A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (18 page)

Alieu stood there with his mouth agape and I watched his body drop back down into his seat as fast as he had stood up. It
felt like a poltergeist had flown around the room. I looked at Sonya, who looked as if she wanted to turn and run from the
room and keep going until she reached the comfort of an American border. As taboo as the subject was between Africans and
African Americans, I am glad that I said it. What I said that night wasn’t coming from me, it was coming from my ancestors
who, for hundreds of years before me, hadn’t had the opportunity to say it. I know I was placed in that situation to speak
the truth, my truth, and I was glad I did. The forgiveness was spiritually cleansing. At least for me and the Manga family
that karmic chain of guilt was broken. Now my ancestors could rest in peace, and tomorrow we would all move forward together.

I was exhausted from what I had seen and experienced. The next day was going to be a big one for me. I was going to be inducted
as a chief. There were preparations being made for a big party in Ngalu afterward. I gave Raymond the $100 needed to cover
the costs for the party. I was told they planned to kill a cow on my behalf. I didn’t feel too good about that, but it was
the culture that I was about to embrace as my own. The one good thing about it, at least two hundred people would eat well
that day.

I returned to the hotel and headed straight to bed.

The morning was bright and calm. I wore my “good luck scrubs,” because it was hot and everything else I had was dirty. They
were the same scrubs I wore for good luck on the days I had to shoot scenes performing surgery. They were given to me while
doing research for my TV role. I observed my first open heart surgery in these scrubs, performed by Dr. John Robertson, a
cardiothoracic surgeon, at the Saint John’s Health Center in Santa Monica, California. He was amazing to watch.

I was excited for the ceremony and what the day might bring. There were children lined up along the road as we drove to Gerihun
for the ceremony. It was beautiful to see. Then I suddenly had a strong feeling of recognition, another huge déjà vu moment.
Suddenly, I realized, this was it! This is what my dream, “the Rerun,” had been about for so many years. I wasn’t crazy, well,
not totally… my DNA and my dreams had delivered me to this day.

I asked Raymond to stop the SUV. I got out and walked a few yards away and stopped. I had the distinct feeling that I had
been on that very spot before. Nearby, there was a tiny bridge. I walked across it and just stood there, quiet, still. A woman
and child were bathing in the stream below me. They looked just like the people in my dream. I know it sounds crazy, but I
knew this was “the Rerun” playing itself out right there before me; this was my dream actually materializing! It would be
impossible for me to try to explain to anyone what I was feeling at that exact moment. To be there, in that moment, after
so many years of dreaming about it, the verisimilitude rendered me speechless. I continued to stand there, stock-still, taking
in the scene for several minutes. I feared any perceptible movement might disrupt what was taking place, might, like waking
up, make it disappear. I was afraid to move.

I turned around and slowly walked back to the SUV and climbed in. I was anxious to continue on to meet with Paramount Chief
Demby, Josephine Demby, and Chief Lamin and see what more would unfold. When I got out of the car, I could hear the sound
of a horn blowing. It was a magnificent and ancient sound, familiar yet foreign. I soon realized that was meant to signify
to everyone that I had arrived.

I was shocked to learn that the plans for the day were to make me a bona fide chief and not just an “honorary” one. I also
had no concept of the huge responsibility the title of chief would
eventually bring. Nyande Manga, Raymond’s mother, was convinced that I would be fulfilling an ancient prophecy for the nation
of Sierra Leone and the Manga legacy. I later learned that even Raymond Scott-Manga himself had not been made a chief. Raymond
reminded me that Uncle Julius T. Manga and Nyande Manga had based their decision to give me the name Gondobay because Nyande’s
husband and Raymond’s father’s Christian name was Joseph Washington Scott-Manga (his tribal name was Komosor Kini Manga).
My last name was Raymond’s father’s middle name. It was another one of those moments that made me certain my destiny was tied
to Sierra Leone.

The time had come for the ceremonial horn presentation. It is customary in Sierra Leonean culture for a horn to be carved
for every new chief. The carving was simple but magnificent. The chief’s horn is used to sound his arrival. “That’s hot! It
is so beautiful!” I thought to myself.

