A Man from Another Land: How Finding My Roots Changed My Life (15 page)

I placed another call to Dr. Panossian and, finally, he answered. Apparently Sonya, my producer, had given Crispian two Ambien,
a prescription sleep medication, to help him rest on the plane. Unfortunately, he had taken them on an empty stomach. By the
time he arrived in Los Angeles, going on twenty-four hours of no sleep, drinking a beer caused him to collapse. Dr. Panossian
reassured me that Crispian was fine to fly. I believed him. What a relief. I went to sleep.

The next morning brought a cloudy day but no sign of the heavy rains we landed in the day before. I was not happy, I needed
that rain! If our flight out of Gatwick wasn’t delayed, Crispian, Antonio, and Dr. Panossian’s flight wouldn’t arrive in time
to join us.

Sonya suggested I might have to plan to go on to Sierra
Leone without them. We checked out of our rooms in bright sunshine. I looked at the sky through the hotel lobby atrium and
said, “Sonya, it will rain and our flight will be delayed and those guys are going to Freetown with us.” She blinked. “I don’t
think so, hon.” And I watched her as she turned and walked away.

“It will rain,” I said to myself, it had to. Twenty minutes before we were scheduled to board an announcement came over the
airport’s PA system. Our flight had been delayed due to heavy rain. I looked at Sonya. She just shrugged. Everyone else sat
there, staring at me in complete disbelief.

Just then, I turned to see three of the most beautiful faces I could imagine: Crispian Kirk, Antonio K. Hubbard, and Dr. Andre
Panossian were all walking toward me, smiling. I looked up toward the sky and smiled. Like so many times in my life when things
seemed hopeless—as when as a kid I had to do battle with the Frazier sisters, or when I found myself sleeping in my car at
Howard unable to pay tuition, or when I struggled to become a working actor—in the end it turned out all right. “Okay, people,”
I said, “it’s time to go to Sierra Leone.”

It was May 22, 2006, when wheels touched down and the team and I arrived at Lungi International Airport in Freetown, Sierra
Leone. I was so happy I could not stop smiling. At times everything seemed to be in slow motion, as if I were watching a movie,
except it wasn’t a movie, it was happening, and to me! I felt like a little boy about to unwrap a gift I had been hoping and
wishing for all year long.

I grabbed my bags and thanked the Astraeus Airlines pilot. “Astraeus” in Greek mythology is the Titan god of the dusk. It
was nighttime, but as we descended the plane’s stairs, the tarmac was lit up like noontime by the flashing bulbs of my photogra
pher. The name of the airlines, the light in the darkness, it all felt like a good omen.

We were fast-tracked through customs and ushered to a VIP room, where we waited for Jackie Coker and Raymond Scott-Manga to
pick us up. I looked around at the small, humble airport, very basic by American standards. It looked very much like a storefront
church in Brooklyn, with Plexiglas windows and 1950s-style walls and furniture. It was very hot and crowded with people, but
I didn’t care. I had finally arrived. “I really am in Sierra Leone,” I thought to myself.

Just as we were gathering our luggage, I heard the energetic, rhythmic voice of Raymond Scott-Manga screaming, “Izayyyyyyyahhhhhh!”
I turned to see his trademark grin as he walked toward me.

I grabbed him, lifting him up off his feet exclaiming, “I’m here, babyyyyyy!” I put him down and then grabbed Jackie and gave
her a big hug too. I introduced them to the team. It was a moment of euphoria, hugs and handshakes, and laughter. I will never
forget it.

The VIP representative was a very professional Sierra Leonean woman who took care of returning our passports to us. She expertly
escorted us to the van that would take us from the Lungi International Airport to the ferry. The ferry, a large hovercraft,
looked like a huge boat built on top of an enormous black inner tube. I climbed out of the van and made my way to an overhang
where many people were sitting on white plastic chairs, waiting for the ferry to depart. I found a chair and sat down, and
tried to take it all in.

“I’m in Sierra Leone,” I thought to myself again, “one of the poorest and most stigmatized countries in the world.” I still
couldn’t believe after so much preparation and hard work I had finally arrived.

Raymond walked over and asked, “Do you want something to drink? A beer?”

