On To the Next One

Contributed by: Dave

The rain that lasted all day was appropriate. After saying goodbye to the kids, we were all feeling rather gray. We spent it finalizing some travel details, packing and generally feeling down.

Thankfully, we had something to look forward to. That night, Joseph Lamin of the Masanga Children’s Fund had offered to take us out to dinner. We hadn’t gotten much time to know him, so we were looking forward to it. Even prior to arriving in Salone, most of our communication with him was second hand, passed on by Schools for Salone’s Cindy Nofziger.

Joseph is a force. With Schools for Salone, he’s built 16 schools in 6 years. He’s responsible for overseeing all the projects on the ground—no small task in any country, let alone Sierra Leone. He guided our school to completion. For that, we’ll be forever grateful.

We were anxious to talk to Joseph. During the opening ceremony of the school, several of the speakers mentioned the need for a number of things now that the primary school was open. They ranged from a laptop, to a vehicle, to a secondary school to an orphanage. Joseph is a man who we could trust. We wanted his input.

His answer was surprising. He said that if we wanted to do anything, an orphanage would be the most valuable. But, he said, we shouldn’t feel obligated to do anything. What we had done was enough. On that point, we disagree.

We mention this farewell dinner for one reason: our work with Sierra Leone is just getting started. We’ll be moving on to other film projects that most likely won’t have anything to do with Salone, but these kids and this country are embedded deep within our hearts. As long as there are kids like the ones we know and people like Joseph that can help us help them, we’ll do whatever it takes to get it done.

Don’t be surprised when you get an email from us announcing our next fundraiser.

FOLLOWING UP WITH THE KIDS FROM B2RD

Contributed by: Dave

PART II

Tonight, we hosted the African premiere of BROWNSTONES TO RED DIRT. The guests of honor? The kids from the Children in Crisis Primary School.

In classic Salone fashion, traffic from the east end of town (where the school is) to the west end of town (where the theater is) was terrible. The poda poda we had hired to get them to the screening arrived an hour and a half late. When it finally pulled to a stop in front of the Lagoonda Entertainment Complex, children came barreling out. And they kept barreling out. Somehow, Aunty Musu and Sento managed to get all of the children from the orphanage into one van.

They occupied the first three rows of the theater. As it went dark, we suddenly went from very excited to very nervous.

We didn’t know what to expect of their reactions. What would they think of our portrayal of them, the school and their stories? It was a feeling we hadn’t had since the kids in Brooklyn saw the movie for the first time.

We certainly couldn’t have predicted the reaction we got.

There were the obvious cheers and laughter when a kid appeared on screen for the first time and there was the rather profound silence when the Brooklyn kids spoke in English (we really should’ve prepared a version with Krio subtitles), but what was shocking were the moments in the film that played with great weight and seriousness back home were met with levity here. Where we saw drama, they saw shared pain that they had overcome together. We thought reliving the memories of the war would be painful, but rather than pain, they found joy in seeing their stories of survival in a darkened cinema because it was a testament that they had been heard. It was surreal.

When the final frame played, it was time to say goodbye… for now. We said goodbye to them in a parking lot as they boarded their poda poda for their long journey home. There were tears from both sides. Promises were exchanged. Hugs were given. And given again. It was horrible and gut-wrenching, yet, somehow uplifting. We always knew we’d never be done with these kids—now, it seems they know it too.

FOLLOWING UP WITH THE KIDS FROM B2RD

Contributed by: Dave

PART I

Yesterday was emotional. Today was fun.

At every stop on the festival circuit, people ask the inevitable question, “Where are they now?” We’ve been able to give vague updates gleaned from letters and emails, but today, we got to ask that question ourselves.

One-by-one, we brought in the kids from the film to hear what they were up to now. We don’t want to give away too many spoilers from our upcoming DVD release, but we can tease it a little. Balla is doing fabulously. Not only has he continued to draw, he’s working as an apprentice at a graphic design shop. Apprenticeship wasn’t for Emmanuel, who decided to open his own small business (wait til we share his new setup). Chief (Abdul) is killing it in school and is on a university track. Gladis is still teaching others how to dance… and still dances with Augusta. Augusta is enrolled at one of the top girls’ schools in Sierra Leone and just represented her school in a dance competition that she placed second in. We couldn’t have asked for better updates—they’re all doing so well.

