Soundscape

stutiginodia
Jun 12, 2022
2 min read

Updated: Jun 29, 2022

My office is on the 13th floor of Freetown’s newest, swankiest building. Constructed by the Koreans, it hosts the city council and related administrative departments, along with a hotel (someone has to pay rent to make the Koreans happy), and spectacular views of the city. Sitting up here, listening to the gentle hum of the air conditioning and admiring the hills surrounding us, it almost feels peaceful. 2 minutes and an elevator ride later, it’s a whole other world.

The din of the city envelopes you. Kekes zoom past, revving their engines as they dart in and out through traffic. Cars honk incessantly, nudging the traffic to inch forward. Refusing to stop even as

a parade takes over, drums and trumpets drowning out all conversation. Hawkers call out, offering everything from the promise of friendship to foreign exchange to peanuts, amplifying their voices to be heard above the buzzing city. The occasional fight breaks out, and angry shouting blends into the soundscape.

I get home, and despite the 7-minute uphill walk on an unpaved dirt road, I’m grateful for the muted sounds from the city. Now I hear the generator thump along, the soundtrack to most dinners. The street dogs bark late into the night, reminding me of my pup back home. And then the rain starts. Pouring down on the corrugated tin rooftops, loud and unrelenting, punctuating my sleep with dreams of Noah’s ark. Giving me just a few hours before I'm woken up by the rooster crowing at 6:30am on the dot.

Freetown overwhelms my senses. And yet, it's not too different from the city I grew up in. A huge metropolis, Calcutta moves to its own messy, chaotic, noisy rhythm. So why does this feel different? Maybe the 9 years in quieter American cities has something to do with it. Or maybe, it’s the privilege of a comfortable life in India, which allows me to keep the city at bay. My car with windows rolled all the way up, walks in posh neighbourhoods and parks, groceries delivered to my doorstep – all conveniences that let me buy distance from the bustling city.

In Freetown though, there are no barriers. No doors blocking out the chaos when I sit in the keke. No glass on the windows insulating my bedroom from the noise outside. (The windows have slats that refuse to close all the way). The sounds of the city surround me, pulling me into it, deciding how I experience it.

Two weeks in and it all starts sounding familiar. I wait to hear the unmistakable scream of “goal” as the boys outside my balcony play football, missing them when the heavy rains keep them indoors. The roaring keke engines become background noise as I nod along to Black Sherif’s Kwaku the Traveller blaring on the music system. I start to anticipate the shouts of “hello” on the streets and find my spot to hear the waves crashing into Lumley beach. The sounds no longer overwhelm me. They remind me that I am a part of the city, not just a spectator watching on.

And just like that, Freetown starts feeling like home.