The Landslide

The Landslide (through photo filters)

Original (atmosphere as seen)

There is a scar on the earth up there, one can see it from most angles down in the city. The hillside is lush, green, undulating like a puffed up, organic cake – a green volcano cake. Sugarloaf. This scar sits unmoved, like a bad boy raised his finger and stabbed through the icing to reveal the dark chocolate cake underneath. After that, no one could touch it. And it remains. 

Auto (bright, sharp)

There are no regulations, save for the go-ahead from the landowner, even if the landowner is a second or third hand land-grabber, without title deed. It’s a matter then of paying the money, in full, and setting up a structure. In most cases your first house is a tin shed that says, ‘this place is mine’. Some people put up grand signs, “Property of the Family Johnson-Bailey. Do not build here”. Or “Property of Dr and Family Konteh, NOT FOR SALE”.  Your land may sit idle as you recover over decades from the initial purchase. But no one can take it. You harvest the timber, and the land is exposed, degrades, open, barren, but it is yours. Whether here on the hills or down there on the flat. It is yours. 

West (paler version of original, grey)

No one goes there now without personal protective gear. The UN give tours to the funders as the volunteers nurture seedlings. The visitor from the British Geological Survey explained the lethal combination of water, rock rifts, and build-up of sludge on a steep incline. The extraction of the large trees along with their strong woven network of underground fabric, exposes the deep, rich earth. It upsets the natural balance, but it is the rock that matters. Everywhere the huge, storied houses are going up, teetering on this mountain, this hidden rock face. Everywhere are piles of enormous rock, hand drawn, hand-broken, the wretched timber burning to force the cracks, feeding the concrete. 

Palma (vibrant, browns/reds)

Sunday was wet, but I went to church, tip-toeing precariously across stone, tire, rubbish that dared to rise above the mud. I hoped vainly for a short reprieve with sun. My violet dress splattered red-brown by the motor-k’k’s and cars too close to the path. I forgot my phone, I wanted to text him without the imposition of parents. Tomorrow. Auntie Eunice stayed, saying she is going to keep vigil all day and all night as part of her spiritual journey. But I wonder if she will be back before sundown tonight, some wahala going down, but I admire her anyway. School is out, nothing to do. Tomorrow morning first thing, I’m going to Jami’s, she’s making rice cakes, in honour of her mother’s birthday.  

Metro (subtle, pale)

Finally, in town at Jami’s. I am wet through, the okada is cheap, it’s the only way to get through the traffic. It is early, but I made auntie tea before setting out. He won’t be up yet, but I want to make that call. At least Eunice should be happy, and pious! She must still be there singing and praying. The rain is worse – all night, we need more boards to cross this mud. Even in this wet, people are burning their rubbish, cooking, the smoke escaping out from under the leaky roofs. A grey haze envelops this corner of town, and the smell of frying fish rises above the morning banter. Why not live here in the city, people, talk, business; privacy is for old people. 

Modena (acrid, misty)

The Western Forest reserve is a protected area. But there is no way to enforce it, and the unregulated spill over from the city keeps growing, pushing people, building, outwards and up from the sea, gaining momentum. The government is too busy in the business of exploitation, stone-quarrying, selling off minerals and heritage trees by the vast acreage to the Chinese, trucked down from north and east, deposited at the edge of Hastings, loaded into containers for the port. Some with diameters of over 2 meters, trees older than this nation. As a result, the intensity of rainfall and run-off is increasing exponentially.

Eiffel (b/w plain)

Ishmael has already dug the holes for the seedlings. This is not women’s work he says. But I bring the young green trees down from the nursery on my head, 10 to the pan and that is harder work. I am a volunteer, they give us a day rate but no lunch. The gloves on my hands are the same as those that dug out the bodies, covered, smothered, in this red earth. Green, like the hills, like soap, like the cloth she wore that day to church. The same gloves that carried the bodies out, arms and head drooping, zipped into bags, and off in the truck ambulance. And we thought those days of sickness were gone. Sickness all around. 

Blush (vibrant greens)

We will complete the tree-planting at the end of this month – after two years. Abdul Karim is shouting for more seedlings, eager to get through before lunch. The morning mist has risen above the hilltop, and suddenly it’s clear, the full mountain revealed, Sugarloaf’s scar naked and bright. All the new run-off conduits glisten against stone in the momentary sun. The watcher up there on the massive boulder looks down, is he smiling at me? I turn and trip over a fragment of wood, sticking up from the soil. It’s a house board with the remnants of paint violet and green, like my dress. I pick it up and hold it close, pressing it to my face, turning away so the others can’t see. Feeling her presence, then fling it as far away as I can. This is not the first reminder. 

Reel (stark, depth)

Emmanuel hadn’t gone back until the first anniversary. The crowds were held away from the muddy soil, and they looked down from the opposite hillside, listening to the prayers. He is solemn in his hardhat and hi-viz, and doesn’t seem to know where to step. While the group moves gingerly from boulder to ground, taking in the explanations, avoiding the seedlings, looking sadly and seriously down towards the sea, he is frozen at one spot. There is a huge tree section lying inert there, several attempts to hack away abandoned some time ago. One of hundreds that came down from above, thrusting, pinning, breaking, in a colossal, thunderous moment. Eunice, brother in law, and five children gone. There. 

Vogue (b/w and sienna)

“This is Capital Radio. Early this morning in Freetown following 3 days of torrential rainfall, a devastating mudslide occurred just outside the city in Regent, Western area. The force of the landslide has damaged and destroyed hundreds of buildings in the city as the mud and water travelled over 7 kilometers through densely populated areas to the ocean. More than 400 people are known to be killed and many hundreds more are missing. The death toll is likely to be much higher. Emergency services and volunteers are at the site but the raging water through the city means rescue operations are extremely difficult. Thousands of homeless and displaced people are awaiting temporary shelter. The authorities ask for calm and to stay at home until further notice”.

Ollie (foreground accentuated)

Finally it’s time for the phone call, he must be up by now! How can he not be, sharing the bed with two younger brothers. I dial, two, three, four times. The signal is strong, but there is no connection. Jami, can you try your phone? She calls her sister in Eastern, no problem. I try Eunice, it’s time to get on with the morning, but no connection, nothing. Ok, text and try again later.  Now the floor is shaking, and an almighty roar thunders behind us, from up the road, as the glasses drop off the edge of the table. Jami shouts as we fall. And the car horns start blasting.  

Alpaca (greens, yellows)

My mother died seven years ago. She was saved from this tragedy. I don’t know how or why she died exactly. My brother said she went to heaven. I was 10. Father only ever showed his face once that I remember. The Junior SS closed last month. Auntie and Joe want me to keep going so I will go to Senior SS next term. Those ladies that worked with us planting trees, said I can think hard about my future and get somewhere. These trees are good, they mean something in this place of death. But they take time to grow. I am already grown. And there is no going back now.

Vista (dark, deep shadows, on black tones)

It’s quiet now. The surrounding noise of hammer and saw has stopped for the evening. The waves of seedlings below the scar are solid and green, and rising. The rainwater channels down with free passage, no hindrance, out to sea.