Sir Lone

By C.R.A. Cole

Sir Lone is a book about a young boy named Sierra Leone growing up in a West African country. He lives in a world of play with his brothers and friends. Just like any pre-teen, Sierra goes to school, he plays sports and has a crush on a beautiful girl. When the former best friend of Sierras father returns from the United Kingdom to run for President, Sierra is forced to recognize the world around him. There is to be an election, there is a war going on in the rural areas, and Sierras life changes forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 12, 2010
• ISBN: 9781450040358

C.R.A. Cole

Crispin Cole, Jr. was born in Freetown, Sierra Leone. He was raised in a small town outside the city called Babadorie, Lumley. After a coup in 1997, Crispin and his family moved to Guinea. In September, they moved to New York. Crispin moved to Florida, where he started 10th grade. He graduated from high school in 2001 and enrolled in the University of Florida. There he majored in English with a concentration in Film & Media Studies. He graduated in 2005 and still lives in Florida. Crispin enjoys playing soccer, reading, and watching movies. He wrote this book to inspire the people of his country, especially the children. He plans to return and contribute to Sierra Leone. His role model is Nelson Mandela and he believes that if African leaders were like him, Africa would not be so desolate.

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Copyright © 2010 by C.R.A. Cole.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/06/2015

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Contents

Acknowledgment

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Explanatory Note

A

Dedication Page

L

O

N

E

For Gramma,

who knew

My Shadow

before I did

and for telling

me never to

drink. For Cliff,

I wish I could

trade places with

you; everyday.

And for you…

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank the people who are instrumental in making this book a possibility.

Janet Dorough more fondly known as Ms. D was the first person to read and edit my book. After finishing the book, I thought it was credible work, however, I could not verify my findings. When Ms. D read my book, I began thinking that maybe it is not as good as I think it is. Ms. D, thank you so much for reading, and editing my book. I am so grateful for your feedback and helpful advices.

Thelma F. Young is paramount in my book coming to publication. You are a poignant editor and a helpful friend. Thank you so much for all that you have done. The time you spent on my book, and working on it, is evidence of your kindness and diligence. Above all, thank you for believing in my work.

Nina Turay, simply without you this book would not have been possible. You are a constant source of motivation and inspiration. Thank you for letting me know what I need to know always. Nina, you see the good in me and never let the bad overshadow that. You are a superb being.

Chapter 1

A NAME IS WHAT we call ourselves, but the gods have a different name for us. In my country, children are considered gifts from the gods. And these gifts are delivered to us with names, names which the gods call us amongst themselves. To be told that you have no name is a curse; it means you do not exist in the eyes of the gods, they cannot see you - even though you are alive.

My name is Sierra Leone and I was born seven degrees north of the equator and thirteen degrees west of the Meridian Greenwich. My hometown is paved with fields of grass that run up mountains and carpet the valleys below. My house is in a valley and is painted mauve and white with three green roofs. I spent a lot of time on those roofs looking at vultures, robins, and staring directly into the eyes of God. My Grandmother told my brothers and I about the eyes of God.

Once upon a time, mankind lived in a place called Afland. It was the only place that was known to mankind, and they spent millions of years there. They had neither Sun nor Moon, and life was as peaceful as the wind in the trees and the gentle waves that run along the beaches. However, in any established society or community that is good, it is inevitable that evil will crawl into existence.

One day, a man wondered if God was really there and watching him. He decided to commit murder and thought that if God was not a myth, He would come down from the sky and stop him. As he left his house, he thought to himself, God’s going to stop me. He knocked on his neighbour’s door and thought again, God’s going to stop me. His neighbour’s wife told him that her husband was at the town meeting. At the meeting, he thought to himself, God’s going to stop me. He saw his neighbour and killed him. The neighbour said out loud to everyone, I knew it. There is no God watching down on us.

At this point, my grandmother would always stop and take a long drink of water. We all knew the rest of the story. We all wanted the rest of the story. We all waited for the rest of the story. She would look into our eyes, creating such suspense that only exists in movies. With our attention locked safely in her grasp, she would continue.