“If it’s local, yes,” I replied. “I will try whatever you suggest.”

With that, he walked to the kiosk and placed his order. I gazed out at the pitch-black surroundings and was immediately lured
toward the sound of waves crashing on the beach. I walked toward the sound and my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. The
ambient light from the waiting area created a twilight effect along the beach. I noticed something moving down at my feet.
I strained to see it but couldn’t quite make it out, I had ventured too far from the light. Suddenly, as my eyes adjusted
a little more, I could see it was a sand crab.

Then another appeared, and then another. They were everywhere, surrounding me. I turned and shouted toward the waiting area,
“Hey, guys, come look. There are hundreds of crabs over here!” The locals looked at me quizzically as if to say, “Crazy American,
of course they are there, they come out every night.” I didn’t think anyone from my team heard me until, FLASH! My photographer
snapped a picture of me standing there in the dark. The crabs retreated down into the sand so quickly it was as if they had
been a figment of my imagination. “Michael,” I said excitedly, “did you see that? Did you see all of those crabs?”

“Huh?” he asked. “Crabs, what crabs?” I stood there looking at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with me. He tried
to keep a straight face but couldn’t. “Yeah, man, I saw them.” He chuckled. We had a good laugh. Michael began chasing some
of the crabs crawling in the darkness a few feet away.

I found myself looking out into the night, listening to the crashing of the waves, and wondering what tomorrow’s rising sun
would bring.

Sonya’s shrill Southern voice shattered my meditation, “Heigh-ho!” she shouted. “Come on everyone, the bags have been loaded
and it’s time to go!”

We boarded the ferry, walking into the dimly lit cabin filled
to capacity with passengers. Up ahead, I could see Sonya standing with the ferry captain. I joined them, shaking his hand
and asking, “Man, how long does it take to learn how to navigate this thing?”

He replied, “Oh, I have been in the navy for seventeen years and piloted almost every kind of water vessel. Not long.” He
was a tall man, about six foot four, with a striking face and presence. He resembled Henry Cele, the South African actor who
portrayed Shaka in the film
Shaka Zulu.

We finished our chat and I found a seat. Making sure that my camera was rolling, I immediately began to interview a young
Sierra Leonean man sitting next to me. “If you could change five things in this country,” I asked him, “what would they be?”

“End corruption, create more jobs, build more schools, end malaria, and create clean water systems,” he answered. Without
any urging the young man willingly began to discuss the many concerns he had about the cleanliness of his beloved country.
He told me a story that still haunts me today. He had gathered a bundle of long grass from his mother’s village. He set it
on fire and walked into his home to do battle with the burdensome and treacherous mosquitoes that plague the local villages.
He explained that he used the fire and smoke from the grass to swat and kill the cloud of buzzing mosquitoes in the darkness.
When he’d finally finished swinging at the air invaded by his attackers, he stood there, out of breath, and turned on the
lights. What he saw terrified him. The floor was completely covered, blackened with hundreds of dead mosquitoes.

He spoke to my camera and me with such determination that if the world could hear his stories his life would immediately change.
I sensed that there was so much more he wanted to say, but the ferry was docking and our journey had come to an end. As we
arrived and prepared to disembark, I didn’t know what to say to him. I just gave him a hug.

The utter sadness and shock I felt hearing his story was obliterated by the face of a woman who approached me asking for a
photo and an autograph. I was stunned. She looked just like my Aunt Gloria back in Houston! The resemblance was so uncanny;
she even walked the same way. Her voice and even her gold-toothed smile were my aunt’s. I couldn’t stop staring at her, the
sight of her made me feel a little wobbly. She said something to Raymond in Mende, and I could tell by her body language that
my gaze was making her uncomfortable.

“Raymond,” I said, “please tell her that she looks just like my Aunt Gloria back in the United States!” He translated and
a broad smile crossed her face. She grabbed me and hugged so tightly I thought she might bruise a rib or two. She was very
strong for her five-and-a-half-foot frame.

The team’s bags were loaded into a waiting van and I climbed into a 4x4 with Raymond. I noticed candles burning in kiosks
or in front of shanty entrances as we drove through the streets. “Why are there so many candles burning tonight?” I naively
asked Raymond.

