A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (29 page)

When I finally stopped and caught my breath, I could see that Mohamed had succeeded at his mission. I started to help pack
up the other Land Rovers with supplies. As I hoisted a carton into the back of one of the trucks, I felt something bumping
into my leg. I turned around to find little Ambrose Wudie, the little boy who had had the granuloma on his face, the one that
Dr. Panossian and I removed last year. He just stood there, looking at me, smiling the biggest, most beautiful smile.

Ambrose tagged alongside me as I made one last walk-through of the school and thanked the construction workers before I left.
Ambrose’s father walked up to me and gave me a live chicken and a pineapple as gifts to take with me.

I gave Ambrose a gentle handshake and told him I would see
him soon. The team mounted up and headed for Ngalu. Raymond, chastised but still cordial, led us all to the village, past
Pandoh Mountain and through the tall grassy lands of my ancestral country.

When we arrived, Nyande Manga, Raymond’s mother, and my tribal mother, was there to greet us. I gave her a hug and a kiss.
Unloading some bed nets we had brought along with us, we began to distribute them. I took the live chicken and the pineapple
Ambrose’s father had given me and gave them to Mama Nyande. She smiled, said thank you, and then disappeared into the house.
I could hear her barking orders to the women cooking in the backyard.

Raymond wanted to show me the rice fields that were being plowed, and pointed out the massive acreage filled with palm nut
trees. It was a beautiful sight. He also took me on a ride on a tractor that I had helped purchase. When I hopped up on it,
dressed in my dark blue coveralls and boots, the very same ones I had worn to the
Blood Diamond
premiere, I felt like a cross between a field general and a construction worker. Raymond had good reason to be proud. I could
see the years of his hard work and passion for this farm. There were rows and rows of rice growing for as far as the eye could
see.

When it was time to eat, I, following custom, had to eat first because I was chief. After I had my fill of rice and goat’s
meat, everyone else joined in. And eat they did. The meat we ate came from the goat given to me during my induction ceremony
when I became chief. It is customary for the newly made chief to eat the goat upon his return. “Sorry, goat,” I thought as
I ate, “but I had to come back.”

After lunch, Dr. Clack and I set up shop in the same house where Dr. Panossian had done his examinations during our first
visit to Sierra Leone. After we handed out the last of the Tylenol and antibiotics, I gave my last hugs, thumbs-ups, and winks;
it was time to head back to Freetown.

We traveled back along a northern route, driving through Makeni, Sierra Leone’s fifth-largest city. Makeni is mostly inhabited
by the Temne people. Something told me to ride in the very last Land Rover in our convoy. I would later learn why I had this
inkling. After driving for nearly two hours, we pulled over for a pee break. I walked through some abandoned buildings that
I remembered being filled with villagers the last time I had passed through. Suddenly, about twelve children appeared, seemingly
out of nowhere, and immediately began to beg. I smiled but ignored their requests and returned to my SUV. We all piled back
into the trucks and started to drive off.

The children started running alongside our convoy. I watched in awe at how fast they moved. They were actually keeping up
with the pace of the Land Rovers, so much so that they had outpaced mine and were now running in front of it. I saw something
fly out of the window of the truck ahead. Then I saw the group of children descend on whatever it was, struggling over it
on the ground. As we got closer, one of the little boys fell right in front of my Land Rover’s huge black tires. The driver
yanked on the steering wheel and swerved so hard to the left that our vehicle nearly tipped over from the centrifugal force
of the maneuver, missing running over the fallen boy’s head by only inches.

The object of the struggle was now apparent—it was an empty plastic water bottle. In Sierra Leone, tossing a plastic bottle
on the ground is equivalent to throwing money out the window. The bottles were very valuable. They could be sold for a great
deal of money or used to store clean water or palm wine.

I told my driver to flash his headlights and signal to the driver ahead of us to pull over and stop. I got out and calmly
walked up to the vehicle in front of us. “Who threw the bottle outside?” I asked. No one answered immediately. Then, finally,
Martin, my cameraman, admitted that he did it. I was shocked. I knew he had traveled to Africa just as much, if not more,
than me.

“Did you see what happened?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

Martin looked confused. “See what?”

“The children started fighting over the bottle you tossed out the fucking window, Martin! My driver almost ran over a boy!
Do you have any idea how fucking bad that would have been?”

