The Untold Story: Evolution Of Sierra Leonean Society “Episode 2”
The Bandama checkpoint, now firmly woven into the nation’s security architecture, did not emerge from a noble vision of public safety. Its beginnings are far more troubling and steeped in political intrigue. Few speak openly about its awkward origins, but history records that it was conceived in a climate of hostility and fear, as part of a plot to eliminate the SLPP candidate, Dauda Sandi, for the then Kailahun South constituency to give way to the A.P.C. candidate, Dr Sama Banya. This is not a footnote to be buried, nor a truth to be airbrushed to accommodate modern political narratives. History, however uncomfortable, must be confronted rather than rewritten.
When Dauda arrived in Kenema in 1971, leaving behind the familiarity of his work at Forest Industries in Freetown, he stepped into a world brimming with possibilities. It was a bold move into unfamiliar territory, but Dauda was never a man content to follow well-trodden paths. What many saw as ordinary neighbours, he saw as gatekeepers of a hidden kingdom. The Limbas of Bandama were not merely another community sharing the landscape; they were custodians of secrets that lay deep within the vast forests of eastern Sierra Leone. Their knowledge was not learned from books or maps. It was inherited, lived, and etched into their understanding of the land through generations.
The forest itself seemed to whisper to them. They knew where the giants stood – massive trees towering above the canopy like silent sentinels of another age. They could identify the finest timber hidden within miles of dense wilderness, places where an outsider would see only an impenetrable wall of green. To Dauda, this was no ordinary skill. It was a treasure more valuable than gold. Where others saw trees, he saw opportunity. Where others saw wilderness, he saw enterprise. And where others overlooked the wisdom of the Limbas, he recognised a partnership that could unlock the immense wealth hidden beneath the forest canopy. It was a moment of vision meeting knowledge, ambition meeting expertise, and it would shape the course of his journey in ways few could have imagined.
At the time, he was running a modest carpentry workshop in Kenema, where every plank of wood carried weight, and every piece of timber determined the quality of his craft. Securing the right materials was not just important – it was survival. And so, in the Limbas of Bandama village, he found not only allies, but essential partners – guides to the very lifeblood of his trade, helping him carve out both livelihood and legacy from the depths of the forest.
In those earlier years, before corruption became deeply rooted within the Sierra Leone Police, the Limba community often turned to Dauda for support when they encountered problems involving law enforcement. They trusted him, and he, in turn, was always willing to step in and assist where he could. This role strengthened his standing among them, not just as a businessman, but as someone they could rely on in times of need. Over time, this connection grew into a strong and mutually beneficial relationship. The Limba’s knowledge of the forest complemented Dauda’s enterprise in Kenema, while his willingness to advocate for them, built trust and loyalty. What began as a practical association gradually deepened into a lasting bond, rooted in respect, cooperation, and shared interests.
At the very core of both village life and the bustling rhythms of Kenema stood the Limba women – unyielding, resourceful, and indispensable. They were far more than participants in the economy; they were its backbone, sustaining not only their households, but an entire township through sheer determination and tireless labour. From the forests and farmlands, they brought forth abundance – wild fruits, fresh vegetables, chickens, ducks, and the spoils of the hunt: large rodents and monkeys, vital sources of protein that fed both village and town. Every item they carried told a story of effort, endurance, and survival, bridging the gap between the quiet rural landscape and the growing demands of urban life.
Yet, among all their contributions, one stood out with quiet significance – the calabash. These large, unassuming fruits were transformed by their hands into something far greater than mere produce. Carefully cultivated in the region’s rich soil, they were harvested, dried under the sun, and painstakingly hollowed out to become sturdy, reliable vessels. In these calabashes flowed palm wine, the lifeblood of trade between village and township.
The process itself was an art, steeped in patience and precision. Once dried, the inner pulp was removed with care, and the seeds, never wasted – were set aside for the next planting season, ensuring that the cycle of life and livelihood would continue unbroken. In this way, the Limba women did more than farm or trade – they shaped an enduring system of survival and exchange. Through their hands, the ordinary became essential, and the fragile thread between land, people, and economy was held firmly together.