“Isaiah, these people have to use candles every night. There is no electricity in Freetown.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said, astounded. “No electricity at all?”

“The only people who have electricity are those who can afford to have generators,” he explained. “The candles you see are
those of people who have no jobs and no money for that.”

As we drove deeper into the city of Freetown, along the dark streets congested with pedestrians, I could feel my mood darken
with every mile. I took a deep breath, trying to forestall the anxiety that was beginning to suffocate my previous excitement.
Raymond turned the red Dodge Ram down an alley, coming to a stop at a huge white steel gate. He honked his horn. A security
guard appeared in response and opened it. As the vehicle slowly
rolled inside, I could see ominous rows of coiled steel barbed wire illuminated by the car’s headlamps, making the wire look
as if it were floating in midair. My eyes tracked this image along the top of the high cement walls now separating me from
the rest of Sierra Leone. What looked like a high-security compound turned out to be the Hotel Barmoi. This is where I would
spend my very first night in my newfound homeland, and it would be my home for the next ten days.

I
awoke at the hotel in Freetown, on May 23, 2006, to heavy knocking at my door. It was Sonya. “We have a little problem,”
she said. The 750 pounds of boxes filled with gifts that I had sent over for my meet and greets with the local people and
officials were “lost.” Customs couldn’t seem to locate the shipment. She explained that Raymond was convinced that it had
arrived, but we might need to “pay taxes” on it.

“Those boxes are filled with gifts for the villagers!” I said, exasperated. “All the sneakers donated by NIKE, the boxes of
Children’s Tylenol and soccer balls are missing? I can’t deal with this right now!” I was scheduled to go with Raymond to
speak to a group of students at Fourah Bay College.

After my speech about 150 of them mobbed me. Their excited energy did little to calm me down. I signed as many autographs
as I could before Raymond insisted that we go.

As we drove through the town I saw piles of rubbish along the roads as far as the eye could see. Signs along the road warned
about HIV and stood next to signs that read Welcome to Sweet Salone, the country’s nickname. It was hard to take in how filthy
Freetown was. I wondered how people could live this way. Culture shock was setting in fast.

Raymond drove us to meet with his uncle, Minister Sidikie Brima, who was responsible for local government and community development.
Sierra Leone customs told Sonya that our 750 pounds’ worth of gifts had been “found,” but we would need the signature of a
government official in order to waive the tax for release. Raymond said we could get that signature after I met Minister Brima.

We walked into the dated and sparsely furnished office building and climbed the stairs. The heat and humidity tugged at my
shirt now soaking wet with perspiration. After a short wait, the minister finished up a meeting with—from what I could see
through the office door—a disgruntled local businessman.

To my surprise, Minister Brima appeared quite comfortable in front of the camera and the American entourage invading his office.
He smiled and coolly invited us all in. After introductions, I asked Crispian, as the team’s human rights attorney, to lead
the meeting. Crispian asked very good and pointed questions, and Minister Brima responded with equally good answers. What
impressed me most about the minister was his clarity, and the eloquent way he spoke about the eleven-year civil war and endemic
corruption that had severely hurt his country’s reputation. He appeared to be a reasonable man. When I arrived in Sierra Leone
I learned there were plans under way to hold a ceremony to make me an honorary chief. As an “honorary chief” I would be adopted
into the family but exempt from the full responsibilities of the chiefdom. I decided to address our customs issue head-on,
since he would later become my “uncle” by tribal induction.

“Minister Brima,” I said, “I really appreciate your candid dialogue about poor governance and corruption here in Sierra Leone.
Having said that, I need to know why my medicine for children, shoes, and toys are being held in customs for a fee? These
are gifts to express my goodwill. I don’t intend on selling or making a profit on any of these items. I’m told by Sonya here
that we would need a government official to sign a letter of release, which we have here with us. So for the sake of timing,
I was wondering if you could call the people in customs and find out what is going on.”

Then Raymond did something remarkably smart. He pulled out his mobile and speed dialed the number for the Sierra Leone customs
office. While my cameras were rolling, he got up and handed the phone to Minister Brima. Minister Brima had no choice but
to take the call.