Warima village, my birthplace and childhood home, was captured in my memory as the quintessential traditional Sierra Leonean settlement—a place where time seemed to move at its own leisurely pace, untouched by the rapid modernisation happening elsewhere. It was this image I carried with me during my years in Germany, where I pursued graduate studies. The contrast between my frenetic European academic life living in Dortmund in Germany and my memories of serene, unhurried Warima couldn’t have been more stark.
When I visited home after my masters degree, I came with dreams of reconnecting with my roots. I envisioned creating an agricultural project—a garden where Warima’s young and old would work. With this purpose in mind, I approached the village elders about acquiring land.
The response was overwhelmingly positive. The village council agreed to grant me plots for my agricultural venture, and arrangements were made to meet with the three prominent families whose ancestral lands I sought—the Turay, Conteh and Kamara families. This was to be a “deed of gift” as tradition dictated for a returning son of the soil, not a commercial transaction.
Before travelling to Warima from Freetown, I had converted several hundred dollars into Leones. My intention was to offer a “borrah”—what I remembered as a modest token of appreciation given to family heads when receiving such gifts. This traditional gesture was meant to acknowledge their generosity, not to purchase the land outright.
My nephew Koblo accompanied me to the meeting, which took place in our compound. The elders arrived dressed in their finest traditional attire, and pleasantries were exchanged with the elaborate courtesy I remembered from childhood.
However, as negotiations began, I quickly realised that my understanding of Warima’s customs needed serious updating. The families began by singing my praises in the traditional manner—extolling my achievements abroad and expressing pride in my return. But when the discussion turned to the “borrah,” the amount they suggested left me speechless.
“A son who has been to the white man’s land and returned with knowledge must surely have been blessed,” one elder said, his eyes twinkling with meaning.
Another added, “Our ancestors would expect a proper showing of gratitude for such fertile land.”
The figures they mentioned weren’t the token amounts I remembered from my youth. They approached prices one might pay in an actual land purchase. Koblo shifted uncomfortably beside me, clearly surprised by the substantial expectations.
Nevertheless, I began distributing the Leones I had brought, hoping to satisfy their requests while maintaining the pretence that this was indeed still a gift exchange rather than a transaction. I handed out bundle after bundle until my supply of local currency was completely exhausted.
“Honoured elders,” I finally announced, spreading my empty hands. “I’ve given all the Leones I converted in Freetown. Perhaps we can finalise the remaining details on my next visit?”
A silence fell over the gathering. Then, an elder who had been sitting quietly at the edge of the circle spoke up.
“Mallam O, if you have no more Leones, perhaps you have dollars instead?”
The question struck me like lightning. Dollars? In Warima? The same village where, in my youth, some transactions were still conducted through some kind of barter?
Noticing my astonishment, another elder chuckled. “Yes, we accept dollars here in Warima today. The world changes, and we change with it.”
I stared at them in disbelief before breaking into laughter. “It seems I’m the only one who thought Warima remained frozen in time!”
The entire gathering erupted in good-natured laughter. One of the older women patted my hand affectionately. “Our bodies may stay in the village, Mallam O, but our minds travel the world through our children who go abroad and through these.” She pulled a mobile phone from the folds of her traditional wrapper and waved it proudly.
With no escape from my obligation, I reluctantly reached for the dollars I had kept as emergency funds. As I gave the additional US dollars to the family representatives, I realised that my romanticised notion of the “primitive village” had been just that—a notion preserved in amber, while the real Warima had continued evolving.
By the end of the day, I had secured twenty-five acres of fertile land—and received a priceless lesson about assumptions. My agricultural project would proceed, but with a newfound respect for the village’s ability to blend tradition with modernity. The Warima I had left was not the Warima I returned to, and perhaps that was the most valuable discovery of my homecoming. Will these people work for my project without asking for wages like they used to do?
As we walked back to my temporary lodgings, Koblo nudged me. “Uncle, you have to prepare well for this project o!” he advised with a mischievous grin.
The traditional village had indeed given Mallam O. a thoroughly modern surprise.