Palm wine flowed through the community not as a simple drink, but as a symbol of status, power, and social order. At the very top of this hierarchy were those who could command the finest, the most coveted quality – the elite, known in Limba as “heaimoh or bandaholo”. To them went the prized “mangnahma”: pure, undiluted palm wine, treasured for its potency, richness, and unmistakable taste. Every drop was carefully preserved, stored in meticulously cleaned calabash containers or, when fortune allowed, in gleaming glass jars – ensuring that not a hint of impurity or water would dilute its excellence.
Beneath them were the general consumers, called “Yaapoh or Langba”, who drank eagerly yet received a lesser portion, often watered down, a shadow of the original’s strength. Each sip reminded them of their place in the intricate social tapestry. This tiered system was more than mere preference – it was a reflection of the broader rhythms of power, wealth, and influence. In every calabash, in every carefully guarded pour, the community’s hierarchy was made tangible, a liquid testament to the divisions that shaped both village life and the bustling township it supplied.
Yet, the story of palm wine – and the oil that often accompanied it – was only part of the tale. The true marvel lay in the calabash containers themselves, vessels born of patience, skill, and an almost reverential attention to detail. The finishing around the mouth of each dried calabash was painstakingly perfected, shaped and grafted with care to ensure not just utility, but elegance. Each curve, each polished edge, reflected hands that knew both the demands of function and the power of beauty.
These calabashes, colloquially known as “bouly” in Limba language, were far more than simple containers; they were the tangible embodiment of local knowledge, ingenuity, and pride. In their smooth surfaces and precise forms lay the story of a people who could see potential in the rawness of the forest, transforming nature itself into instruments of trade, vessels of culture, and symbols of identity. They were a testament to a community that did not merely survive – but shaped the world around them with creativity, skill, and unwavering purpose.
A crucial element of this artistry lay in the stopper – seemingly modest, almost overlooked, yet in truth a masterpiece of ingenuity and quiet brilliance. Fashioned from bamboo, it was carved with painstaking precision, shaped to fit flawlessly into the narrow mouth of the calabash as though it had grown there by nature’s own design.
But it was never just a simple plug. Each stopper was carefully woven with palm fibre, the strands twisting and intertwining in intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. Beeswax was then applied with deliberate care, sealing every edge, guarding against even the slightest leak. Nothing was left to chance. Every detail spoke of discipline, patience, and an unwavering commitment to perfection.
In its final form, the stopper became something far greater than functional – it was a miniature work of art, crafted to protect what was most valuable: the palm wine, the oil, the very lifeblood of trade and survival. To hold one was to witness the fusion of necessity and beauty, a creation so refined that even the most critical observer could not help but pause in admiration.
Another dramatic chapter in the Limba contribution to the nation’s medical history unfolded in the 1950s, as a silent yet relentless enemy swept through the land: poliomyelitis. The disease, vicious and indiscriminate, had begun to decimate communities across Sierra Leone. Though its presence had long been suspected, local knowledge offered no scientific framework to identify or combat it.
What made the threat even graver was its chosen victims: the youths – the very backbone of rural communities, the tireless farmers whose hands and labour sustained the land. Without them, the fields would lie fallow, the harvests fail, and the fragile balance of village life would collapse. In the absence of any effective remedy, poliomyelitis tore through this critical segment of the population, leaving families, farms, and futures in peril.
The crisis grew so severe that the British colonial administration was forced to intervene, sending teams into the provinces to pinpoint the communities most ravaged by the illness. In these villages, the quiet rhythms of daily life were shattered, replaced by fear, grief, and the urgent struggle for survival. It was a moment that exposed both the vulnerability of the people and the urgent need for knowledge, care, and action, a turning point in the country’s fight against disease and the shaping of its medical infrastructure.
What they uncovered sent ripples of astonishment through the medical teams. Health experts descended upon the affected regions, determined to salvage what they could from the devastation. Yet, as they moved from village to village, a startling pattern emerged: the Limba communities, tucked far from the bustle of major towns and meticulously kept clean, were entirely untouched by the scourge of poliomyelitis.
At first, investigators assumed geography alone had shielded them – remoteness, isolation, perhaps even sheer luck. But closer scrutiny revealed a far more remarkable truth. The Limba diet, rich in monkey meat, held a hidden power. Through generations of careful practice and traditional knowledge, consuming monkeys had inadvertently conferred immunity against the disease.
