A dance with the devil

My father used to “dance debul” he would go to hunting societies and play traditional songs which involves dancing with the Devil. As a child I learnt some of these songs. The only one I remember was Kumba.

My mum had a colleague called Kumba.

The song would go,

Kumba, Kumba la ye me debul de mojubah oh.

Kumba, Kumba law ye me debul de monubah oh.

My dad would ask my mum which colleague she worked with and if my mum said “Kumba” the clapping would begin and so would the singing.

It was a unique part of my father. Something that identified him as a man of a particular time. The mid 20th century.

Something that defined him as a man who lived on the edge of 2 cultures. Creole and “Native” or in this case because “native isn’t a monolith, Timini”

The Timini tribe engages in Female Genital Mutilation

So do the Mende’s.

My dad doesn’t belong to that tribe and so he was not involved in that horrendous act. He was on the margins.

He owned a “Bondo debul” a statue/carving as it’s made of wood that depicts a traditional dancer. It’s not the actual devil, it’s a man, a man in traditional dance costume.

Dad died almost 5 years ago in July and my mum decided to throw the statue away yesterday.

She told me about it and I begged her not to.

She didn’t listen and we had a massive fight over it.

I said I would never allow my children near the country of Sierra Leone again because we can’t talk about the culture in a responsible manner.

The Bondo Debul was a reminder of the country’s awful culture.

One my mum didn’t want to talk about. To me it was a symbol of a country ny father loved. The gaiety with which he lived his life and happy childhood memories.

I do not doubt that for some, the sight of it is harrowing.

But I saw it as a teaching moment for my children.

“What’s that mummy?” They’d enquire of the statue

It’s a “Bondo debul, my sweetheart. It comes from the land your grandparents are from. It’s a native tradition where some people dance at important milestones like births, marriages and funerals,and some of those native people cut off the genitalia off women as a rite of passage. They are not from our tribe and therefore we would never do that to you.what they’re doing is wrong and causes pain, and even death to those who it’s performed on.”

Simple.

You teach your children about the country of your ancestry and tell them about Female Genital Mutilation. And you leave it at that.

No.

Sometimes my mother is just inexplicably wicked. It’s not sanitising history to explain it in an age appropriate way and tell them this is a part of the culture that is bad.

Instead she has thrown the baby out with the bath water. My children will be poorer for it.

My kids will never know their grandfather. There are very few if any other artifacts that can allow them to understand the person.

This was one of them. He did it when he was younger as a social club, didn’t like the more barbaric practices and left. Nothing to be ashamed of. Akin to joining the Nazi party before Hitler then when he got into power there, leaving. There’s nothing wrong with nationalism or socialism, it’s how you use it.

People are complex, my father was a wonderful man, but he also had 2 kids out of wedlock. Are we erasing them too? The paltry argument of “if you want to know about a “Bondo Debul” Google it.

Which 2nd generation child is Googling Bondo Debul? Do you know how to spell it? Also, as a child googling that, Google is going to block the search.

But how are you going to be exposed to that subject? It’s not a natural part of conversation? But a child pointing to a “doll” in grandad’s study and asking what it is, that is a natural Segway.

As a result you have shut down the conversation. An opportunity to learn something about your grandfather, otherwise he’s basically a white man. This was the most “African” bit about him, the most engaged he was in the culture of his immediate surroundings.

The same argument is used to erase slave owners and the slave trade. It’s ugly, unsanitary and cruel. But it happened. No one is asking you to celebrate it. Merely to engage with it in a responsible manner. Acknowledging it’s a part of a culture as well as potential victims of it.

Ditto sex education. You can stop teaching about it,  it it will not stop people doing it.

So my children have been robbed.

I of course, flew into an incandescent rage. Because I had begged repeatedly for my mother not to do this and she imperiously decided to do what she wanted anyway. She isn’t the one having kids. I am. So I do get to decide how they are raised.

I seethed that my children would never step foot in Freetown. It was always a long shot anyway because no way am I paying for my kids to go to Freetown when almost any other peacetime country exists.

So instead I got to grieve a piece of my dad that is being erased. A piece lost to time. I grieve my mother’s savagery and her utter manipulation of the situation.

She’s used this situation to behave incredibly badly.

Comparing me to other people who think Sierra Leone is a haven.

Leave. Leave this Godddamned country I implore you.

Leave and tear your British passport on your way out.

Spend 6 months getting fleeced for your accent and baking under the sun and lack of economic opportunity.

Watch the starving children, the amputees.

Whilst I do agree there is a quaintness to being black in a Black Country, being a creole means that everyone doesn’t look like you, we are an ethnic minority even in Sierra Leone. People are just as dark as you. They still view you as an unwelcome “other” and tribalism is worse than racism. There are laws against racism, which makes it mainly covert. You will be told to your face you aren’t welcome in Freetown.

She also wants to use this situation to gain access to my house. I don’t have to be gracious about it. Not after she’s behaved. She cast aspersions on my ability to handle a builder, my house (I have suffered with sever depression) and my character.

I don’t forget.

Talk about winning the battle and losing the war. I will never forget what she said.

I don’t have to be gracious or kind about her. She’s behaved badly and so I owe her no loyalty. I don’t respond well to blackmail.

There’s courage in grace and courage.

I unlike my mother can play a long game.

Grace and Courage

Annetta Mother Smith