Sticking With Rice in Sierra Leone

By Lane Hartill

Musa Fomba hasn't had it easy.

When he was 8 years old, his father pulled him out of school. He'd always wanted to go, just like his siblings. But his father needed help on the farm. Musa would roll out of bed at dawn, with no breakfast, and take his bolo sling to the cocoa plantation to fire stones at the monkey that made off with the cocoa pods.

For the next seven years, farming grew on him. It toughened him, made him a man.

At 15, he had a falling-out with his father over the treatment of his mother. He went to find his fortune in the diamond mines of Sierra Leone and never looked back. He eventually found a diamond, several carats, he says. He sold it and kept some of the money but gave most of it to his mother and sister.

Life soured during the country's 11-year civil war. By that time, he had met a lady and was engaged to her. She was the love of his life. He even snuck across rebel lines to see her. But one day as she was gathering cassava, she met the rebels. They killed her.

It's perhaps no surprise then that Musa, a sinewy man who is full of hospitality and warmth, isn't afraid of adversity. Or hard work.

Every morning, he wakes up early, puts on his black rain boots, grabs his machete and walks an hour through the steamy forest to his rice crops. He will work barefoot and bent over in the mud until noon. After a quick lunch of rice and sauce or roasted corn on the cob, it's back to work.

City or Country?

He could leave this life at any time. Thousands of young men have. They roam the clotted streets of the capital, Freetown, selling women's plastic pumps or Heinz ketchup or Chinese toothpaste in boxes stacked like a New York City skyline in basins on their heads. In the musical Krio language, they hawk their wares, hoping for a few sales a day.

"[In the city, young men] can get menial assistance and menial jobs from friends," says Richard Cortu, CRS' food officer, based in the eastern town of Segbwema. "In villages, you have to start by yourself. You have to do hard labor." He says that many young men spent years in refugee camps, and relied on handouts from international agencies, which has led them to shy away from farm labor. "They rely on small jobs for quick cash. They have adopted this kind of lifestyle."

Young street hawkers make a pittance, barely enough to afford the 35 cents it costs to buy Sierra Leone's signature dish of rice topped with cassava-leaf stew. It's the illusion of opportunity that attracts them to Freetown. The dream of steady money and the verve of city life pull them here—as much as the dread of spending their days up to their knees in muck planting rice pushes them away from the country.

Once known as the Rice Coast, Sierra Leone exported tons of rice prior to the civil war that flared and cooled between 1991 and 2002. The fighting forced farmers to flee the country or find refuge in the cities. Rice production plummeted. That was bad news for Sierra Leoneans, who eat more rice on average—225 pounds a year—than Africans in other countries.

While rice production has improved since the end of the war, the gap between production and consumption is filled by rice imports, which are estimated at 125,000 metric tons per year. That costs the government between $60 and $70 million, a sum the post-conflict country cannot afford.

That's why the country needs more people like Musa. No matter how déclassé the youth consider farming, the country desperately needs it. The government is encouraging young people—some 70 percent of whom don't have meaningful work—to return to the farm. With greenhouse conditions and some regions drenched with twice as much yearly rainfall as Portland, Oregon, Sierra Leone has the potential to be Africa's rice basket.

A Tough Sell

But sit down and talk to farmers and villagers about life in the countryside, and a more nuanced picture emerges. With no electricity in most towns, houses made of mud, and medical facilities few and far between, it's a tough sell. A drive through eastern Kailahun district—one of the best regions to grow rice—reveals why.

Most of the roads are dirt and turn into caramel-colored Slip 'n Slides during the rainy season. Trucks judder and jounce over antique fragments of pavement laid by the British before independence in 1960. There is little public transport, which means it's expensive to reach the nearest major town, Kenema. And maybe most importantly, there isn't a tractor or ox in sight. Farming takes patience and perseverance: two things young people don't always have in abundance.

None of these drawbacks bothers Musa, who is in his mid-30s. He starts preparing his upland rice field in January by "brushing," or clearing the land. Then it is burned, tilled by hand, and planted. He hires men to help him. He pays them in rice.

When the rice is harvested in November, it has to be carried from the farm on the heads of men. This year, Musa estimated it could take up to 80 one-hour trips through the heat of the forest that during high noon feels like a sauna. "Whatever the strain, it's part of the job," he says.

'What I'm Fighting For'

Last year, between his lowland and upland rice, he harvested 20 bags of rice weighing 100 pounds each. And this year he hopes he can get 40 bags. His goal: 100 bags. "That's what I'm fighting for."

There are two reasons for his success. Reason No. 1: his father. During the conflict, Liberian rebels had a falling-out with their Sierra Leonean counterparts. The day they found Musa's father, they weren't in a good mood. They demanded his machete. A true farmer until the end, he refused to give it up. They shot him.

Before his father died, Musa was able to glean years of knowledge from him, like where to plant. Musa thinks his rice farm is in the perfect spot, because it's missing one thing: birds. Birds prefer the lowlands, closer to villages. Here, he won't have worry about them eating his profits.

Reason No. 2: Catholic Relief Services. Musa is part of CRS' farmer field school, in which farmers exchange ideas and a CRS field agent shows them techniques to raise their crop's yield. "CRS has helped a lot," he says.

Not long ago, Musa and Beatrice, a CRS agriculture field agent, hiked to his upland rice farm. Along with other farmers, they talked about "broadcasting" rice. Upland rice seeds are not planted individually, but sown by throwing handfuls on the ground. If too much rice is scattered, the plants will crowd one another, reducing yields. Beatrice recommended broadcasting less. He did, and the results are impressive. Waves of rice shoots, as green as lime Jell-O, swish across his farm.

'Life Is Better Now'

Here's more good news for Musa: Field agents will soon be teaching organic pest control. Sheku Max-Kanteh, who teaches in the agriculture department at Njala University, says that pests like leafhoppers, aphids and beetles will devastate a rice field in no time. He recently lectured CRS staff on natural pesticides. A solution of dried chili peppers, crushed and soaked, then mixed with soap, kills viruses. A mixture of chopped papaya leaves and water will help combat fungi.

Mixtures such as these will help protect Musa's investment. And he has big plans for this year. He's going to build a shop. He and his new wife, Yatta, will sell bread and coffee. Maybe some clothing and boots, too. He wants to start sewing again, a skill he picked up years ago. No matter what, he says, he's not going to abandon farming.

"Life is better now," he says. "I don't go to sleep hungry. Even if you want to take me to the city…I prefer to stay with my relatives here and do my farming."

Lane Hartill is the West Africa regional information officer for Catholic Relief Services. He is based in Dakar, Senegal.