In the village of Dublin in Sierra Leone sits an old, old cemetery. Like many cemeteries in this part of the world, the headstones have fallen, choked by a jungle of creepers. Only a few of the gravesites look like anyone has been looking after them and even those look like an afterthought.
The Banana Islands featured strongly in the era of transatlantic slavery. Here, if you look hard enough, you can still see the outlines of the gardens that surrounded the houses built by the British.
In the cemetery, one headstone reminds us of that past. What text can be deciphered shows that the man was on the Sloop Siren and died from what may be Rice Coast fever in 1817 aged 32.
This headstone helpfully says that the seaman in the grave next to thisĀ – one William Armstrong – died two days earlier aged 22 of the same disease.
I can’t find any reference to Rice Coast fever though – and I’m only guessing at the word, ending in an -e- that goes before Coast.
A few decades later, in 1873, James Thompson was buried, aged 36.
Others are more recent.
The cemetery still seems to be in use; the new headstones still look worn and unkempt. But that’s the nature of this part of the world. It’s a constant battle to keep things looking fresh and clean.
I went back a couple of times to visit while we were there as the path to Turtle Bay runs through it. There’s comfort in knowing that people walk among the dead every day; I hope they’re at least on nodding terms.