I was given a tour of the Demby lineage replete with lithographs and photos of past chiefs. I had to wade through a sea of
laughing children as I walked. They were gathered around, so close that I was afraid I would step on their little toes. Before
I was introduced to Paramount Chief Demby, I was told that he was ill. But when I shook his hand it was huge and strong. His
grip did not betray his power. Paramount Chief Demby was the spitting image of the boxer Larry Holmes.

Next I was introduced to Josephine Demby, possibly next in line as chief, which was very rare and a big deal. There had been
only one woman chief in the history of the chiefdom, many, many years ago. Josephine took me on a tour of the village. She
was elegant and gestured intensely with her hands as she talked. She showed me the river where three hundred women, men, and
children were massacred during the war.

I noticed there were railroad tracks along the path we walked and imagined how this village must have thrived years ago. The
pride there among the people was palpable. Raymond showed me a gravesite of the former chief who dared to resist the rebels.
We stopped in the village of Njala Kendema and a
Ngoboi
dancer, covered in raffia and rags, thrashed about in front of me. In Sierra Leone, the
Ngoboi
is a “spirit masquerade” or “devil masquerade” that emulates the power of nature spirits that live deep in the forest, far
from humans. I felt that, and challanged the spirit to a “dance off.” I won.

We finally arrived at a house a mile outside of Ngalu. I was asked to remove my clothes and put on the ceremonial dress specially
designed for me. As I was getting dressed, Raymond explained to me that the name Gondobay Manga had not been used in his family
for centuries. He leaned in close and said, “I just want you to know that there is folklore here that says there will be ‘
a man from another land
’ that will return to Sierra Leone to help rebuild it.”

I was then lifted up and put on what looked like a huge hammock (
Boe Mei
) and carried on the shoulders of four men for at least a mile. Two hundred people gathered for the processional. Chief Julius
T. Manga of the Wunde Society initiated me. His face looked like my face and his charisma outweighed his body size. He was
a small man but he had a very large presence. He walked alongside of me the entire time, making sure that someone was continually
fanning me. I felt that I was transcending time and space. I could not find the words to explain what I was feeling. Nothing
felt adequate to describe what was happening to my heart, to my soul. All I could do was smile and wave intermittently. The
drums and music transformed me. My spirit was at peace. I felt as if I could do anything.

I thought of my mother. I could feel her energy. Once again, I recalled the last words she said to me, “Spread the love, son.
Spread the love.” The road we traveled down reminded me of the terrain that I rode my bicycle through as a kid. I thought
of
the weeds and branches that would punish me and scratch my face in retaliation for making a new path for myself. On this day,
at this moment, all I could feel on my face was the wind and the sun, and it felt good.

I was guided over to the headstone of Gondobay Manga himself. Gondobay Manga was one of the warrior leaders who defended the
Ngalu village while his father and his brother, Chief Manga, in Kono went east to help defend and fight against northern raiders
of Arab extraction from Guinea. Gondobay was subsequently killed in Ngalu when he was betrayed by other Mende families who
feared the vast power of the Manga family. The Manga clan did not serve as a “good host” to the British colonists, especially
when the Brits tried to outlaw “moon shining,” something the Manga clan was well known for. As a result, many of the Mangas
ended up in prison on Bunce Island, their power undermined by the Brits.

The Brits subsequently tried to make their own chiefs from those who were loyal to them. But the people always knew who the
real ruling and land-holding families were. The Manga family lay low for many years and multiplied in the Bo and Kono region,
sending many of their offspring overseas. These are the stories that have been passed down from generation to generation.
But most of the time line can be verified by matching British records of their activities on the coast of West Africa.

I vaguely remember Uncle Julius pouring libation with some rum and kneeling down to pray and kissing the headstone. The next
thing I knew I had my
Tikpoi
(staff) raised high over my head and heard the cheers of the villagers. I was officially a chief. It was as if I had left
my body. The experience was surreal. I was standing there, in the middle of Sierra Leone, and I had just been officially made
a chief. Life is truly amazing; we never know where its path might lead.