“I was just—” he started to say.

“No! You fucked up! The next time you want to
help,
try getting out of the fucking truck and place the bottle in the child’s hand! Treat them like they are human beings!”

He tried to speak again, “I thought—”

I cut him off. “I know what you thought and you were wrong! Don’t let it happen again! Do you understand?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

I was so shaken by the image of what could have happened to that child, not to mention the thought of even more media scrutiny
back in the States, that I just turned and started walking. I walked past and ahead of the lead SUV. I kept on walking until
I was about one hundred yards away from my team. Then I veered off the road and into the bushes, bent over, and threw up.
When I finished, I took a deep breath and I thanked God for sparing us and that little boy’s life. I stepped back up onto
the street and stood for several minutes looking at the convoy of SUVs lined up behind me. “Why the hell am I doing this?”
I thought. “God, tell me why am I here doing this?” I stood there for a few minutes more, trying to pull myself back together.

Dr. Clack got out and started walking toward me, but I motioned for her to go back. I silently made my way toward the convoy,
walking past everyone without saying a word. Back at my SUV, I opened the back door and grabbed my satchel. I looked inside,
reached in, and pulled out my Tibetan prayer beads. I had purchased them back in LA and used them as spiritual protection.
I sometimes even wore them on my body.

I climbed into the cramped backseat of the Land Rover and
told my driver to take the lead. As we picked up speed I looked back at the winding convoy following behind us and clasped
my beads in my hands. I started to pray a Hindu chant called “
O bhagavan.
” It means God Supreme Being.

We arrived back in Freetown safely and without further incident.

I asked Mohamed to take me to Paddy’s, the famous restaurant and music hall. Malcolm, Dr. Clack, and Jasmyne joined us. I
ordered the fish and rice dinner from the waitress, who recognized me from my trip the previous year and began to spread the
word that I was there.

A few tables over was a group of about twelve Chinese men engaged in a very intense debate over the price for some prostitutes.
The air in the restaurant was becoming very tense. The men were loud, cursing in their own language. I was concerned for the
women’s safety. I left the table and headed to the restroom to wash my hands. As I stood at the sink, a man—tall and sinister
looking, his energy very dark—appeared behind me. He said the manager wished to speak with me. Without telling Malcolm, I
agreed to the invitation and allowed the man to escort me into a back room of the restaurant.

As I stepped through the door he locked it behind us. He asked me to stand near the now locked door as he proceeded to unlock
yet another one and gestured for me to walk through. As I stepped into the second room, a cramped little pantry-like space,
he closed that door behind me and I heard him click another lock shut. Lying on the floor next to my right foot was a huge
chainsaw caked with what looked like blood on its caustic blade.

“Now that’s really a good deterrent. I gotta remember that one,” I thought to myself.

I heard the jangling sound of keys and the click clack of opening locks on the other side of the door in front of me. As it
opened, a heavyset man stood there with a wide smile and
invited me in. “Mr. Washington,” he said, “I see you made it back to our great country. How have you been?”

I thought maybe he was the manager of Paddy’s
.

“I’m back, just as I promised,” I said, “but life has been a little rough on me these days.”

“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard,” he replied. “What the hell, you are home now. If you need anything, and I mean anything, you just
call on me, okay?”

“I will keep that in mind. So, I see that you keep a chainsaw in your… ah… waiting room.”

He laughed. “This is Sierra Leone; you can never be too careful, no?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. So… is there anything you need from me?”

“No, I just want to make sure that you are having a good time.”

“Yes, I am! So far, so good. Thank you. Now that I think about it, I guess you can help me out with something.”

“Anything,” he said.

“The Chinese guys out there, who do they work for?”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, the Chinese! They are slowly taking over. They are fishermen, pumping fish out of our waters
twenty-four-seven. There is tension growing between the workers and the people here.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“They work on the fishing boats for months and when they come to the mainland, they have lots of money to spend,” he explained.

“I see.”

“Well, I will let you get back to your guests, eh? Please enjoy your meal, the drinks are on me.”

When I told him that wasn’t necessary, he said, “Please, please I insist!”

I shrugged my shoulders and agreed. “Okay. As you wish. Thank you.”

