Fleeing the Jurisdiction

Late in the working day, a colleague, known for his ability to wheel and deal, suggested I join him that evening for dinner at the home of a business acquaintance. After dark, we rolled cautiously into the insalubrious downtown area known as PZ. Glancing warily about, we were ushered up a dull staircase and into an apartment crowded with brocaded sofas and a widescreen television topped with an icon of Ganesh. A woman in a saffron-coloured sari stared shyly from a doorway before disappearing. We were shortly swept into the lounge and introduced to our host, a local trader, of Indian heritage; his elegant wife; and his son, who sported a plummy English accent. I soon learned that our host had been born in Freetown and had remained throughout the conflict. Rather proudly, he displayed the bullet holes in the glass and railings of the balcony that had occurred as a result of a crossfire in the street below, between the rebels and the ECOMOG (Economic Community of West African States Monitoring Group) intervention forces. Speaking about the worst period of the civil war, he related how he and the 500 other Indians comprising their small community in Freetown, had hidden together in the Hindu temple, since the well-guarded hotel compounds had been commandeered by United Nations and diplomatic personnel. At horrendous expense, he had later chartered a helicopter for members of his family, flying them out to the only available destination, Liberia – then scarcely less dangerous than Sierra Leone - from where they were able to travel on to the UK. He noted, with obvious emotion, that the Sierra Leonean staff of his small general stores had all the while protected his goods, and their livelihoods, from looters.

I got the sense that this man, despite being Sierra Leonean by birth, running businesses and raising a family here, still felt set apart. Indians seem to form much of the bourgeoisie of Africa, supporting the economy and occasionally wielding some influence, but winning themselves few friends for it. Our host lamented the loss of Freetown’s formerly vibrant nightlife, and seemed understandably bored and glad of new company. He spoke of the frustrations of his work – noting with chagrin the counterintuitive tariffs put in place by the notoriously kleptocratic Kabbah government. Generators, running on difficult to procure petrol and thus a viable proposition only for the relatively wealthy, attract a 5% import tax. Kerosene lamps, by comparison, used by the poor who make up the overwhelming majority of the country, are taxed at a rate of 44%. This in a country where the rare occasion of a functioning power grid in Freetown is cause for celebration in the streets, and where beyond the capital no such luxury is available at all. With sadness he explained that his businesses were in decline due to the widespread phenomenon of Sierra Leoneans hoarding their meagre reserves in anticipation of a relapse into violence around next year’s national elections.

The first since disarmament in 2002, these elections are considered by many to be a test of Sierra Leone’s fragile democracy that it will almost certainly fail. Already, many people suspect that the present administration will manipulate the result to their advantage, precipitating a return to open conflict. This is often the subject of anxious discussion in Freetown’s shared taxis, which function not only as transport but as a sort of impromptu political salon. Our host shared that he was slowly divesting himself of assets in preparation for an eventual departure. Given his previous willingness to see out the civil war, this worries me. The mood lightened, however, with the arrival of dinner, a bounty of Indian dishes. As we helped ourselves to this selection, I noticed that our hosts did not partake, eating instead only a frugal plate of rice and curry sauce in order to leave the substantial remainders for their workers. After dinner, as we took our leave, I commented to the cook that this had been the best meal I had yet had in Sierra Leone. She beamed. By way of poetic justice, however, I was that night stricken with the first instance of illness since my arrival.