dasalone-titi Rahima
O’er the green Mountain sits a lion watching over tableland and creeks. Set dew on peaks like Bintumani and Loma so unclear it cubs can not tell the difference between myth and verity. The realm of the free almost an island of rocky hills, and deepwater harbour, with green vegetation she beats her chest about in glory.
Dishonour and shame they sometimes bring, like teens desperate for their parent’s attention. Freetown is as tight now like it was never meant to be. Harsh hills and cliff are silent over their abuse, as they continue to strip them naked for their pastime. The mud and rain in their confusion cannot work together, they slide into the inhabitants. White sand peninsula beaches reshape by sand mining, they lose their accentuate curves. A cotton tree in the middle that bears witness to history, a lesson as old as itself but cannot teach, as we gather as usual at King Jimmy Market. Sanctuary bearing memories of Bruno and its kind. Estuaries holding firm on to mangroves morasses. She looks lustily over the vast blue ocean, seducing all those who are caught in her gaze. But the sarcasm of freedom is lost on its people.
The land is known for its generosity and hospitality. Sweet Bo a place that processes garri that surges like the sun in the morning. Training the sons of elites, raising intellectual, and a hallmark of academia till this day.
The rivers of Bonthe firmly united ever they flow, with ease stronger than the clasped of their past, yet they are not captives to the future. The land is known to produce tubers of cassava as big as their heart. The fresh scent of coconut oil filled the air, Seafood like oysters held onto the mangroves growing along the rivers that caress its terrain.
The bravery that seeped from the milk of mother Ella Koblo Gulama that flows through their linage. Planters working hard to produce enough to send their girls to Harford School in Moyamba. The land of noble and strong women, the land of the first. The land of equals, where women lead with their heart and not the spear. Nations they led became mightier.
As they match like soldiers into the land of pepper, a resting place; Pujehun is known for palm nut fruits redder than their heritage, richer than the strength that drives them to thrive like the wanjama river, feeding eras yet to come.
Enough to know their past is history but the future of the south looks bright.
From blood diamonds to peace diamonds, this land had left the world in awe. Trench everywhere holding stories of child soldiers. The shining stones of Kono stored the blasting outcry from the Kimberlite, a magnet that draws even the ghost of our present.
Kenema, like its forest reserve for all its splendour and misery. The chirping of the birds reminding us of the Eden Gola forest is, with coffee and cocoa reserve for the next generation. A melting pot of species unique to only their line. Endangered mammals are the fantasies born of nightmares. easy to showcase its ego and chivalry.
Black beans melanated from a fruitful land that bestows life to anything buried in Kailahun soil. Cocoa peels reflect on their skin, as clear and soft as the butter of shea. Chocolate flavours of life are mislaid on the children of Kailondo. They crave and stretches their hands but could not touch.
Undiscovered beauty, a reality lost on the wise people from the east.
Hope is the only colour as brilliant as their gara tie-dye as usual. landscape like boli which hold water when it rains; that makes the sweet in potato, but too much of it in the Bombali cassava it could hardly boil.
The aroma of pepper spices fresh and scented like the Neneh Koroh yet burns the eye. Cow breast in the hands of their mothers as they squeeze for more milk and butter. The wara wara mountain with cold heat that sends fog all year round in Koinadugu.
The warrior spirit of Bai Bureh is still seen today in the nuclear bulbs of tiny mighty onions of the Port of Loko, the ore is as shiny and black like their gum in abundant that keep their smiles from never fading.
As the tonkolili streams drain into the valley of Kangari, which create an illusion that Makali and Baomahun are siblings. A land of gold, and Bunbuna waterfalls that stores energy that could light up our world.
Kambia carries the burden of providing the staple for its children. Life’s trouble and abuse very obvious on her body, turmoils have altered her shape, but she covered her face with dignity and pride as she carries and held all her children with a promise as constant as the northern star.
She is fifty-nine but looks twice her age. Life has dealt with her. She weeps but this time the hills and valleys refuse to re-echo her cries. Her riches plunder in reckless abandonment. She beseeches no harm on her offspring may fall, even when her they cannot feed. Discord of colours had scattered her children upon the face of the earth. Their Pledges of devotion with the speed of a lightening relinquish. Her only strive is for them to remember their way into her warm embrace as she hopelessly lay in wait. She had taught them well, she trained them well, her children are strong and resilient with a Kindred spirit bearing souls of those before them.
She understands, her crypt will not be the only thing that will bring them together again, in the Land that they all love.
Happy Independence Day Mama Salone🇸🇱
©By Rahima Vandy Kargbo known as Dasalonetiti Rahima
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