My father, Alimamy Wusu Sankoh who passed away in September 1982 and buried in Warima, was a man of many roles. Reminding my readers: he was a shrewd businessman who drove his own fuel tanker; owns a FIAT car registered C9910; a leader who served as Secretary General of the Sierra Leone Motor Drivers Union; and above all, a visionary who believed in the transformative power of education. He built in 1967 the primary school in Warima with his own hands, hired teachers, and went from village to village, sewing uniforms for children and convincing reluctant parents to send their sons and daughters to school.
Yet among his many passions was the swamp farm—a lush, fertile stretch of land not far from our village where he would spend some weekends with his wives and farmhands, knee-deep in water, planting rice and other crops.
He rarely allowed me to join him. “This is not your work,” he would say. Even in my early school days, his ambitions for me were clear: I was to be among the most educated men in the country, my hands meant for books, not hoes. I wish he was alive today!
One rare morning, he let me walk with him to the swamp.
The bush path from Warima was narrow, the air had the scent of damp earth and wild herbs. I walked ahead, my small feet trying to adjust to the bush path, when his voice rose behind me, steady and deliberate.
“Papa Osman,” he said, “do you know why I built that school?” He named me after his father who was Pa Wusu, a variant of Osman. My friend Dr Combo Kamanda would always call me Wusu today.
I glanced back. His face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat, but I could see the fire in his eyes. He looked like the British District Commissioners at the time.
“To teach us children?” I ventured.
“Yes, but more than that.” He plucked a blade of elephant grass, rolling it between his fingers.
“When I was a boy, I saw how ignorance kept us poor—not just in money, but in power. In dignity.”
A number of Guinea fowls burst from the undergrowth, wings beating loudly. A monkey made a sound, leaping to another tree. My friend Prof Imam Bakarr the environmentalist would have identified today the species of that monkey from its sound.
But Papa didn’t flinch.
“That school is not just walls and desks. It is a weapon against darkness. Every child who learns to read becomes a soldier for light.”
His hand gripped my small shoulder. “But you, my son—you must become a general.”
The path opened suddenly into the clearing, revealing the swamp in all its green abundance. Women bent over the rice paddies, their laughter mingling with the splash of water. Farmhands waved, but Papa’s gaze remained fixed on me.
“This swamp feeds twenty families. That school will feed five hundred or more minds over time. But you…” He turned me to face him, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“You will feed the soul of this nation.”
“Me? How?” My voice sounded small against the weight of his words.
He knelt, scooping a handful of dark, rich soil. “By remembering this walk. By knowing both worlds—the dirt that grows your food,” he pressed the earth into my palm, “and the knowledge that grows your future.”
As we stood there, the swamp humming with life around us, I tried to understand why he had brought me here today. Not to work the land, but to plant something far greater in me.
Ya Mabinty, my stepmother who had raised me and my brother after my biological mother left, stood by the farm hut looking impatient. She had seen us from afar, lingering on the path.
“Pa Sankoh, the food is getting cold!” she called, her voice carrying across the water.
Tha Yeabu, Tha Kaday, Tha Fatu, and Tha Amie, my other stepmothers, were scattered across the swamp, weeding and tending to the crops. As we walked past them, each woman bowed in greeting to Papa, and he would crack a joke that made them laugh.
I ran ahead to Ya Mabinty, who loved me beyond description. “Mama, so you are also here today,” I greeted her, breathing in the familiar scent of the palm oil stew she had prepared. Her mates would usually cook but she did today.
“Papa was talking to me about things that will happen many, many years from now,” I said, my voice hushed with wonder. “Can he really see that far?”
Ya Mabinty smiled, her wise eyes crinkling at the corners as she handed me a bowl of steaming rice. “Take this and eat, my little boy,” she said, patting my head. “You will not understand everything your father has spoken to you about—not yet. But one day, his words will grow inside you like seeds in good soil.”
Papa joined us then, his laughter booming as he teased Ya Mabinty about keeping his food waiting. Around us, the swamp had life—the rhythmic splash of water, the chatter of the women, the distant call of birds.
As I ate, I watched my father, this man who carried the weight of so many dreams—for his family, for his village, for a country he believed could rise. And though I didn’t fully understand his vision that day, I felt the weight of it settle in my bones.
A dream as deep as roots.
A promise as wide as the sky.
—Have a blessed and bongolistic weekend .
