centre adjacent to the clinic. It is a long way off, but the end would provide immense healthcare utility to the village and its environs. Our last stop was at the Bambukoro Community Senior Secondary School— we entered the SSS1 class being taught by Mr. Mansaray without the frills of learning as I at least knew them in Freetown. Emmanuel and I had an opportunity to motivate the kids to persevere despite the limitations. Later in the day, I had great consultation with the principal and some of the teachers (volunteers) of the junior secondary school on the needs of the school. Raised by parents who were both teachers, I did not cringe at some of the conditions they labour under to pass on knowledge to the kids because my parents at some point in their careers underwent similar upheavals. We made our commitments to the school as we believe that would have been the preference of our teacher-parents.
We were introduced to more than a score of our kinfolks most of whom expressed their delight at our coming in Kuranko, which we only deciphered from the expressions on their faces. The main business started around 11am under a circle of several towering mango trees. The men sat on the long benches to form a circumference. 
The women huddled on the fringes. My uncle “SS” and I spoke privately about how our society was structured around order and how the roles are gendered.
Many years ago, I wrote a poem in honour of my mother and a part of that poem reads “fathers are superior but mothers supreme”. It was a meeting to pray for the soul of our late father to commemorate the traditional fortieth day of his passing. My father was catholic and so we made it clear that it was not an oblation ceremony rather it was to memorialise his death in his village by offering prayers and to share his personal clothing with his family. I received my father’s sim-card as my own share of the inheritance. With a 601-Celtel number, he was perhaps the very first set of people to own a mobile phone in the country. It was uncle SS who’d sent him the phone and we, the children, were fascinated by what was then a technological wonder. It was on this mobile number that I made my first mobile phone call. It was to a young Annie Walsh lady (Kado—who’s now become like a sister) I was wooing at the time.
The MC of the meeting spoke in Kuranko without any interpretation. Our kinsfolks and other folks from the nearby villages invited to the prayer sessions were all Kurankos. Interpretations are for strangers, and we are expected to comprehend as sons.
When it was Dr. Kaifala Marah’s turn to introduce us—the children of their late brother, uncle, grandfather etc., he spoke in Kuranko too and beckoned to us when he wanted us to come forward.
Uncle SS explained about our father’s teaching circumstances which prevented him from bringing his children to the village as tradition demands. We were given an opportunity to say a few words, which we did in Krio (Uncle SS spoke in our ears that most of our village folks do comprehend Krio language but are merely stubborn in their preference for their own language).
In all this, I realised that language is much more than just a means of communication, it is a unique identity. To colonise a people’s mindset is to colonise their language. I spoke about identity and the need for deeper familial bond. I got a rousing applause when I said that our father did not raise us in his village, but he raised his village in us. Before the meeting broke off for the Friday prayers, a lingering rift between the leading brothers of the family was resolved in public. Emmanuel and I spoke about how the decision to observe the 40th day ceremony became a silver bullet. The village was nothing like we had imagined.
On my way back, my mind drifted a lot to my dad’s life and how he would have been pleased with us. He was part of the kith and kin of his family even though he struck a fine balance between his traditional beliefs and the knowledge acquired from western learning. Around 5am on 27th December last year, my late mother’s birthday and the day I celebrated a significant accomplishment, I read a two-page letter of appreciation to my dad who was bed-ridden at the time, reminding him of all the sacrifices he made and love he had shown to us. We both cried. My dad was and is my symbol of activism, his fearlessness I can only aspire to. He was kind and tolerant yet uncompromising. His respect and great admiration from several people came from his dedication to work, integrity of purpose and devotion to truth. How a young man who left Bambukoro village in the northern province around the age of fourteen for Kono in the eastern province to start class one at age seventeen, ended up in Freetown as a teacher for over four decades and reached the pinnacle of his profession as head teacher is inspiring. His boys, all budding professionals in their fields, return to where his life started and are enthralled by how dreams regardless of where they are hatched would come full circle to where they were begotten.