Parliament and Prison: A Political Moment Forged
With the APC’s Dr Sama Banya in England receiving medical treatment, the political atmosphere back home intensified rapidly. Tensions rose to the point where long-standing cultural expressions resurfaced with renewed force. On the night described by the Mendes as “eah gree-gree,” a haunting, rhythmic sound known only to those deeply rooted in Mende tradition, the air grew heavy with symbolism. For outsiders, the sound was unsettling – an omen that signified imminent danger or profound upheaval.
On that night, Dauda Sandi’s emotions erupted into open fury. To him, Dr Banya had committed an unforgivable offense: he believed that Sama had shed the blood of the grandson of the great Kabba-Sei of Gorhum, a revered figure whose lineage carried immense cultural and historical weight. The gravity of this act, in Sandi’s eyes, demanded retribution. The thoughts running through his mind echoed the sentiment captured by the young British poet Morgan Ishmael, who wrote, “Blood is the strongest force in the universe; blood binds all to all; blood always calls for blood…blood for the blood gods.” To Sandi, this was not merely poetic metaphor but a reflection of a deep, ancestral logic. Whatever consequences followed, he felt Sama deserved to face the full weight of them.
Traffic grew noticeably heavier from the very day it was announced that Dauda Sandi, the SLPP candidate in 1977 for the then Kailahun-South constituency, had secured a historic and widely celebrated victory. Cars, motorbikes, bicycles, and pedestrians filled the roads as people travelled from surrounding towns and villages to witness the unfolding political excitement. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation, curiosity, and a sense of shifting power.
One evening, during a gathering of close supporters and elders, Dauda finally revealed in full the reason behind his deep hostility toward the APC’s Dr Sama Banya. According to him, Sama “was not one of us, you know!” – a statement laden with cultural weight. He explained that if the injury inflicted upon Kabba-Sei, Dauda’s younger brother, had occurred in the pre-colonial era, the clan would have demanded Sama’s “liver and kidney,” as tradition prescribed in matters of grave offense. His words were not merely emotional; they carried the weight of ancestral expectations and long-held customs.
Dauda then launched into a detailed recounting of Mande history, emphasising the resilience, evolution, and warrior legacy of his people. “Before the white men came,” he said, “the Mandes had fought great wars.” He described the progression of Mande warfare: beginning with sticks, slings and stones, then advancing to bows and arrows, before ultimately mastering the complex craft of smelting and casting iron – a technological leap that elevated them among the most formidable groups in the region.
When the British arrived and introduced what historians called a “great social experiment” in Freetown – declaring the abolition of slavery – everything changed. The news spread across the West African coast, drawing people of every background, tribe, and circumstance into Sierra Leone. Former slaves, traders, adventurers, and displaced families converged on the colony, transforming it into a melting pot of cultures, hopes, and conflicts. In recounting this history, Dauda sought to contextualise not only his anger but also the deep cultural and historical forces that shaped his worldview – a worldview in which loyalty, lineage, and honour remained inseparably bound to identity and justice.
The earliest groups to take advantage of the new social experiment in Sierra Leone were the enslaved populations living in the independent Republic of Liberia. Liberia had proclaimed its independence in 1847, and the Americo-Liberians who founded the nation were themselves formerly enslaved people who had grown up on plantations in the United States. When they established their new country, they brought with them the social structures, hierarchies, and attitudes shaped by life on those plantations.
As Liberia took form, the Americo-Liberian ruling class began to replicate aspects of the system they had escaped. They imposed a rigid social order that subordinated the Indigenous population, compelling many into forced labour and using their dominance to create what would eventually become one of the largest and most profitable agricultural ventures in the world – the Firestone rubber plantation. This enterprise, supported by vast tracts of land and a deeply unequal labour system, became a defining feature of Liberia’s early economy and international identity.
Across the border, the news of freedom being offered within the British-controlled protectorate and colony of Freetown spread quickly. Communities composed predominantly of Vais’, Kissys’, and their Mandingo leadership viewed the developments with optimism. For many, the promise of liberation and the possibility of living under a new political order free from Americo-Liberian dominance carried profound meaning. The announcement of abolition in Freetown represented not just a political shift but the potential beginning of a new life. It inspired hope, stirred migration, and marked the start of a complex and transformative period in the region’s history – one in which ideas of liberty, identity, and governance began to collide, merge, and reshape the lives of countless people across both territories.
Shortly after the Hut Tax War in 1898, in the territory that would later become known as Sierra Leone, the British administration moved swiftly to secure its influence by signing a series of treaties with the local chiefs. These agreements were often negotiated under considerable pressure, as the colonial authorities feared renewed resistance from the hinterland communities. This period also coincided with a significant wave of migration: large numbers of displaced and runaway Indigenous people began moving toward the coast, drawn by the promise of safety, freedom, and the protection that the new colonial structures in Freetown seemed to offer.