After my induction ceremony I asked Raymond what I could do to show my commitment to the villagers and the country. He mentioned
that the former chief of Njala Kendema, Chief Foday Golia, dreamed of having a strong school built for the children. He prayed
for one on his deathbed. Within minutes, I heard myself pledging to help finance the construction of a school in the Bagbwe
chiefdom village of Njala Kendema. Afterward, I paused and thought to myself, “What the hell did I just do?”

While we were in the village of Ngalu, Dr. Panossian examined at least one hundred children. Women and children were lined
up around the house. It was hot and at least ten degrees hotter inside the house. I noticed a little boy standing outside,
his head bleeding profusely. I motioned for him to come inside. I put on some rubber gloves, thinking he would need stitches.
His mother explained he had been hit with a rock while playing. I thought, “The rock-throwing game was my favorite game too
as a child, until someone got hit!”

As I cleaned away the blood with a towel I realized the little boy’s wound wasn’t as bad as I had first thought. “He’s just
a bleeder,” I said.

Andre said, “No stitches?”

“Naw, it’s just a scratch.” Eventually, we ran out of the Children’s Tylenol we had brought along with us and started to pack
up to go. As we were leaving Njala Kendema, Dr. Panossian walked up to me and whispered, “We have a problem here that I think
I can fix.”

“What is it?” I asked.

He walked away and disappeared around a house that stood nearby. A few minutes later, he returned with a little boy in tow.
The boy’s name was Ambrose Wudie. Dr. Panossian explained to me that the boy had been ostracized by his village because a
stick injury to his face had resulted in an outgrowth of flesh on his
cheek as the skin tried to heal itself around the piece of stick. Andre called it a granuloma. He decided to operate on little
Ambrose right there.

I asked, “Are you sure? Is it life threatening?”

“I’m a plastic surgeon,” he said, “and this kid is being treated poorly because of this thing. I can remove it and give him
a chance to smile again.”

“Cool, what do you want me to do?”

“You can assist me.”

“Let’s do it.”

The surgery was a success. Afterward we all piled into the SUVs and headed back to the hotel. I said, “Andre, I think you
are the first Armenian doctor to do two successful field surgeries in all of Sierra Leone. You’re my ‘Top Gun,’ baby!”

“Thanks, Chief!” he replied.

My team and I were having lunch, reviewing the agenda for the day’s journey, when all of a sudden I heard screams and chaos
outside of the restaurant. I instinctively gripped my case knife in my right hand.

“Are those screams?” I asked. Several hotel groundskeepers quickly ran past our table. I jumped up, heading in the direction
of the screams, barking an order for Guy to grab his camera and follow me. I noticed him fumbling with the lens as he followed.

“Humidity!” he said, running behind me.

We both ran onto the catwalk connecting the upper pool area to the rooms. As we reached the site of the commotion, I could
see dark smoke filling the hallway. I instinctively yanked a fire extinguisher from the wall and continued running, never
looking at it until I lifted it up to aim it toward the open door in front of me. A man ran out, covering his mouth with his
hand.

I glanced behind me, Guy was there, but I thought too far
away. “Come closer,” I yelled, “I need you to film this!” Entering the room, I bent over as low as I could to get below the
smoke. I popped the plastic tie on the fire extinguisher, frantically looking left and then right, trying to locate the source
of the fire. I made my way through the smoke and onto a balcony.

I saw Antonio, in his swim trunks and shirtless, standing in the middle of the pool below me. I shouted, “Can you see where
the fire is coming from?” He coolly pointed up and to my right. I followed his eyes and then saw what he saw, an air conditioner
on fire on the balcony next door.

“Damn, I’m in the wrong room!” The fire was burning faster now and smoke was billowing from the balcony. I broke into a sprint
and ran headlong into the adjacent room. I was immediately hit in the face and lungs with thick, dark smoke. The smell of
melting plastic and electrical wires stung my nostrils and eyes. Completely blinded, I ran toward the glass balcony door,
yanked it open, and hit the air conditioner with three short bursts from the fire extinguisher. Closing the door, I dived
down to the floor and took a few gasps of air. Then I jumped up and repeated the action again, but this time I could not close
the glass door, something was blocking it.