Gold Dirt: A Profile of the Sierra Leone Informal Economy (IV)

Dr. Umaru Bah, CEO

DataWise (SL) Ltd.

@DataWiseSL

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So Gibril came all the way abroad from United Stay to manage the kompanie. Waste Management Kompanie. That was what they called the kompanie. Waste Management. But the kompanie kind of went to waste. So Gibril Wilson, when he came, he wanted to start all over. Clean out the whole mess. Everything. So he changed the name to Masada. And let go of many, many of us push-kiat garbage workers.

But the old Kompanie still owed us wages. And we had nothing to work with because it owned even the push-kiat we used to haul the garbage. So Gibril took sympathy on us and gave us the push-kiats for free. I painted mine, put my name and motto on it. And that’s how I got my own business.

Abu-Bak with his Push-Kiat 

A lot of people depend on me to get their garbage. And a lot of people depend on this garbage to get their meal. Get me? This smell is not awful to me. I don’t smell it even. But if I did, it would be Dosee Kabana perfume to me. Dosee Kabana? That’s the fashion designer for the rich. The very, very rich. They make clothes, bags, perfumes. Dosee Kabana. So this smell to me is Dosee Kabana perfume. Because I feed my family on this. Going on ten years now. People are full of shit. They hold their nose. Squint their faces. Turn away. Run away. This push-kiat is full of their own shit you know. They should be thanking me for cleaning up their mess. But I don’t mind their disrespect. Because I get respect from where it matters most. From where it matters at all. From my wife. And my children. Know why? Because I feed them from this. I clothe them from this. I send my two kids to school from this. I just paid my daughter’s first-year-college fee. From this.

And that’s not all. When I get up at four in the morning every day from Monday to Saturday and go to Hill Street... that’s where we park our push-kiat at the end of the day for security reasons, that big compound behind the fence...when I get up at four in the morning every day from Monday to Saturday and go to Hill Street to pick up my push-kiat to start my day, there are a lot of people who are waiting for me, waiting on me. Because they also depend on me, on this push-kiat, for their daily livelihood. You see all these plastic bottles? None of them goes to waste. That’s why you see them all in these bags hanging from the sides of the push-kiat. You should come with me to Kingtom Bomeh. There’s a whole village of very hardworking women no one sees. Literally invisible. Because they are lost deep in pitch-black suffocating smoke whole day from 5 a.m. to 6:30 p.m., rummaging through people’s garbage to collect plastic. They are called kop-kompanie. Because they are a whole well-organized kop. Kop? It’s a kind of osusu business. It’s when a group of people or a small community come together and cooperate to form a small business. They call them kop.

So these kop-kompanie women, they come together every day at five o'clock in the morning with these big, big, big bags made of interwoven plastic. Very big. Bigger than this push-kiat. Big like this. [Spreads out arms wide open, head swinging swiftly to one side with chin gesturing at one hand, then swinging a short quick arc to chin-gesture at the other hand].  That’s how big. They collect empty plastic bottles like these here in the bags. But those are gold. They are rare. Only households in well-to-do neighborhoods throw them out.  In fact most, even those from the well-heeled, recycle them. They use them for their Ginger-beer, which some make for home consumption, while others prepare and give them to their servants to go out and sell for them. That’s how some of them make do too, you know.

Others, they use them to save face. You know how? O.k.  See the purified water in these small five hundred-leones plastic? They are considered po-man-wata. Wealthy people do not serve po-man-wata to their fellow wealthy folk. At least they are not supposed to. So some, they pour the water into the recycled gentry-man-wata bottles. The most popular and respected gentri-man-wata is Grafton water. The largest Grafton water bottle is in highest demand. They empty the po-man wata into the big gentry-man Grafton water bottle. Then when they have gentri visitors, they take out their shiny, well-polished water glasses from their cupboards along with their Grafton water bottle full of po-man-wata. And serve their guests.

Some gentri people also do not throw out  empty cans. Those Coke cans. Vimto cans. Fanta cans. Sprite cans. They keep them for collectors who come to their homes to buy them. Discreetly. Like they are selling marijuana or Tramadol or something. They don’t know that we know all their secrets. But we do. Oh if only they know how much we know! But we are not judging. Because we are all suffering. We are all doing what we must do to survive. That’s why me, I am not hypocritical about this. That’s why I am not ashamed of what I do. That’s why you see my name and motto printed boldly and proudly on this push-kiat. See it? It’s at the bottom all the way here. Just above the tires. Oh! You can’t see it because of the dirt. It says B-Bak Got Your Back. And my motto is Wan Man Poison Nar Orda Man Meat. B-Bak is my nickname. Get it?