With that he unlocked the door and walked me out of his office. The man who walked me in was waiting for me on the other side.
We went through the entire locking and unlocking process again in reverse. Finally, I washed my hands and returned to my table.
My food was there waiting, and I was very hungry now. I sat down and devoured it.

My team returned to Bunce Island, this time on official business. The power of the engines rumbled and growled. I watched
the American and Sierra Leone flags flap loudly in the wind as it beat against my face. Bunce Island grew larger and larger
as we approached the shore, riding in the boat generously donated by Ambassador Thomas Hull. He had heard about the little
boating incident from our last visit to the island, when we had to return to shore navigating by the stars, and offered up
use of his private vessel.

Chuck staged some really nice shots for me, and Joe Opala gave us the exact same tour as last time. Jasmyne became very agitated
and hurt by what she heard and saw, affected much in the same way I was when I first heard the history of Bunce Island.

As the tour ended, I was told that the little boy from whose back Dr. Panossian and I removed the tuberculosis cysts had arrived.
I was overjoyed to see him. Dr. Panossian had been sure he was too sick to survive, but there he was, standing right in front
of me! I hugged him gently and shook his father’s hand. I couldn’t stop staring at him. “He survived. He survived,” I thought
to myself. I gave them some money, careful to make sure no one else saw me. Then we loaded back into the boat and headed back
to Freetown.

*     *     *

This second trip was successful. There were no major incidents, we had no media liability, and the school was 75 percent complete.
But traveling back to the United States this time wasn’t as simple. While in Gatwick Airport, Mark, my soundman, had been
stopped and was being held at security. Sonya sent the flight attendant to discreetly give me the message. She whispered for
me to get off the plane and follow her. I arrived at the boarding gate back in the terminal and was greeted by a woman dressed
head to toe in black. She went by the name “the Dragon Lady.” She escorted Sonya and me back to the security area. I could
see Mark standing there surrounded by the London police.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the officers. One of them produced the steel expandable police baton that a special agent
had given me for our first trip to Sierra Leone. I had been carrying it in my backpack and had given it to Mark to walk through
the security line because I had two other bags to carry. Mark apparently told them it was camera equipment. And they didn’t
buy it. I had completely forgotten about it.

The police then turned their focus on me and asked if it was mine. “Damn,” I said, “I thought I lost it!” For the next hour
and a half, I was held for questioning right there in the open. I was asked to sign all kinds of police reports. Even though
I was surrounded by London’s antiterrorist unit, passing fans wanted to take photographs and have me sign autographs.

Obviously they couldn’t hold the plane and my team had to return home without Mark, Sonya, and me. Eventually the commanding
officer came over, looked me up and down, and then gave me a stern verbal warning. They confiscated the baton and let us go.
Sonya arranged for a hotel and we spent the night in London.

Sonya and I weren’t back in Los Angeles for a week when we received a call from Mohamed with news that Chief Lamin and Josie
Manga tried to “rehire” themselves and return to the site of the school. When I hired Mohamed at the school, it was because
I knew I could trust him. He told us that the chief of Njala Kendema had run them off. When Raymond Scott-Manga found out
about what had happened to Chief Lamin and Josie he was not happy about it to say the least.

I knew when I confronted them about the missing $1,500 that the Manga brothers couldn’t cut my throat in front of the villagers,
but I also knew Raymond Scott-Manga was pretty upset, and as the older brother of us all, he would have to retaliate to save
face. Raymond emphatically explained to me that by firing Chief Lamin and Josie without bringing the matter to a village council
for a vote or a fair trial I had broken a traditional African custom. “Raymond, I don’t have time for all of that,” I responded.
“Sonya and I gave you all ample time to come up with the missing money, prove that the ledger was wrong, or at least offer
an apology for the error. But all we got was anger and denial. The bottom line is that fifteen hundred dollars is not accounted
for and if I do not show ‘zero tolerance’ for this now, how can we expect anyone to believe that business practices have changed
in Sierra Leone? It is clear to me that if I cannot maintain proper oversight in building a school in my own village, with
my own money, how, in good faith, could I solicit future donors and future investors to invest in Sierra Leone? I told you
that I am here to help the people of Sierra Leone, not help hurt them. Like it or not, Mohamed Kamara is the new project manager,
end of story!”