The full moon was hypnotising. Every star shone brighter than I’d ever seen, while a balmy breeze comforted me, blowing against my skin in waves, as if to remind me where I was. As I carefully planted my feet on the wooden pier above the sea, the sedative sound of the water forced me to be still and take it all in. It took me years to get here and the elements worked in unison to keep me present. I had finally made it to Sierra Leone.
I love to travel. My wanderlust has never allowed me to stay in one place without dreaming of the next – “Catch flights, not feelings,” was my motto. Yet, for all my destination-hopping, I couldn’t help but be disappointed in myself as I walked past boarding gates that flaunted the names of African cities I’d never prioritised. Not even my parents’ birthplace.
I was born and raised in London, and my knowledge of Sierra Leone came from two sources: my family, and the media. From the former, I would hear about “sweet, sweet Salone”, fresh fruit, Christmases on the beach and funny stories my mother would tell of her days at boarding school. The media reports were different, showing poverty, hunger, conflict and corruption. A country unable to stand on its own without Western intervention, it wasn’t a place to go to, but to run away from. I was conflicted but wanted to find the truth. So, at the age of 25, I decided it was time to go home.
Initially, I wanted to travel with my family, but scheduling made it impossible. Instead, my close friend Emile and I decided to embark on the journey together. Our shared experience of being young people in London who called themselves Sierra Leonean, without ever having actually been back, bonded us in every way.
11 hours and two planes later, we touched down in Freetown. Exiting the plane and feeling the thick air transported me back to my mum returning from her trips home, and the scent of Sierra Leone flowing out of her suitcase – incense, red clay, home-cooked food and a prickling heat I swear I could feel.
The next morning, I woke to a view of palm trees and the sound of crickets. I felt like I belonged. During our days, we hopped from one keh keh (rickshaw) to another, the drivers blasting Afrobeats from the speakers in the back as we wove through the hustle and bustle of the city. Meeting my extended family members for the first time was unforgettable; I was overwhelmed by the joy I felt and the love I received from them. They couldn’t believe I’d finally come. I felt so comfortable being around them, so familiar. We joked together, watched Sierra Leonean music videos, went clubbing, ate plasas (leafy stew) and toured Freetown.
Walking around, it dawned on me how great it was not to exist as “the other”. Most, if not all, of the adverts I saw featured women who looked like me. In fact, everyone looked like me; the colour of my skin didn’t matter. I felt celebrated, at ease, with no pressure to assimilate, code-switch or adopt a persona foreign to who I am, things that I do unconsciously in the UK.
All too soon, it was time to say goodbye, but something has changed in me. In Sierra Leone, hope lingered in the air; hope for the government to do right by its citizens, hope for a better economy, for a better future. I, too, had hope, to be part of the change. Back in London, I feel rather radical, on a mission with an army cheering me on as I work to make more of a difference in the world. The joy of discovering that I belong in another place will never go away. I gained a piece of myself.
Read more: The Vogue Fashion Team’s Insider Guide To Accra, Ghana
This article was originally published in the February 2020 issue of British Vogue.
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