By Karamoh Kabba
Copyright © 2003 by Karamoh Kabba
 

This is a work of fiction. Events, names of people, places, heads of government and reference to any matter in this book are coincidental.

Other works by the author
A Mother's Saga: An Account of the Rebel War in Sierra Leone, 2003
Poverty amidst Gold and Diamonds in With Hearts Ablaze, an
anthology of The International Library of Poetry
LION MOUNTAIN: A Perilous Evolution of the Dens, 2003
 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means beyond the reproduction permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the US Copyright law except by reviewers for the public press without written permission from the publishers.
 

       Morquee looked through the window of his Ghana Airways jet as it descends, piercing the skies of Lion Mountain. It appears as if the jet is plunging into a luminous cave. It is pitch dark, save for the bi-linear overhead lamp-poles, which barely beam the tarmac of this single runway Lungi International Airport. Lungi International situates extravagantly on a vast plane near Lungi village, about four nautical miles away from Gratistown Peninsula or four hours drive via an isthmus that connects the mainland through Lokopoto District.
       Gratistown Peninsula is the home to Gratistown, the capital city of Lion Mountain. The sparse lights of Gratistown could be seen haphazardly from that height--a long strip of urban settlement on the belly of Mount Auroel. It stretches farther out along Bintumani Beach, all the way to Tokeh. The rich and famous of this small impoverished nation access Lungi Airport via helicopters from a Bintumani Beach resort call Lagoonda--a multi-million-tourist destination. On the low banks of the Atlantic Ocean, Lagoonda is strategically located with its rear view overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and front balcony the lagoon, equipped with swimming apparatus that make amphibians of the wealthy.
       In the waterway that links the lagoon to the ocean, speedboats shoot in and out of Lagoonda. In the casinos lining the natural white beach strip, local politicians and top civil servants gamble embezzled funds from various government ministries compulsively against tourists and Lebanese business moguls. Thus, every Friday evening, top government officials socialize outside their office buildings; "Where it pays to play? Lagoonda!" They ask and answer in glee with exuberance.
       Lagoonda is known to be the most notorious gambling destination. In fact, the president of this nation one time gambled and drank at Lagoonda to inebriation that he had to be carried to his presidential limousine.
       Also, from that height, Morquee could discern the well-lit beach line from the scarcely lit city based on previous description. Inward over the four mile-strip waterways, are clusters of illuminations from what appear to be small glass windows.
       "That is downtown Gratistown," he said.
Farther away, he could notice pockets of lights at considerable distances apart. Some of them appear to be directly under the downward aircraft.
       "These must be fishing boats afloat the ocean," he thought.
       Morquee discarded the discernment that his plane is ocean bound, because neither the flight attendants nor the passengers seem to be in distress. Subsequent to the landing of the plane, Morquee joined the passengers at the very end of a long queue. From the promontory of the attached disembarkation stairs of the aircraft, curious as a tourist, he looked left of the airfield at the sea-line less than a mile from the runway. This heightened his previous landing phobia into a landing hindsight anxiety. He looked far into the open land, over what seems to be a rusted thorny fence, into a stretch of flat land festoon with elephant grass. On his right was a vast field, which appears to be a rice paddy. Under the lamp-poles, over the thorny fence, he could further observe that the field is yellowish green. Coupled with his knowledge of the rice harvest season, he substantiated his assumption. Beyond the rice paddy, farther away into the darkness, are what appear to be burning logwood fires, which must be outside farmhouses or small huts in a village setting hither and thither.
       With his eyes hooked on the landscape, he plunged down the stairs with little or no attention. He stumbled against the handrail. In an effort to support his weight against the handrail, he let go off his briefcase, which went tumbling down the stairs. He rushed down the stairs and picked up his briefcase. He had stock some newspapers and receipts into the side pocket of the Samsonite, which he watched at the summit of a mini twister that had just swept-by. He visored his views against the dust in the aftermath of the wind as he watched his papers at over five hundred feet up in the air. Now ascertained there was nothing he could do, he gave up and hurried about fifty yards behind the queue. He fastened his grip on his jacket to prevent the wind from blowing it away. He paced across the naked airfield towards a marked entrance, "ARRIVALS," into a small atrium for processing. There, he was ushered into an area, where he waited for his suitcases to clear customs.