Aunty Musu attributed a lot of the children’s success to the secondary school sponsorship program we established in 2009 through Schools for Salone. Not every child has a sponsor (hint, hint), so she makes sure the kids know that having one is a privilege. She has told them that they must earn these scholarships and if they don’t, they will be given to a more deserving student. Every night, she says, the students rush to the table to do homework together. Aunty Musu and Aunty Sento get progress reports every two weeks and the results are glowing (they could hardly contain their pride when sharing this with us).

We also sat down on camera with each child that has a sponsor. Consistently, we heard the same thing. The sponsorship changed my life. Without education, I am nothing. I will make you proud. Truthfully, communication back and forth to Salone has been a challenge to the sponsorship program, so hearing that the program is having the desired results was extremely reassuring (and if you happen to be one of our sponsors, look forward to getting a video message soon!).

During the interview process, Chief, Balla and E stuck around, but they didn’t just hang out, they helped. We may have first seen it yesterday, but today we really witnessed how these kids, if we can still call them that, have transitioned into leaders of their community. Given the necessary resources, they are going to, as Balla said he wanted to do in BROWNSTONES, “Push Salone forward.”

We can’t wait to see them do it.

THE OPENING OF THE NEW CIC

Contributed by: Dave

The chatter in the car on the way to the new school opening belied how nervous we were. It was forgettable at best: discussions about the new power lines, the traffic being as bad as ever, radio deejays sharing universal vocalisms. It hid what simmered under the surface: what would it be like to see our kids again?

But as we bumped up the final stretch of the steep, dirt road and saw the school over a rise, it was fairly vacant. The school was stunning, sure, but there were only a handful of people in attendance. In true Salone fashion, the government had decided that classes wouldn’t resume today, September 5^th, the day we were told when we booked our trip. Rather, they’d start September 18th. Most people were still on holiday in the provinces. For the first time, we started to wonder if we’d actually see our kids. We had to had to push that thought away—it was time to start setting up our shoot.

SFS’ Cindy Nofziger had told us to prepare for music. Loud music. And lots of it. Her prophecy didn’t disappoint. Two giant speakers soon began blaring American and African hip-hop, simultaneously wiping out any chance we had to record decent sound and acting as a beacon that drew in the people of Kola Tree village. We scanned each face that passed, hoping one of them would be one of our kids.

It’s amazing, then, that the first two kids snuck passed us without fanfare. Clay was the first to whisper: “There’s Chief” (or Abdul as he is referred to in the film). Sure enough, there he was. And next to him? Balla.

We made our way over to them and their wide smiles banished any nerves we might have had. We exchanged huge embraces and exclamations of joy and disbelief. Chad and Clay showed baby pictures. Josh, who had spent so much time getting to know these kids and composing music to capture their spirit, met them face-to-face for the first time.

As Chief and Balla disappeared to help set up, we wondered who would be next. Rushing in, with dozens of kids around her, came the school’s headmistress, Aunty Musu. Though she didn’t have much screen time in the film, Aunty Musu has been our point person since we left. We have grown incredibly close. She’s an amazing woman who soothes huge groups of children with her calming voice and earns their respect with her authoritative, but loving rule. The kids are who they are because of who she is. Our reunion was overjoyed.

Then Emmanuel came bounding down the hill. “E” is very dear to us. In addition to being a sweet, savvy and street-smart kid who wowed audiences across the world with his self-reliance, he’s probably the one we spent the most time with in 2008. He acted as our translator then, so he was with us for a lot of down time. In that time, we became friends and seeing him again was unreal.

One of the two Sierra Leonean girls in the film, Gladis, tried to slip in discreetly, but when we saw her, we wouldn’t let her pass quietly. Hugs were exchanged and it was time for the official opening to begin. Augusta, the final child from the film (and the one closest to Chad’s heart), was nowhere to be found.

