“We have short memories in Sierra Leone,” Professor Pa Maddy says, looking over top his round glasses sitting at the end of his nose. I have come to say goodbye to him. It’s been five days since we first met over warm Coca Cola’s at the University of Makeni’s canteen, constructed out of old shipping containers.
I can’t help but feel a bond to this man. That feeling is clearly shared among the students in the department of Mass Communications he heads. Wherever he goes they trail close behind, following his footprints in the dusty red earth.
Pa Maddy is an accomplished playwright and novelist. He was also the director of the country’s dance troupe, travelling around the world. He’s even been to North Korea. He has taught at Universities in England, The Netherlands and America, but Sierra Leone is his home. He says he will die here.
In the 1970’s Maddy was the Minister of Culture during the rule of Siaka Stevens. He was among many Ministers thrown in jail accused of going against the government. Some of his friends were hanged. It’s an experience that no doubt required a “short memory” to forgive and forget. Maddy says he was released from prison after four months in solitary confinement.
In the past five days he has told many stories. His entourage of students crowd under a tattered thatch shelter – everyone present hangs on every word. I’m not sure why here and now in his simple office he has decided to tell me about his time in jail. Maybe another memory triggered it or maybe he wants to open up. I think he’s teaching me a lesson.
I’m at Unimak lecturing some of his journalism students on the importance of covering human rights issues. I start the classes off with some simple slides: “right to live,” “right to freedom of assembly,” “right to not be tortured.” They are surprised to learn the words have been pulled from Sierra Leone’s own charter. I printed it off in Canada knowing that finding a printer here would be challenging. I wave it in front of them, their eyebrows quickly move into foreheads. The students are engaged. Pa Maddy, however, is constantly playing devil’s advocate and trying to throw me off course by challenging my ideas on cultural differences. He’s teaching me more lessons.
Pa Maddy looks and even walks like professor. He has a Morgan Freeman air about him; he exudes wisdom. A funky suede bowling cap sits on his head, he wears bright African prints and breezy pants. He invited my better half and I for a cold drink at his house one scorching Sunday. There aren’t enough shelves for all his books and antique carvings decorate his walls. An inviting circle of traditional wooden chairs sits in the middle of the room. A cluster of African drums and a guitar rest in the corner. He has heard we like to play music. Feeling the need to thank him for the hospitality he has shown us, we attempt to strum out a few verses of House of the Rising Sun. There’s something very Jack Kerouac about it all like a page torn out of Dharma Bums.
Maddy is a fierce protector of his culture and his people. While he refuses to text or even power up his newer looking laptop sitting on a pile of books in his office he knows technology will help his students greatly.
While he might not be able to teach them how to technically record a story, he can sure teach them how to tell one. He says he will stop writing when he dies. It’s clear his memories; no matter how short or long, will live on with the people he shares them with.
Comments