AWE Media Sierra Leone

By Hassan Arouni I was looking for some earthenware pots. The kind made by hand, heavy at the base, breathing clay. Something to hold plants the way the earth holds dreams. So I asked Bashiru—farmer, fixer, storyteller—if pots were still made in Mano, the bustling heart of Dasse Chiefdom. “Hmm,” he said, brushing dust from his palms. “Long time now, no one makes dem ting. But there was a man…” His voice dropped slightly, as though words might awaken something sleeping. “There was one man who used to make pots, yes. But he was not… from here. I mean—he was from somewhere else. Died there. Then came here.” I frowned. “Died there? What do you mean?” “He was a die man,” Bashiru said flatly. “A dead man. Come back to life. Lived among us like nothing happened.” I blinked. “Bash… how can that be?” “E dae be ya,” he said, nodding. “Mesef been sabi wan. I knew one.” I waited. The afternoon air was thick, still. “His name was Orjagu,” Bashiru continued, voice hushed. “Not his real name. That wa...