So no. No plastic bottles in the bin. No cans either. They are rare. They are pure gold. That’s why I put them immediately in these bags you see hanging over the sides of the push-kiat. But nothing goes to waste really. This whole garbage collection is a big, big, big industry. Big like this [spreads out arms wide open, head swinging swiftly to one side with chin gesturing at one hand, then swinging a short quick arc to chin-gesture at the other hand]. That’s how big. Nothing goes to waste. These torn, threadbare clothing, including the socks and underwear. Yes, even the underwear. These worn-out shoes full of holes. These belts without buckles. These computer things here, which I don’t know what they are for. Most were bought used from the United Stay. And when they get to Bomeh, they will be rescued from the dump to be repaired or patched up to be sold and used again. And again. And again until there’s nothing left to throw away, even to the bin. That’s how we recycle here.That's why we recycle here. It’s not a lifestyle of the privilege. It’s fighting for life. That’s what I meant by people depending on me for their living and their livelihood. You get me?.

There are lots of these po-man wata plastic in-between smelly shit-bags. But when I take them to Bomeh, those kop-kompanie women, they go through them all, through the poop diapers even. And collect them all and put them in these big, big, big bags.  Very big, big like this [spreads out arms wide open, head swinging swiftly to one side with chin gesturing at one hand, then swinging a short quick arc to chin-gesture at the other hand]. That’s how big. And everyday, around 6 p.m., these big, big, big lorries come by to pick them up. They are big, big like this [spreads out arms wide open, head swinging swiftly to one side with chin gesturing at one hand, then swinging a short quick arc to chin-gesture at the other hand]. They are big. They come and collect these big, big bags of po-man-wata plastic and pay the see-yo of the kop-kompanie women. And they drive them all the way to Guinea. They say that’s where they have the factories to do all the recycling that they export to China. Anyway they pay the see-yo of the kop kompanie for all the Bomeh plastic. See-yo? That’s just a nickname for the head of the kop-kompanie. The see-yo. They got the nicknames from the kompanies owned by the foreigners and by the JCs and the local big-wan-dem. That’s also what they call themselves. See-yo.  Like me, if I were a big man, they would call me Abu Bak, See-Yo, Wan Man Poison Nar Orda Man Meat Ltd. Get it?

Anyway the see-yo of their Kop-Kompanie, she then shares their day’s earnings fairly among themselves. And that’s when these hard-working women, full of thick black smoke and filth, then go home and cook for their family. You see what I mean? Their men won’t kneel in the dirt to put meal on the table for their wife and kids. But they will eat the meal that the women prepared from that dump. Tell me, who’s garbage really? Me, I collect garbage so that I won’t be garbage. That’s all I got to say about that. Let’s just leave it at that. Ok?

But it’s not just the kop-kompanie women who depend on me. There are also the kids. The homeless kids. The orphan kids. The parentless kids. Parentless because their parents abandoned or neglected them out of abject poverty. They are the ones that really get me. They are the ones who really do the dirty jobs you know. Not us. When we get to the dump, they are the ones who really take out the filth and carry them right to the exact spot in the field where the City Council man or government man tells them they should dump it. I don’t know who they are. They are some faceless people who do nothing but demand money from us, from the Kop-kompanie women and sometimes from even the kids. That’s all I got to say about that. Let’s just leave it at that. Ok?

So anyway the kids clear out and clean all the push-kiats. I give them three thousand leones per trip. I know man, that’s not enough at all. Nothing could be enough. They should not even be there! Their presence reminds me of my own kids. Of why I do this. So that my kids won’t ever be in a place like this. Nevertheless, those kids are the part of my job that hurts me the most.  That’s why I collect and put all these plastic bottles on the side. It’s for the boys. I give it to them for free to sell to the Guinean lorry drivers. Many use the money to go buy Tramadol. That’s how they cope. That’s how they manage to live enough to live another day. I know somehow that giving them money to help them get hooked on drugs all the more makes it much worse. But honestly, it makes me feel better. It helps me cope with my own psychological pain and the guilt of working with them.

My fees? They vary. I charge by the bag. Anywhere from two thousand to sometimes five thousand leones. But even that, it depends on how heavy each bag is. And I judge that by how I see it with my eyes and feel it with my hands. But all in all, the average cost for each bag of trash is three thousand leones. I make about two to three trips a day to Bomeh. On a good day, I take home one hundred thousand leones. When the day’s really tough, I take home forty thousand leones. At least enough for tomorrow’s chop money.

To tell you the truth, I am getting too old and tired for this. The loads are getting heavier and heavier every day now, it seems. That’s because I am getting weaker and weaker. I sneeze a lot and cough a lot. It’s old age and asthma. Most people I know my age are dead. No joke. I am 45 years now you know. It’s not easy loading this up and then lifting it and pulling it on two wheels with my own bare hands only, all the way to Bomeh!

All I want now is one of these new motorized push-kiats that they say the EU gave for free to City Council or the government.  They are supposed to give them to us for free, but you get one only if you have the right connections or enough money to be connected. Get it? That’s all I got to say about that. Let’s just leave it at that. Ok?

My dream is to retire on one of those motorized push-kiats. I will sell this one, use the money to hire one or two garbage collectors who will ride with me and collect and sort the garbage. Then they ride in the back with the full load to Bomeh, while I enjoy the breeze on my face. When we get to Bomeh, the collectors get out and they, not the boys, clear out and dump the loads. All in one hour! We would do six-seven-eight-nine-ten trips! Easy. Just like that.

Easy load. Easy ride. Easy money. That’s the life man. That’s the life.