Within the Mende Kingdom, however, there was an older and deeper understanding of the shifting tides. Generations earlier, the elders of the Mandes had predicted that the Mende people would one day face an attack from the east. In response, they had encouraged preparations, though these were often rudimentary and shaped more by tradition and spiritual insight than by military strategy. Still, the prophecy lingered in the minds of many, influencing how chiefs viewed both internal and external threats.
One of the most important traditions in the Mende Kingdom was an annual festival held during the dry season referred to as “toiihun” – where men came to see each other, exchange developments crafts in war, witchcrafts, new farming techniques and many more, at a time when food was plentiful and the harvests successful. This grand gathering brought together chiefs from across the region, each accompanied by their dancers, musicians, healers, magicians, and fortune tellers. They assembled to seek counsel, interpret omens, and strengthen alliances. The ceremonies were presided over by Nyahaghua of Kpanguma or Panguma, a powerful and respected leader regarded as “Ndooh mama koo mei” – a title equivalent in status to a king over all the Mendes. His authority extended not only politically but spiritually, and the festival served as a platform for renewing bonds and reaffirming unity among the different chiefdoms.
During one such gathering, an exceptionally skilled young wrestler caught the attention of the assembled chiefs. Wrestling held special significance in Mende culture; it was not merely a sport but a measure of courage, physical excellence, and warrior spirit. The Mendes, who prided themselves on their warrior traditions, celebrated individuals who displayed such talent. Although the young man’s original name was not preserved in the oral histories that survived, his reputation endured. Over time, he became widely known, as the figure whose strength and prowess left a lasting impression on the memory of the people and became woven into the narratives of Mende cultural heritage.
They all observed him with great admiration, and their interest soon turned toward seeking guidance from the customary priest. After careful divination, it was foretold that this young man would one day rise to defend and safeguard the Mande people. Although his birth name has faded from collective memory, he became known as Ndaawa, a title meaning – the largest of leaves. Among the Mendes, this name carries deep cultural significance. It is traditionally reserved for revered elders – our grandfathers – and is closely associated with the term “Maada,” meaning “planting leaf.” This leaf, the largest known to the Mendes, symbolizes protection, wisdom, and foundational strength. In more recent generations, however, the true meaning has been widely misunderstood. Many modern Mendes have mistakenly interpreted Ndaawa to mean a person with “a large mouth,” overlooking the title’s rich heritage and the profound respect it historically conveyed.
With such a distinguished lineage and remarkable promise, the council of chiefs unanimously decided that he should be initiated into the Poro traditional fraternity, one of the most revered institutions among the Mende people. This initiation was not merely ceremonial; it demanded profound personal sacrifice and unwavering commitment to the welfare of his people, as prescribed by the gods and the spiritual elders of the society. As part of this rigorous and sacred process, he underwent circumcision and castration, acts that marked both his passage into full adulthood and his total dedication to the community over personal ambition. These rites were a visible testament to the Mende belief that leadership and protection of the people required personal suffering and absolute loyalty.
Despite his extraordinary feats – securing the southern salt mines, controlling the rich fishing grounds, expanding territorial control further northwest toward Moyamba, asserting influence over key coastal trading posts, and nearly subduing Kailondo in the east – his life ended without him attaining the formal recognition of a chieftaincy. His military and political conquests were remarkable, reshaping the balance of power across the region, yet the societal structures and hereditary traditions that determined official titles eluded him.
Looking back at the scope of his achievements, it became evident that he died without a chieftaincy house to his name, a striking paradox given the vast territories he had influenced and the strategic victories he had secured. His legacy, therefore, is one of immense personal courage and extraordinary accomplishment, yet tinged with the irony that the formal honours he arguably deserved were never bestowed, leaving his story enshrined more in legend and collective memory than in official lineage records.
By the time large groups of migrants were moving or in many cases fleeing – from slavery, Dauda Sandi’s grandfather, the great Kabba-Sei of Gorhun had already reached old age. He had lived through and fought in the turbulence of the Hut Tax War defending his land and people, endured arrest, and spent two long years in the infamous Pademba Road Prison before finally being released. Though aged, his presence and legacy remained a symbol of resistance and leadership for the Mende people.
During this period of upheaval, the Mande-Madingo overlords, leading Kailondo and the others, were intending to advancing towards Freetown with the intention of running away for their slave-like conditions in Liberia on the plantations. In response, Ndaawa was summoned by Kabba-sei of Gorhun and Nyahaghua of Panguma to move from the southern territories to lead a strategic counterattack. Ndaawa, a rising warrior of extraordinary skill and renown, mobilized his forces with determination and precision. However, he was unaware that many of the people he was preparing to confront were not traditional combatants but runaway slaves – individuals and families who were desperately making their way toward the coastal refuge of Freetown in search of freedom and safety under British protection.
