Back to Bauya

            When we reached Moyamba Junction, I started to believe. A bustling, rumbling, colorful place, this junction was my connection point to the rest of Sierra Leone – west to Freetown and the North and east to Bo and the South. Seeing the familiar sites of traders selling vegetables, fruits, and basic wares brought to me a sense of familiarity. Interestingly, this was a place I didn't used to like to linger because of the hustle, but this time I felt an urge to get out and greet.

            We passed without stopping and turned south off the paved highway, that connects the major cities of the country, and continued on the dirt road leading to Moyamba town. The first several miles are maintained by a mining company located many miles away, near the coast. Daring okada (motorcycle taxi) riders and taxi drivers whiz their passengers down this stretch, knowing a snails pace will resume once they reach the un-maintained part. Thankfully, this is the end of the dry season, so the car deep potholes that dot the road are not filled with water. Like an expert mogul skier scouting his line, we snaked our way around the holes following the path of least resistance until we reached the old colonial iron bridge marking the beginning of town.

            Moyamba was as I left it, a small town on the cusp of something more. Familiar faces still manned the shops I used to patrol. The woman at the junction where I would go to buy raw eggs, my Fullah friend Mohamed who sells school supplies, Abubakar, the shoe seller with his infectious grin and boisterous laugh, all greeted me warmly as an old friend. I stepped out of IB Jalloh's big corner shop right into the arms of a sister of a former teacher. We greeted with a big smile and assured each other of our family's health. Seconds later a former student, astride an okada as usual, sent his greetings as he passed. It was almost as if I hadn't left...almost.

            Before heading to Bauya, I went to greet my old neighbors who have a house in Moyamba. I stepped out of the car and was immediately met with a big group hug and loud cheers. The kids were all grown and anxious to hear stories from America. Magdalene, who was a new born when I arrived, was walking and talking like a pro. After a few hours keeping time we waved goodbye and made our way out of town. Old memories flooded back as we crawled along the Bauya road. Memories of biking and pondering, of long views and throngs of excited kids, of the feeling of returning home. Each passing view, drenched in nostalgia, tugged at the knot in my chest.

            As we crossed the last bridge and started climbing the hill leading into Bauya a big grin peeled my cheeks wide. After almost twenty months of uncertainty, worrying, and waiting, I had finally made it back to Bauya. My neighborhood bobos cheered and swarmed me as I got out of the car. Mohamed and Granny, hand in hand with matching grins, ran up to me and gave me a big hug. I could barely hold it together. My heart was full.

            I dropped my bags off and walked to go greet the chief with my friend Joseph and acting principal, Mr Blango. In Sierra Leone it is customary to greet the elders of the village when you visit after an extended period of being away. First on the list was my Paramount Chief, the head of Kongbora Chiefdom, of which Bauya is the headquarter town. He was asleep so we continued our rounds, greeting the Reverend and other members of the community connected with the school. As we walked I heard continuous calls of “Balayma, buwa!” from each house. By the end of the rounds a typical posse of kids had formed to accompany us along our way.

            At Joseph's house, the warm afternoon hours drifted by in a hammock, under the mango tree, poyo (palm wine) glass in hand. The conversation ebbed and flowed with the breeze, trading stories of my time in Bauya and the time since I left. As the dry season dusk descended the western sky turned a surreal burnt orange. The heat of the day lingered into the night. Old friends and neighbors gathered on Joseph’s veranda to enjoy cassava leaf plassas (sauce) over rice, new Salone beats, and of course poyo - from God to Man. We laughed and danced together into the night as if no time had passed.

            The next morning we greeted the Paramount Chief and the Chiefdom Imam (local Muslim leader). They spoke highly of our time together and expressed their gratitude for my return visit. We parted ways with the promise of a continued connection. Later, I met with the principal and stakeholders in the school to discuss the future of the school. All were enthusiastic about continuing to work with Peace Corps.

            From there a typical Bauya day unfolded. I strolled around the neighborhood, greeting old friends, a growing throng of children multiplying around me. After making my rounds, I posted up under the mango tree again to keep time with Joseph. The conversation inevitably shifted to time we'd been apart. He spoke candidly and bravely about the hardships of Ebola and how the threat of the disease constantly had loomed over everyday life. He shared with me stories of uncertainty and fear that reminded me, while on the surface, life in Bauya appeared to be back to normal, a great trauma had taken place in Sierra Leone.

            That evening we took a walk down to the watasay (creek), greeting old friends along the way. I was reminded of the times I crossed the foot bridge to go help my friends in the fields. When we took time in the evening to cool down in the stream after a long days work. At the height of the dry season, the water was at its lowest level. I looked upstream and imagined the banks swelling with the coming rains and the kids who would come to play in the deep pools. I admired the large cotton trees that still lined the bank, holding the erosion back. A chain saw buzzed in the distance, reminding me that the the future of this tranquil place was not guaranteed. Later we returned to Joseph's house, ate pepe (pepper) soup with goat meat, and drank a few more cups of poyo.

            I left the next morning feeling completely content. I was thankful that my friends and family were safe. The fragile belief that I would return, the belief that I had nursed for so many months, had finally come true. In a small way I felt I lived up to my name, Balayma – Don't forget. Ngelema - I will not forget.