By Mohamed Isnail Kamara
Executive Director
Ecoprobe Africa
The Netherlands
I came back two years ago, and I am still in shock. This once-historic city has not just stopped growing; it has decided to roll down the hill and sit in the mud. We are not a city anymore; we are a giant, open-air garbage dump with a few buildings in it, masquerading as a capital.
Beautiful Sierra Leone, they call it. But nobody mentions that the beauty is only visible from an airplane window, because once you land, the reality hits you harder than a pothole at 60 kilometres per hour.
THE ROAD TO NOWHERE (LITERALLY)
Let us start with the roads. Ah, the roads.
Yes, I love the hillside bypass road a good and easy way to connect to the east. I will give credit where it is due. But that is where the praise ends, my friend.
Some roads are so poor, they make you question the meaning of civilisation. Potholes so deep you could lose a small child in them or worse, lose your dignity trying to dodge them. Driving in Freetown is not a commute; it is a chiropractor’s dream. By the time you get from Aberdeen to Kissy, your spine has rearranged itself into a new shape that even yoga cannot fix.
Let me take you on a tour of our finest “obstacle courses”:
Circular Road? More like “Circular Nightmare.” You go round and round, not because it is designed that way, but because you are dodging craters that would make the moon jealous. By the time you escape, you have aged five years.
Bombay Street to Kissy Road Junction? God help you. This is not a road; it is a demolition derby. The potholes have potholes. You do not drive there; you pray and navigate like you are crossing a minefield. If your car suspension survives, consider it a miracle.
Firth, Firth Everywhere! You cannot go anywhere without hearing “Firth this, Firth that.” Every street, every corner. The road is so bad, even the name sounds like a curse word. “Firth” is not just a place; it is a warning.
Model Road? The only thing “model” about it is the way it models complete destruction. It is a perfect example of how NOT to build a road. If this is a model, I would hate to see the prototype.
And do not even get me started on the Goderich to Lumley stretch. That road is so bad, your car will develop new rattles you did not know existed. By the time you reach your destination, you will need a chiropractor, a mechanic, and a therapist.
The Regent Road? It is not a road; it is a mountain climbing expedition. The potholes are so steep, you need four-wheel drive just to crawl up. And coming down? You are not driving; you are falling with style.
Now, the classic: Sani Abacha Street. This road is so bad, even the goats refuse to walk on it. The potholes are so deep, people have started naming them. “This one is John,” “That one is Mary.” They have become landmarks.
The Ministry of Works? The Road Maintenance Authority? I think they are just names on a signboard. If they actually exist, they must be on strike, since 1995.
And let me tell you about the dead dog. A dog died on the road. It stayed there for days and days as the stench punctuated the air like a bad cologne. Nobody removed it. Nobody cared. Drivers just swerved around it like it was another pothole. The flies had a party. The vultures had a feast. And we? We just held our noses and kept driving.
That is Freetown for you. Even the dead cannot get proper burial on our roads.
ZEBRA CROSSINGS: JUST FANCY DECORATION
On many days I stood at the zebra crossing, feeling like a fool. Every vehicle was supposed to stop so people could cross—ah, I nor forget that for the Western societies.
But here? We just drive off.
I waited and waited like a lost puppy, hoping for mercy. Eventually, I gave up on human decency and waited until no vehicle, keh keh, or even police vehicle was visible and then I took my life in my hands and hurriedly crossed.
In Freetown, a zebra crossing is not a pedestrian right-of-way; it is just a suggestion painted on the road for decoration. Tourists beware: if you step on that white stripe, you will become a hood ornament.
THE SCENT OF A NATION
You know a city is in trouble when the smell hits you before the temperature.
The gutters are clogged with rubbish that has been there since the last rain season and the rain season is a distant memory now. The stench is nauseating. It is a mix of rotting garbage, open sewage, and broken dreams.
And this is where the problem starts. We are sitting on a ticking time bomb. We are begging for cholera, typhoid, and any other disease with a hard-to-pronounce name. We tell tourists, “Come see the historic city,” but the mosquitoes are here to collect their blood tax. Malaria is our unofficial national sport. We are still fighting diseases that the rest of the world defeated with a simple net and a bit of soap.
ELECTRICITY: BETTER, BUT STILL A JOKE
Yep, the electricity is better than before. I will give credit where it is due.
But “better” in Freetown means it only goes off ten times a day instead of twenty. You cannot even enjoy the small improvement because you are too busy praying that the lights stay on long enough to charge your phone. And when the lights go off, which they will, inevitably,the generators roar to life like angry lions, and the noise joins the chaos. That is, of course, for those who can afford fuel. For the rest of us? We sit in the dark and count our blessings.
