By Ibrahim S. Bangura
Kabala, Koinadugu District — In a quiet forest clearing in northern Sierra Leone, the rhythmic pulse of tradition still echoes through the trees. Foday Mansaray, a veteran Limba musician, sits surrounded by hand-carved instruments—the gusung, kele, n’kali, kenkeni, and huban—each a testament to a fading cultural legacy. Dressed in a vibrant shirt and traditional cap, Mansaray embodies the pride and resilience of Sierra Leone’s traditional custodians, even as they face growing neglect in a rapidly modernizing society.
“For centuries, our music marked every stage of life,” Mansaray said. “We were the historians, the messengers, the moral guides. Now, we are forgotten.”
At over 60 years old, Mansaray has witnessed the steady erosion of support for traditional musicians. Once revered, these cultural figures now struggle with poverty and lack of institutional backing. Their instruments, crafted from wood and animal hide, often go unrepaired for years. “When they spoil, I patch them myself. Nobody comes to ask how we are surviving,” he added.
The decline stands in stark contrast to the global influence of African rhythms, which have shaped genres like jazz, reggae, Afrobeat, and hip-hop. Yet in Sierra Leone, the roots of these contributions remain underfunded and underappreciated.
Beyond economics, the issue strikes at the heart of national identity. As urban youth gravitate toward Western entertainment, traditional practices are increasingly dismissed as outdated. “Many children don’t know the names of our instruments. They know foreign pop stars better than their own cultural icons,” Mansaray lamented.
Despite these challenges, pride persists. “Culture is not something you throw away. It is who we are,” he said, smiling. His sentiment reflects a broader concern among elders who view cultural heritage as essential to community cohesion.
Efforts to revive traditional practices exist but remain limited. Occasional festivals, school visits by drummers, and NGO-led documentation projects offer glimpses of hope. However, experts argue that meaningful revival requires government investment. Neighboring countries like Senegal and Guinea have successfully integrated traditional arts into tourism strategies. Sierra Leone, with its rich cultural tapestry, holds similar potential.
“We could build cultural villages, train youth, and export our music,” Mansaray suggested. “But without policy support, everything remains small.”
He emphasized that societal attitudes must also shift. Communities should recognize drummers as knowledge bearers, not just entertainers. Schools could incorporate cultural education, and media platforms could spotlight traditional performances to bridge generational divides.
As the sun dipped behind Kabala’s forest canopy, Mansaray lifted his drum and played. The rhythms, worn but powerful, carried the memory of ancestors and the promise of continuity. His music, a blend of defiance and hope, offered a poignant reminder: Sierra Leone’s cultural soul endures, even when overlooked.
“We are neglected, but we are still proud of our culture,” he said softly, his voice merging with the fading beat—a call to remember, to honor, and to preserve.