This convergence of forces created a tense and unpredictable situation. On one side were experienced warriors like Ndaawa, tasked with defending territory and responding to perceived threats; on the other were vulnerable yet determined migrants, whose journey toward liberation would inadvertently place them directly in the path of Mende military strategy. The stage was set for a collision of histories, ambitions, and destinies, underscoring the complex interplay of freedom, power, and survival in this transformative period of Sierra Leone’s past
While there are some historical references to the battle, much of its true account has remained vague, fragmented, or deliberately obscured. What survives in mainstream historical narratives has often been reshaped to align with the interests and worldview of the newly established British colonial order. In this process, critical details were omitted, softened, or reframed to legitimise colonial authority, resulting in an incomplete and distorted version of events. Even early historians, including those who attempted to chronicle the early history of Sierra Leone, failed to interrogate these narratives deeply or to meaningfully engage with indigenous sources of knowledge, particularly those of the Mende intellectual tradition.
Central to this neglected history are the Mende scholars known as the Khoor-Mendes. These were highly learned Mendes who arrived in what later became known as Sierra Leone with a strong tradition of scholarship and record-keeping. They brought with them books and an established culture of documentation. Much of their historical knowledge was meticulously recorded on prepared goat skins, carefully dried and preserved in glass jars to protect them from decay. This method of preservation reflected both the value placed on historical memory and the sophistication of their archival practices. The Khoor-Mendes were literate in Arabic and possessed the skills necessary to produce detailed written accounts of significant events. Through painstaking documentation, they recorded the circumstances leading up to the battle, the events as they unfolded, and the consequences that followed, offering a comprehensive and internally coherent historical record.
Alongside the Khoor-Mendes were the Koh-Mendes, a term meaning “Upper Mendes.” This group largely consisted of agrarian communities whose primary occupation was farming. Despite their agricultural focus, the Koh-Mendes formed the backbone of the Mende fighting force. Their intimate knowledge of the land, combined with their physical endurance and collective organisation, made them formidable participants in warfare. While they may not have been scholars in the formal sense, their role was no less significant, as they defended territory, upheld communal authority, and ensured the survival of Mende society during periods of conflict.
Together, the Khoor-Mendes and the Koh-Mendes represent two complementary dimensions of Mende civilisation: intellectual preservation and physical defence. Any historical account that ignores either group fails to capture the full complexity of the battle and its broader social and political context. A more faithful reconstruction of history requires listening to these indigenous voices and recognising the depth, accuracy, and legitimacy of the records they left behind. According to the records of the ensuing battle, the mere presence of Ndaawah sent shockwaves of fear through the ranks of the invading force. His reputation and commanding presence unsettled their resolve even before the fighting fully began. Ndaawah employed a carefully considered strategy, positioning his forces on elevated ground and launching coordinated attacks from the surrounding hills. By striking from multiple directions, he forced the invaders down into the valley, where they could be more effectively confronted and engaged.
In keeping with the conduct expected of a warrior of his stature and sense of honour, Ndaawah first sought to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. He dispatched a scout to the invading force with a clear message: they were offered the opportunity to surrender, and if they did so, their safety would be guaranteed. However, Kailondo and his followers rejected this offer. They feared that surrender would lead to their capture and execution, and that Kailondo and the other leaders will have their skulls fashioned into a drinking vessel, a fate associated with defeat and humiliation.
Following their refusal, Ndaawah and his men advanced decisively. Moving swiftly and deliberately through the dense forest, they pressed the attack with increasing intensity. Overwhelmed by the coordinated assault and the unfamiliar terrain, the invading forces broke ranks and fled for their lives, desperately attempting to evade capture as they retreated. The scouts who had been carefully patrolling the contours of the battlefield eventually identified Kailondo as the leading fighter of the invading force. This discovery placed the relatively inexperienced Kailondo in direct confrontation with Ndaawah, a seasoned and formidable warrior. As Ndaawah pursued him with the intent to capture, Kailondo became acutely aware that his end was likely near.
However, fortune briefly intervened. As the chase continued into a dense forest crisscrossed by narrow, winding footpaths, Ndaawah’s foot became entangled in a concealed large bush rope, causing him to be violently thrown to the ground. This sudden fall momentarily halted the Mende advance. In the impact, Ndaawah landed on a dagger secured at his waist, which pierced his abdomen and inflicted a grievous wound. Despite the severity of his injury, Ndaawah attempted to maintain a brave and composed front. Yet his strength rapidly failed him, and he cried out to his men for assistance. They rushed to his side and carried him to a place of safety. As the pain intensified and it became clear that his wounds were fatal, Ndaawah recognised that this battle would be his last. Accepting his fate with resolve, he commanded his men to sever his head, choosing a warrior’s end rather than prolonged suffering.