       While waiting, his mind roamed on his struggles in the village, when he was a mere lad. He thought of the rice paddies, the hunting games and the endless nighttime story telling around burning logwood fires during cold harmattan evenings. What seemed to be a village setting from the embarkation stairs triggered these good old memories. But it was short-lived before his attention was derailed on a porter pushing a barn of luggage towards him.
       He stepped up in front of the luggage, but a customs officer who was walking besides the porter intercepted him, as the porter rolled the cart passed him.
       "This way please," Morquee called back at the porter.
       "Wait right there, I said, Sir! We are yet to check the contents of these suitcases," said the customs officer.
       Morquee waited for what seemed to be an hour without attention. Meanwhile, the rest of the passengers were being processed save him. While waiting, expectant customs officers walked by up and down the atrium. He ran out of patience and he uttered.
       "Does human worth and dignity mean anything to you Sir?" he snapped at the officer who had asked him to wait when he walked by him the third time.
His human rights rhetoric only provoked an argument with the officer. The officer refuted and shelved him off with counter rhetoric.
       "I don't think time is of an essence to you either Sir," as he focused his attention on other passengers who were accustomed to the handshake tradition at Lungi International.
       But the officer made further effort to draw Morquee's attention to the bribery practice.
       "When you guys return from America, you act as if you don't know what to do," he stated.

       "What does that supposed to mean Sir," Morquee inquired.
       "How do you think we survive here?" The officer queried back with a heightened tenor of voice.
       Notwithstanding the astonishment by the officer's remark, he was mesmerized at his countenance. Therefore, he gazed speechlessly at him.
       Fifteen years ago, he was only a twenty-five year old student when he came through this customs on his way to the United States. He did not have a clue of the procedures at the airport. While he was in a state of bewilderment, his uncle arrived at the airport to receive him. That deviated his attention provisionally from the customs officers who were busy unpacking and packing his suitcases. More or less, they were looking for valuables to take from the suitcases to teach Morquee a lesson for what they considered as being obdurate. The unnecessary delay was serving a dual purpose--stealing and coercion.
       The customs officers at Lungi International do not care about what comes in or goes out of the country. Their obsession is with what goes into their pockets. Smugglers come through the customs with gold and diamonds in their pockets or briefcases with one or two hundred dollar bills in their hands to change hands between them and the customs officers. Entry is even worse; tourists who travel to Lion Mountain are well advised of corruption before their arrivals at Lungi International. To avoid unnecessary waste of time, they are always well equipped with cash to bribe their ways through these obstacles. Unscrupulous business travelers bring in all kinds of contrabands--drugs and assortments of weapons through this airport with impunity. The customs officers know very well that travelers from the West hate unnecessary time wasting. Thus, they drag checkout procedures to enforce bribery.
       Morquee's, frustration over the stubbornness of the customs officers phased into a moment of happiness at the sight of his uncle. Following the joy and happiness, his uncle beckoned him outside the airport.
       "Uncle, they won't release my suitcases," he complained.
       Uncle Thomas is a hardnosed police officer who had served in the police force for thirty years. The colonial army had first conscripted him at the tender age of thirteen, right before he completed secondary school. He is a veteran of two wars in the infantry unit. Upon returning home from the wars, Uncle Thomas joined the police force as a constable. Through adult education programs and hard work, he was selected for a police cadet training. From then, he rose through the ranks to a Chief Police Officer (CPO). Throughout his career, his police precincts had always been away from Kono District, his home district. Otherwise, he seldom returned to Gbankaya, his hometown, to partake in ceremonies and rituals. He had managed to spend three vacations there in the course of thirty years, the last of which was ten years ago. Nonetheless, he always wished to be transferred to Kono Districts, which is rich in mineral resources.
       "Who?" He asked with authority.
       "The customs officer…" replied Morquee.