And do not get me started on power banks. These days, a power bank is not a luxury; it is a survival tool. You must carry one everywhere you go: to work, to the market, to church, to bed. You charge it whenever the light decides to show up, and you guard it like your firstborn child.
The other day, I forgot my power bank at home. Just one day. One small mistake. And I spent the entire day without my phone. No WhatsApp. No calls. No nothing. I was a ghost in the city. My battery died at 11 AM, and I walked around like a lost soul, unable to check the time, unable to reply to messages, unable to even pretend I was busy scrolling.
THE BOYS ON KUSH: A GENERATION LOST
Let us talk about the elephant in the room or rather, the boys on the corner.
The young men of Freetown are being destroyed by kush, killing them like chicken. They wander the streets like zombies, rotten feets, vacant eyes, empty futures. Nobody talks about it. The government pretends not to see it. The opposition is too busy positioning themselves for power to care.
These are our future leaders, our future workforce, our future fathers. And we are watching them disappear into a cloud of smoke while we argue about politics.
THE ECONOMY: HMMM
The economy is hmmm. I do not even know what to say anymore.
A friend of mine once wrote in his newspaper: “Is the economy stupid?” Well, I think it is. No control. No direction. No mercy.
Prices go up every day like they are training for the Olympics. Salaries stay the same, frozen in time like they belong in a museum. You cannot buy a bag of rice without crying. You cannot fill your generator without selling your soul and even then, the soul market is down.
Inflation is not just a word in Freetown; it is a way of life. The other day, I went to the market with 100,000 Leones. I came back with a headache and a single onion. The onion looked at me like, “You cannot afford me, my friend.” I had to put it back.
The Leone has lost so much value, even the birds refuse to pick it up. You drop money on the ground, and people walk past it. Not because they are honest, but because the money is not worth the effort to bend down.
The economy is not just stupid; it is insulting. It is like a bad joke that nobody finds funny except the people in power. They sit in their air-conditioned offices, sipping tea, while we are out here calculating how many days we can survive on one meal.
“Be patient, we will deliver”, they say.
I am patient. I am so patient; I have become a professional waiter. I wait for the prices to come down. I wait for the salary increase. I wait for the government to do something.
And while I wait, the economy laughs at me.
THE “WILD, WILD WEST” OF STREET TRADING
Traders are everywhere. On the road, in the road, under the road. You cannot drive without buying three oranges, a phone charger, and a used tire you do not need.
There are no market hours. In other countries, they clean the streets at night. In Freetown, we just throw more rubbish on the street. If the government tried to set a time, people would say, “This is not London o!”
People will pee and defecate in any corner they find. Hygiene? We don’t know her.
THE DRIVING OF THE HEADLESS CHICKENS
You have the “Keh Keh” and bike riders. They drive like they are in a video game. No rules. Red light? A suggestion. One-way? Just a label.
They are everywhere, and they are terrified of nothing. Combine that with the police who are busy “harassing” drivers for “nothing” (or everything), and you have a traffic jam that makes you want to leave your car and walk only to get hit by a bike.
THE POLITICIANS AND THEIR “PLANS”
Now, who is supposed to fix this?
Well, we have a Mayor. Apparently, she is very good at speaking with a British accent. “Oh, right, jolly good!” But when it comes to fixing the gutters, cleaning the streets, or doing the things the city desperately needs? Silence.
The Government? Ah, they don’t care either. “It is not our stronghold,” they say. But this is the capital. The city belongs to all of us.
The Opposition? They are just waiting for the next election so they can sit down and do nothing.
We have no planning. No structure. It is just politics on top of politics. “Who cares about the rubbish? Let us focus on the power!” Meanwhile, the city is sinking, literally and metaphorically.
ENVIRONMENTAL DISASTER: BUILDING ON DREAMS AND SWAMPS
And to top it off, we are building houses in the hills, swamps, and waterlogged areas. Because why not? Who needs engineering when you have ambition?
When the rains come, the houses wash away, and we wonder why. It is not flooding; it is just the city returning to the sea where it belongs.
IN CONCLUSION: A CAUTIONARY TALE
I was born here, but I do not recognize this place. It is a put-off. If I feel this way, how will a tourist feel?
Foreigners will see the dirt, catch a fever, run back to their countries, and never return. No one wants to invest in a city that smells like a sewer and drives like a warzone. No tourist wants to visit a city where stepping on a zebra crossing is a death wish.
Every passing day, I do not look forward to the next. I just want the days to go quickly so I can leave. And frankly, until we decide to care about our own city, Freetown is not a destination, it is a cautionary tale.
We have the potential. We have the history. We have the beautiful landscapes. But we lack the will. We lack the discipline. We lack the leadership.
And until that changes, Freetown will remain what it has become: a city that survives, but never thrives.
Do you agree? Let us know if your phone battery hasn’t died.