His body was moved to a secure buffer area, and messengers were dispatched to inform the traditional leaders of the unfolding situation. Several days later, the chiefs convened and, without hesitation, demarcated a piece of land as part of a peace settlement. This land, symbolically offered to the soul, was wrapped in a white cloth and presented to the leaders. The settlement was named Kailahun, – meaning Kai’s town, in recognition of this act and its significance.
As part of the amnesty agreement, the surrounding land came to be known as ta Lu’ wa keh ta wah, a phrase meaning frightened, yet persistent. It reflected the character of those involved – fearful, but unwilling to retreat. It was also acknowledged that the invading group possessed a firearm, believed to have been stolen from their Liberian masters. As a condition of the agreement, this gun was surrendered to Kabba-Sei of Gorhun.
Although the Mendes lost the battle itself, they remained resolute in their determination to prevail in the broader struggle. Their influence was firmly established in the aftermath: Mende was adopted as the official language of the courts, and the first judges appointed in the new settlement were all Mendes. In this way, while defeated militarily, the Mendes secured lasting political and cultural authority, ensuring that their values and governance shaped the future of the settlement. That gun was later taken from Dauda Sandi’s bedroom in 1977 when the police came to search his room and took it without recognising its historical value. – This was Dauda’s brief history.
One evening, a letter arrived, handwritten on rough, cement-coloured paper, carried by a young man who had just leapt off the back of a truck. He approached the small metal gate of the compound and called out for Pa Sandi. A man emerged to greet him, asking where he had come from and the purpose of his visit. The young man reached into a tiny side pocket and produced the letter, explaining that it had come from “town” – a reference to Freetown. He further revealed that the sender was none other than Dauda’s political mentor, Chief Yumkella, who was himself incarcerated in Pademba Road Prison at the time.
Of all the congratulatory messages Dauda had received, this one carried a weight unlike any other. Before this moment, he wondered whether the chief had even received the news of his recent success. The letter was not simply a note of encouragement; it was a carefully measured communication, carrying guidance, strategic advice, and reassurance from someone whose influence had shaped Dauda’s political journey. After reading it, Dauda sent a brief reply, which the young messenger delivered back to Freetown.
This young man, seemingly ordinary, would soon become far more than a courier. He evolved into Dauda Sandi’s critical link to the world of Pademba road prison, a lifeline connecting him to the SLPP Chairman, mentor, and the broader currents of SLPP strategy that flowed beyond the walls of Pademba Road. Over the following days, Dauda came to fully appreciate the significance of that first letter. It marked the beginning of a steady stream of messages, delivered quietly and securely, linking the SLPP leadership and reinforcing the Chairman’s role as the party’s chairman, even from within prison walls.
Through this discreet and shadowed network of communication, political guidance, morale, and direction continued to flow, ensuring that Dauda remained connected to the pulse of his party and the wider political landscape. The young messenger became a vital figure, embodying the trust and discretion that would sustain Dauda’s influence during one of the most challenging periods of his career.
A week later, a message broadcast from the SLBS as it was then called, the nation’s only radio station at the time, instructed Dauda Sandi the SLPP candidate to report to the nearest police station for questioning. As the announcement spread through the surrounding communities, an uneasy silence fell over the towns and villages. Many residents quietly retreated to their farms, seeking temporary refuge from the uncertainty and potential danger that loomed in the streets.
Within the towns, men moved with deliberate caution, some familiar, others strangers. Their presence was marked by a disciplined and purposeful air, signalling that they were not ordinary locals but outsiders with specific objectives. Among them was a medium-height, stocky built photographer, who lingered around APC vehicles parked along the roads, methodically taking photographs. His actions initially seemed inconspicuous, but his identity became more significant later.
That same photographer would later resurface in Mobai years later, still carrying his camera, but now pursuing a far more troubling mission. He had begun recruiting young men into a movement that would soon descend into infamy. Those he enlisted would eventually form the ranks of what the world came to know as the Revolutionary United Front (RUF), led by this same man, Lance Corporal Foday Sankoh. In retrospect, the man’s earlier presence – quietly observing, recording, and blending into the background for his APC paymasters – served as an unsettling foreshadowing of the violence and upheaval that would soon engulf the region and command global attention.
Amid this growing tension, Dauda Sandi remained resolute in his determination to attend the first sitting of Parliament. How such a goal could be realised under the circumstances seemed almost unimaginable. Yet, against the odds, he made his way to Freetown and presented himself at the Criminal Investigations Department (CID) for questioning. How this came to pass, and what followed, is a story reserved for the next chapter.
To be continued.
Dauda Sandi (Jr). Sandi2317@hotmail.com