The ceremony began beautifully, with Aunty Musu’s familiar call, “Helllllllllllllllllloooo” and the children’s response, “HI!” Perhaps more than anything, this brought us back to those days underneath the mango tree. A Christian and Muslim prayer followed. The head table included Aunty Sento, who founded the first CIC during the war, Aunty Musu, Joseph Lamin of the Masanga Children’s Fund, the chairman from the village elders and the village’s chief. I was honored to be up there with them representing Copper Pot and everyone back home. We each made a few remarks. When Aunty Sento spoke, she became so overwhelmed by CIC’s journey from a vision to the school it’s become that she wept openly and couldn’t continue. At times, they broke into song, with all the kids—by now over 100 village children had gathered—singing along. On behalf of all of Copper Pot, I was made an honorary chief and given the name, Pa. Koroma Bai Dave. We were all presented with garas, traditional African dress, and told we were welcomed now to the village as family.

And somewhere, in the middle of the chief’s speech, we spotted Augusta. Shy, but smiling, she waved. They were all there finally.

In a day we’ve all worked towards for so long, a day full of emotion, there was a particular moment that got to us. At the ceremony’s end, they asked the orphans to come forward. The first kids we met at CIC were in this group of 20, as were all five of the kids featured in the film. Chief—Abdul, our Chief, not the village chief—took the microphone. He made a brief speech, then led the group in a welcome song. Three years ago, these were mainly shy kids who had trouble speaking on camera. But here they were, leading their classmates and village in song. They had grown up into kids that the other students looked up to.

We had always felt badly that the students in the film had graduated from primary school and wouldn’t benefit from the new CIC. But from what we saw that day, we were wrong. The kids from BROWNSTONES seemed to have a new confidence. They were proud of the school—even though they wouldn’t attend it, they knew that it was their stories and strength that had inspired the effort to build the school. More than Schools for Salone, the Massanga Children’s Fund, Copper Pot or the countless donors, the school was built by them. All they had ever asked was that their stories be told. The new building standing atop a hill in Kola Tree is evidence that their voices haven’t just been heard, but they will continue to ring out for years to come.

THE DAY AFTER GAME DAY

Contributed by: Dave

After the insanity that unfolded at Sierra Leone’s 2-1 victory over Egypt yesterday, we wisely planned a bit of a quiet day today. Kei Kamara had spent much of his interview talking about the importance of football in Sierra Leone, and though we had certainly witnessed this for ourselves, we felt we needed to capture the average person’s passion with our cameras.

Right across the street from our hotel, games covered Lumley Beach. Picture your local beach on Fourth of July with blankets and umbrellas covering every available inch of sand. Replace those blankets and umbrellas with balls and makeshift goals and you’ll have an idea of what it was like.

Kei would later tell us that on Sunday, Lumley is the place to play. Guys would run from Kissy, miles away on the opposite side of the city, just to get there to play until they ran out of light. Even the national team gets in on the action. Over their winter holidays, the team arranges games along Lumley. Like the kids that dream of representing Salone, the Leone Stars head to the beach to work on their skills. If the tide is in too far, they sit in the sand, catching up until the water recedes and the game is on.

Unfortunately for us, the tide came in and we were sent searching for another match. We settled on a red clay pitch bordering Man of War Bay. When we arrived, no one was there. We decided to shoot it anyway—it was too picturesque to pass up. We were quickly met by curious children. They poked around our cameras a bit, then disappeared into high grass along the shore. Moments later, they materialized, carrying a small ball. The game began. It was still going a half hour later when the rains rolled in and sent us scattering to get our equipment safe.

And the rain. Oh, the rain. We plowed through Freetown as water flooded through the streets. To our driver, it was nothing. It was a way of life.

A catchall phrase around these parts is “This is Africa.” It’s meant to explain away things like late or missing vans, shady government officials and the general maddening frustration foreigners feel at this way of life. We’ve never been too fond of that sentiment. Because to us, this—the welcoming kids, the sandlot feel of games along Lumley, the resilience and adaptability of the people in face of inescapable challenges like the rainy season downpours—is Africa.