The discovery was monumental, a natural safeguard that predated scientific study and far surpassed mere coincidence. Elsewhere in the world, macaque monkeys in Asia had become the focus of modern medical research for a similar immunity – but here, in the forests of Sierra Leone, the Limba had unknowingly harnessed the same protection for generations. Yet history would twist unfairly: the colonial government, blind to indigenous wisdom, failed to acknowledge the Limba people for their extraordinary, life-saving insight. In that silence, a profound contribution to science and survival went uncredited, hidden beneath the shadows of both ignorance and empire.
In a quiet clearing in Bandama village, beneath the shade of towering trees and far from the noise of the outside world, an extraordinary scene often unfolded. Dauda Sandi would sit for hours with the Limba chiefs, listening intently as they spoke about the forest – its hidden paths, its ancient landmarks, and the stories woven into its landscape.
On one memorable occasion, the gathering took an unexpected turn. Dauda carefully produced a weathered manuscript wrapped in leather, its pages worn by time and generations of handling. Then, in fluent Arabic, he began to read and speak. His words were measured and deliberate, carrying an authority that seemed to transcend the moment itself.
What followed was far more than a conversation. It was a journey into the distant past. As he spoke, the forest around them seemed to fade away, replaced by vivid accounts of migrations, chieftaincies, alliances, and forgotten encounters. The manuscript opened a window into a world that existed long before colonial boundaries and modern politics – a world that held the hidden origins of the land that would eventually become Sierra Leone.
The chiefs listened with fascination. Before them was not simply a village elder recounting old tales, but a living custodian of history, preserving memories that had survived centuries. In that quiet clearing, surrounded by the wisdom of the chiefs and the silence of the forest, the past came alive, revealing stories that few outsiders had ever heard and even fewer had understood.
According to his accounts, the forested regions had long been the domain of the Limba and Gola peoples, their lives intertwined with the rhythms of the land for centuries. That balance, however, was about to be challenged. From the distant savannas, as the old empires were collapsing, came the first Mende groups – known as the “Kpar-Mende” – fleeing the collapse of mighty empires. Warlike and resilient, they carved a perilous path through untamed landscapes, moving from the open plains into dense, shadowed forests.
They arrived as men only, hardened by hardship and conflict, unaccompanied by women. Theirs was a world of survival, of courage tested at every step, a march into unknown territory where every tree, every river, and every shadow could conceal danger. And yet, these men – strangers in a foreign forest – would leave a mark that would ripple through generations, shaping the complex tapestry of communities, alliances, and histories that Dauda now revealed to the wide-eyed people of Bandama.
The arrival of the Kpar-Mende brought a storm to the forested villages. Limba settlements, long peaceful and insulated, were suddenly under assault. These Mende warriors struck with precision, capturing women and taking them as trophies of war – symbols of conquest and dominance. But from this violence, a new chapter of life emerged. Unions between the Mende men and Limba women gave birth to a new language, one that echoed the tones of Mende but carried the mark of two peoples entwined, – the Lokos.
Some of these new Mendes forged from the union with the Limbas, stayed, putting down roots and blending into the land, while others pressed further north with time, joining the Susu – Temmene who had come from Guinea, creating a complex web of migration, alliance, and survival. As the Mende population grew, so too did the need for mates, and with growth came vulnerability. To protect this fledgling community – a new people born from union and conflict – they developed new ideas for their protections, they surrounded their settlements with fire at nights when most of the raids occurred, a roaring barrier against any who might threaten them.
Yet, the Mendes were not deterred by the defensive flames. They devised daring strategies to confront danger head-on. Before a raid, warriors soaked their clothing in water, giving them the ability to move through or leap over fire without harm. Those who braved the flames called themselves “na sia ta wundeh,”- meaning those who can jump over the fire, later shortened to Wounde – a name that became synonymous with courage, skill, and unbreakable fraternity or society. Through this fearlessness, the “Wonde” forged a new identity, a brotherhood born from both peril and survival, leaving a legacy of bravery that would echo through generations.
Over time, the Mende-speaking Limbas lost their original tongue fading into memory – began a quiet but powerful return, drawn back to the embrace of their Limba kin. Many came not by choice, but by necessity – fleeing the constant threat of further raids and the fear of losing more of their women. Their journey northward was not just movement across land; it was a retreat for survival, a search for refuge among those bound to them by blood and history.
To be continued.
Dauda Sandi (Jr) Email – sandi2317@hotmail.com
