Quiet noise: Cody’s and cocaine bibles
As news of The Economist’s exposé on Jos spread yesterday, much of Freetown’s social media remained quiet.
Facebook and TikTok were still on Makeni’s Princess Diana and rap beefs, but for Freetown’s elites, all focus was on getting behind The Economist’s paywall.
The article, "He was one of the world’s most wanted men. So he bought a West African country: How Jos Leijdekkers turned Sierra Leone into a drug-dealer’s paradise" details extensively the start, rise, and explosion of Umar Sheriff, birth name Josef.
For the first time, we learn how Dutch officials confirmed that it was indeed Jos who was in that now-infamous New Year’s church service video posted on Facebook by his step-mother-in-law.
Someone who used to work for di first daughter e pikin e papa flipped. They took a cup Jos had drunk from and they sent it to the Dutch. Official there used the DNA from the cup and verified that Chubby was in town.
But Very few Sierra Leoneans in the country are going to read this article. First, the paywall; second, the length. E too long.
And then there is the other part, which is that for most Sierra Leoneans, there’s little in the article that hasn’t already been the subject of a yɛri se.
On Monday, when the newspapers go to print, I would be shocked if there’s any mention or reprint of this Economist article.
It’s just not the news that people here care about. You see, living in Sierra Leone day-to-day, the issues have their own issues.
There is, even for the most powerful and wealthy, so much strife to deal with just to make it to the end of the day. Let alone for the over two-thirds who live on $3 a day.
Last night at about 1:30 a.m., Sam and I decided to leave the house to make the night rounds.
I put on concealer, foundation, mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick after completing my five-step skincare routine.
I fluffed my Afro and then put on a two-piece skirt and tank top I got from Akira.
I took my sparkly '90s cassette-themed purse and put on stacked gold heels.
At 2:00 a.m., we walked out of the house, remembering to take the back door key.
I called out to Unisa, our gateman, to swing the gates open.
Sam and I had a brief discussion about where we were headed. He said something about it being too late to go to Chapter One, and I said I was too dressy for anywhere else. We didn’t settle on a destination, but as the gates swung open, he said, "Let’s just head in that direction and decide when we get there."
We pulled out of the gate. I raised my eyes, and right in the middle of the hill was a truck. Parked. No one was moving inside or around it.
We didn’t need to ask, though we did: "Na broke dong e broke dong?" "Ah yes, from dis evening," was the response from a passerby on the street.
AZN 468, with "Mr. Sheku" on the two back doors, was not going anywhere.
And neither were we.
Sam disappeared into the neighborhood bar and came out with Cody’s.
I went to the kitchen and asked our house help, who was up watching TV with my mom, to peel a mini pineapple.
By 2:30 a.m. we were back in bed, peaceful and unbothered.
I slurped on my delicious pineapple.
He drank his Cody’s.
We watched Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery on Netflix as thoughts of cocaine bibles floating on our Atlantic coast faded to the back of my consciousness.
The End.