GAME DAY, PART 6: GAME ON

Contributed by: Dave

After a coach finally booted Chad from the field, he and I rendezvoused on the sideline and began looking for Clay and Josh. Unfortunately, when we met, just before the anthem, Clay and Josh were with a representative from the channel broadcasting the game. Though we’d cleared our shoot through every Sierra Leonean organization possible, the Confederation of African Football (CAF) owned the rights. We wouldn’t be able to shoot the rest of the game.

We were, however, invited to stand on the sidelines and watch the game. And what a game it turned out to be.

We’d never heard an anthem like this. There was a band to accompany the crowd, but it was quickly drowned out. Full-throated, earth-shaking, passion-filled fans belted out every word. It must have been heard throughout Freetown.

When you hear Kei talk about the treatment of the team or see how the conditions they are supposed to play in lack the basic necessities of a high school team, it’s hard to believe that he willingly turned down a chance to play for Bob Bradley and the United States Olympic team years ago. Kei knew the conditions he would be asked to play under if he played for Sierra Leone. But still, he chose green, not red, to go with his white and blue.

Why? That anthem stood for everything: the president’s speech to the team moments before gametime, the masses outside whose exuberance seemed to at times threaten the team’s safety, the flag in every home on gameday. He is a part of that. He may have spent his adult life in America, but it’s clear what this game, this team, this country, mean to him.

The Leone Stars would go on to capture a 2-1 victory and move to second in their group for AfCon qualifying. For us, the result may have been irrelevant—the experience is one we never thought we’d have and one that will never be duplicated—but for the people of this country, it clearly means so much more. Maybe our sports back home are too packaged and presented too neatly. We’re told who to root for and why. We’re given canned reasons to believe someone is an underdog and read storylines meant to prompt a reaction. That’s probably what we’re doing now. But when Kei tells you that he thinks that the Leone Stars can be the next Ivory Coast, and you can see he really means it, then you see what winning a qualifying match means to a country in need of hope and a little bit of celebration, you can’t help but want to see the green, white and blue flying over Brazil in 2014.

GAME DAY, PART 5: CHAD EARNS HIS FIRST CAP

Contributed by: Dave

Originally, we had been told we could go into the locker room with the team to film Kei getting ready. But since we had fallen so far behind the bus in the chaos, the federation thought that we might be disruptive. Instead of filming their final preparations, we were guided out to a space under the stadium where the Leone Stars would enter before making their way down the tunnel to the pitch.

Energy coursed through the building. Above us, the stands shook. Even from where we were, we could see that fans were crammed into every space available. It was hard to believe it was the same place we had spent the last several days.

Chad hadn’t planned on using the elaborate steadicam system that we had huffed to the stadium (quick note for the non-techies out there: the steadicam allows the user to run alongside action while keeping the motion silky smooth, but it also requires a vest that looks like a flak jacket and a swing arm that makes its wearer look a bit like a three-armed cop from the future). When he saw opportunity, though, he took it. He began ripping stuff out of our bag and assembling the equipment faster than I’ve ever seen him do it. He finished with no time to spare—no sooner had he stood up than the door to the locker room swung open.

The Leone Stars were about to take the pitch.

Chad was too.

As Kei came out, Chad started following him from the side, but decided to hop behind him for a better angle. Not knowing what the hell else to do, I followed the two of them, the entire time expecting Chad to peel off.

Didn’t happen. Chad followed Kei into the tunnel and I followed Chad.

We’ve mentioned we’re former athletes. We’d be lying if we said we didn’t fantasize about running out of a darkened tunnel to be greeted by blinding light and the screams of thousands of fans. Thanks to Kei Kamara, we lived that dream.

Chad took it a bit further. As Kei ran out, the fans started to see the Leone Stars. The intensity grew. And grew. And grew. And then suddenly, Kei was running out onto the field, clapping for his fans. Chad didn’t stop. He followed him across the pitch, steadicam in hand, looking every bit the part. It was epic. Later, when we regained our sanity, we realized that Chad probably could’ve been tackled by security. But damn, it was cool. That kid’s a baller.