By Isaac Massaquoi
I was returning home from work one evening driving in monsoon-type rain in the middle of July. I was with an East African researcher whom I was taking home for dinner with my family. It was on the eve of his departure for home after two weeks in Sierra Leone. He was here to do the Sierra Leone side of a research project on the “Institutions and people that drive change in Africa”. I was his local contact and we became friends as we collected documents and interviewed people across Sierra Leone.
As we approached Congo Cross that evening, the downpour began with amazing intensity even by Sierra Leone standards. Traffic slowed down to a crawl and some vehicles developed engine trouble further disrupting traffic. Expecting my friend to be frustrated about this and anxious about his return journey, I turned to him with this question: Are you ok? He looked at me and smiled saying: “I love the rain”. Well, we all love rain but after going through May and June, with the thought of August coming, I really hated what was happening.
My friend then went on talking about how blessed Sierra Leone was just because of the rain, drawing from stories of the Ethiopian famine caused by drought and the perennial lack of rain in parts of Somalia. My mind raced back to the Ethiopian famine which happened in my early years in high school - those pictures of dry fields, damaged crops and dead cattle and “We are the world”, the popular song that sold millions of copies, raising huge amounts of money for disaster relief there.
As I drove him back to his hotel after dinner, he spoke a lot about what to do with the rain water and how much money the nation can make from agriculture and indeed provide pipe borne water to every home in Sierra Leone. These are theories I heard many years ago and by that time of the night, I was getting tired and so I paid only passive attention to whatever my friend was saying.
What I didn’t tell him was that the luggage at the back of my old Nissan Pathfinder Jeep on the homeward journey contained ten jerry cans full of water which I fetched on a daily basis from an NGO office in the Brookfields area.
I was in my 7th year in Smart Farm to the west of the city and in all that time, I enjoyed only three months of pipe-borne water. For the rest of the time, I got water from a well up the hill close to Wilberforce from a man who made a fortune charging a few leones per jerry can. As more and more people flocked to what was now his well of life, the man grew arrogant and disrespectful. He would close the well early and open it late morning, apparently enjoying his God-like status.
I grew so fed up that I decided to personally visit the head of Guma Valley Water Company and tell him how frustrated I was with his company’s inability to deliver water to an area as big and heavily populated as Smart Farm.
Two years earlier, I had gone to the Guma Valley works yard at Pademba Road to complain. They linked me up with their colleagues at Signal Hill Road who then assigned two of their men to deal with my problem. Their report left me devastated. The only help they could give was for me to buy a dozen or so pipes and pay them some money so they would bring water to my compound from Wilberforce, bypassing the normal supply channel to Smart Farm.
Together with my housemates, I parted with a fortune to get this done and water was flowing again 24 hours a day. Soon neighbours flooded our compound to fetch water. But the joy didn’t last beyond three weeks. Supply was badly disrupted at peak hours and sometimes there was no supply for days. I called the Guma guys again who told me that people up the hill were deliberately vandalizing the pipes to scoop water. It got to a point, we stationed strong boys up the hill in the mornings to fight off those stealing water from our pipes. We woke up one morning to discover that the five pipes leading to the trunk had been stolen. That was the end of my experience with pipe borne water in that house.
When I reported the matter to the police at Congo Cross, the officer who was supposed to record my complaint told me about many other such complaints from dozens of households in the area. Out of curiosity, I asked him “how many of the criminals have you thrown into prison?” He replied: “It’s not easy to catch them”. I said good bye to him and left without recording a statement.
So it was against this background that I went to see the Guma Valley boss. I found him preparing to take his lunch with a foreign TV crew setting up their equipment in his office for an interview.
He was at pains to explain that he would give me only a few minutes because it was lunch time and he had an appointment with the TV producers.
Actually I arrived there without an appointment and pressed the Public Relations Officer so hard that he squeezed me in amid protestations from his boss.
In the few minutes I had with the Manager, a man who had only just returned to the country after many years abroad, I practically accused him of being incompetent because his company had no idea how to bring water into our homes. In my “responsible citizen” mode, I almost called for his immediate resignation. I expected him to be defensive and attack but he stayed calm and listened to me.
When I concluded, he told me it was totally impossible for Guma Valley to supply water to Smart Farm with the facilities that existed at the time. I was stunned at his direct – maybe honest – approach. He told me he got up in the small hours of the morning to scoop water in his home because at that time the pressure was heavy enough to get the water to his part of town. He then looked into my face and said “even for this office, we bring water in our bowsers”.
He told me about the disgraceful subvention the government gives to Guma Valley and how it is almost impossible for his company to increase tariff because like ordinary Sierra Leoneans, our MPs believe water should be free.
I left the office feeling sorry for him and wondering why he was trying to do what was clearly an impossible job.
This was four years ago. The Manager has left Guma Valley; Smart Farm still has no running water. The well-of-life man is still having a field day but I have found respite from the job of fetching water at my new place. I get water for two hours in the morning so we hurriedly scoop a lot of it for use throughout the day. I still buy bottled water because I can’t risk drinking the water that comes to my home. In a way, I am still carrying water, the quantity has reduced drastically. However, on my way to town every day, I see many children who should otherwise be in school carrying jerry cans looking for water. The problem is still very much here.
For the first time we have a separate ministry for Water Resources which to me signals the government’s concern about the disaster that this water crisis will unleash on this country if urgent steps are not taken to address the problem. Listening to the minister on radio the other day, I have a feeling he still needs to read his files. There are highly qualified professionals in his ministry who will be of great benefit to his efforts. I understand there is huge international money coming to this sector. This may represent the last hope for any significant change in the water situation in Sierra Leone.
There are inconvenient truths that this government must be ready to tell the people of this country about what it takes to bring water to their homes and what their contribution to that must be. Our governments are known to be so concerned about their popularity and the prospect of losing votes that they don’t even collect taxes.
Senegal is just one hour away and they are under serious threat of desertification but there is always water running from the taps. I have not always lived in hotels when I visit. The Ugandans have also done well with supplying water to their people. I told my East African friend that three years since he left we still have lots of rain but the water problem has grown worse for many people here.
If after reading this piece you feel a little sorry for my troubles, spare a thought for tens of thousands of others in this city who are worse off. Never mind those in the provinces.