There was a loud sound that came from the mountains. It frightened the people for it sounded like the roar of a lion. Then came a voice and it said two simple words, I am. At this exact moment, Afland was broken into seven different pieces, and large bodies of water separated the pieces. God created the Sun and the Moon to always remind the people that He was watching them, and they believed that the Sun and the Moon were His eyes.

As I laid on the roof, I knew that God had an eye on me. The Moon stared down at me digging into my thoughts. God must have a really big face, I thought. His other eye was nowhere in sight. If God has such a huge eye, imagine how big His mouth must be. Does He eat boys who have been very bad? I don’t remember my grandmother saying anything like that, but I couldn’t help thinking about what I had done earlier in the day. I was not bad, but I was not good either. A drop of rain fell into my left eye and blurred my vision. The Moon looked like it was changing shape. It became a silver coin with eyes and a nose and a mouth. The mouth moved and spat out letters like a plane pulling letters that say, "Will you marry me?" The mouth moved again. This time there was sound, a voice, a familiar voice.

Sierra, get down here this instant. I blinked, and the world became clear again. The houses shone bright in the darkness, each a firefly at rest. I climbed down from the roof, looked at the Moon, and it winked at me. God was not mad at me. He had winked. I made a wish and blew downstairs.

It was time for quiet-time and my mother religiously implemented this every evening. A year ago I remembered being happy that I was going to camp during the holidays, for it meant that my mother was not going to be there to conduct quiet-times. I had kissed my mother on both cheeks, each dimple glistening in the Sunlight. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a neat roll that was the shape of bread. I believed that she sometimes wore her hair that way because it simply made us happy. The things a mother would do for her children are sometimes puzzling to the mind of a boy.

As I rode away in the Land Cruiser with my face smudged against the window, I saw in my mother’s face something that made my heart sink. She knew something that I did not. I sat down in the seat, diligently reached for my backpack, and opened it. Above the pieces of clothing – there was the word of God - sitting on the throne of my pack and smashing the biscuits that I had hidden away. She was informing me that though she is not physically there with me, I should act as if she were.

When I arrived in the living room, my brothers were already sitting down beside my mother. My youngest brother Temne, looked forward to these quiet-times. He would tell his friends about the passages that we had read the day before, and they would all sit around listening to him. Temne read most of the Bible passages. Compared to my father, he had not the most commanding voice, but had such a presence that compels fighting sides to stop and listen to reason. When Temne read, I could almost feel the hair on God’s back rising with pride at His fearful and wonderful creation. Often my father would beat his chest with his fingers to the rhythm of the verses.

Temne had his arm around mother, and his right hand was clutching the Bible. I met his eyes with mine, and they interlocked almost seemingly separating from our bodies. Moments like these left me to wonder if Temne had something other than good in him. Maybe he was letting me know that he was not as good as we all expected him to be. He seemed to be like a trained lion baring its teeth to remind the crowd that he was still a lion.

Temne showed me his teeth; they were in two perfect rows, none bigger than the other. He had equal and perfect teeth. His smile reassured me that he was just fine and that my mind was as usual creating and seeing things that were not there. I imagine that I would have been no good to a caravan of travellers crossing the Sahara. I would have cried wolf too many times, and their thirst would not have sustained such antics.

Mende in the Middle was the name given to Mende, not because he is my younger brother and older than Temne, but because he loved to be in the middle. There is a scar on the side of his head that, although not a constant reminder because it is covered with hair, serves more as a memento than a memory of Mende always wanting to be in the middle.

It was during the Harmattan season. The wind blew restlessly across the land causing little boys, who usually ran around with only a shirt and trousers on, to be covered completely. Our lips were dry and chapped and almost frozen from spittle that was slabbed on the upper lip first, then the lower and eventually both together. We had been warned not to go outside because the red clay that is usually settled on the ground now rose to the sky and flew each and every way. It was snowing red.

Earlier in the day, we had decided to have a game of sticks and stones. Our friends Pepel, Rokel, Sewa, and Jong were to meet