       "Why," Uncle Thomas interjected with an impatient tenor of voice before Morquee finished his statement.
       "…He said, I act as if I don't know what to do," Morquee completed his complaint.
       "Welcome to Lion Mountain nephew--did you shake his hand?"
       "Yes, I said hello," Morquee answered.
       "How much," Uncle Thomas insisted.
       "With pleasure and a smile, but they ignored me," as he frowned.
       "Come-on Morquee, I mean money, cola, bribe. Do you get it," Uncle Thomas grinned.
       "No Uncle Thomas," Morquee replied.
       "Come-on," Uncle Thomas urged him.
       "What is the matter constable? My nephew said you refused to release his luggage officer."
       The customs officer looked up at a CPO, to his dismay. He abruptly abandoned the suitcase and stood at attention.
       "No Sir! I am only performing a routine check Sir!"
       Concurrently, he saluted and turned around in a constabulary fashion. He hurriedly returned the contents of the suitcases, including the Polaroid camera he had dropped behind the counter for himself. He zipped them up, signaled to urge the other constable to return the contents of the third suitcase.
       "I wish I knew Sir. Your nephew did not say anything to me about you. He is ready to go Sir!"
       "Be careful constable--Small fish must be watchful for gliding sharks," Uncle Thomas cautioned the customs officer.
       Morquee walked into the reception area. In the offing, are open arms and smiling faces of long missed family and relatives. Beneath the haggard heat radiating faces and tropical rain forest fragrance bodies, are joy and happiness. The smiles are sincere and affectionate. They are unlike the usual dry grin makeup filled faces, and cologne and roll-on saturated bodies left behind. These pose a sharp contrast of senses, sagacious of over thirty years memories of living in the village. The odor is imposingly familiar. He reminisced on his over fourteen-hour days on the coffee and cacao plantations and hunting games. The tedious hoeing days in the heat of the tropical sun. At the thought of shoveling and pick-axing sand and gravel, he rubbed his palms to be rest assured that there were no traces left of the corns and watts caused by those exhaustive days in the diamond mines. These senses--the people and the village ambiance that are greeting him at Lungi International are refreshing old memories of hardship. It also feels like he had not been away at all. He shook hands, laid in every arm and chest, and under every shoulder. As if he was presented with a bouquet of wild flowers, he sniffed the strongest aroma of the jungle from close family members. It felt like the village itself, where he was born, is at the airport to welcome him home. He cherished every attention from the people.
       The CPO stood yonder as the excitement and mirth unfolds. For him, socializing with these people is not amusing. They are bush people. Even worse, they stink. They do not use perfume; cologne or roll-on and he did not want to mingle with them. When they come from the villages to see him for help, he receives them at his office, attends to their needs as quickly as he could and sends them away back to the villages where they belong. None of them is comfortable around him nonetheless to hug him. At first, when Morquee came into the waiting area, some of the villagers were equally apprehensive of him. They assumed that he might have developed the same mentality in the white man's world. To the contrary, they are amazed at his down to heart attitude. Even the ones who were born after he had left the village several years ago feel passionately welcomed. He knew everyone there to see him is either a family or an extended family member.
       The CPO's driver took Morquee straight to the police barracks without offering any option. It was not his intention to stay away from his mother that night. He wanted to spend, at least, the first night in her protection. Either because he was apprehensive of others or had missed his mother too long to be away from her for another day. Nevertheless, that desire had been snatched away by Uncle Thomas' order.
       It was approaching dawn when they arrived at the police barracks. Everything was almost visible in the semidarkness of the small hours of the morning. Looking through the window of the police Land Rover, Morquee noticed the private police quarters as the trooper twists and turns amongst them on to another orchard road into the officers' quarters where his uncle lives.
       Driving through the orchard was an immense experience for him. Little he knew such luxury exists in Lion Mountain. He was never exposed to city life before he left for the United States. He attended primary school in his village and secondary school in a small town boarding school. He was in Gratistown for only two weeks between his visa and traveling preparations many years ago. His true knowledge of Lion Mountain before now was a nation of small towns and villages save what he had read in textbooks and seen in pictures.