Considering that it would be far too dangerous to simply wander into the centre of Bo, we decided that a better option would be to make our way to Blossom’s village. Once there we would be safe and able to dispatch someone to get help.
A military strategist, or indeed anyone who might know the first thing about planning operations, would probably criticise our proposal for being too simplistic, naive and almost certainly be doomed to failure. But we were determined and reminded ourselves, time and again that ‘who dares wins’, and, anyway, we didn’t fancy another night in that hellhole.
Fred was already starting to get unusually grumpy – probably due to the appalling diet of nothing but rice, with indescribable chewy-stuff thrown in. He was almost twice my size so I surmised that that aspect of prison life hit him much harder than it did me.
Regardless of the risks, we were resolute. We were going to make a break for it, so we decided to be ready to go soon after midnight that night.
We lay on our bashas, nervous with anticipation, and waited for the next few hours to pass.
With the prison compound creating a break in the jungle canopy, a high level of moonlight, and plenty of cracks in the walls of our cell we were, just about, able to make out each other’s faces.
I listened intently to the sentry as he slowly trudged around the small building, made his way back to the door and, with a slight cough, plonked himself back in his chair.
The time had come. All I needed to do then, was to create some sort of gentle distraction. The vice-chairman of the escape committee stood, circumspect by the weakened wall, eyes glued on my, barely visible, hand, waiting for my ‘thumbs-up’, as a sign for him to burst through the wall.
I emitted a sort of squeak, sounding something like a puppy in distress, or perhaps, a rusty gate in need of a squirt of oil, and scratched at the ground by the door.
I clearly heard the guard getting to his feet. Just as I was about to give the ‘thumbs-up’, he spoke.
I held back. A few seconds later, to my horror, I heard a second voice – and it was just as close as the first one.
I waved my hand frantically, ensuring that, at no time, did my thumb ever pass through the horizontal, and jumped to my feet.
“Stop. Stop. There are two of them,” I whispered.
“Bollocks,” came the reply.
There then ensued a two-way conversation from behind the door, interspersed with rounds of laughter.
It sounded almost as if the two of them were settled for the night, and enjoying each other’s company, whilst tucking into a healthy dose of the local ganja.
We had no alternative, other than to abort our mission.
The next day we were down, but by no means out. We would try again that coming night.
Or so we thought.
As we lay on our bashas, swatting away the various types of flying bugs intent on settling onto any area of our exposed skin, and enduring the stifling heat of the day, the cell door opened.
Two guards, rifles at the ready, as usual, came in.
“Come. Come,” one of them said.
We were lead towards the ramshackle shed which acted as the prison headquarters, the offices and the guards living accommodation.
The tiny office was empty apart from a desk and one chair, which was occupied by a man who was, clearly, a figure of authority. He was much better fed than anyone else in the camp and wore a uniform which looked as though it had recently been washed and ironed. On each shoulder, there were emblazoned two pips, donating the rank of a police inspector.
The inspector didn’t look up, as the guards told us to stand in front of the desk. He spent time carefully reading from a notepad, which I assumed contained details of our ‘crime’ and ‘criminal record’ – or some such nonsense.
Eventually, he deigned to look up at us.
“Mister Marafano,” he said with a smile. “You are free to leave. I hope your stay has not been too uncomfortable. Please give my regards to Chief Norman.”
He turned his eyes towards me. “Mister Riley.” This time said without a smile. “You are free to proceed to Freetown only. Once there you will be required to appear in court to face charges relating to the illegal possession of diamonds.”
He handed our rucksacks to us which, rather amazingly, still contained all our money, and said to us, “There is someone at the gate waiting to meet you. Goodbye.”
That someone was Juba, the pilot. He shook our hands, in the, by now familiar, convoluted African manner, and then drove us towards Kenema, where the helicopter was waiting to fly us back to the capital.
On board was a cool-box containing enough food and drink for Fred and I and the four-man crew. The two of us tucked-in, and emptied the box almost before we got into the air.
As soon as we landed in Freetown I made straight for my hotel room. Without wasting a second I grabbed my passport and what few possessions I had and made my way to the airport.
My sole intention was to get out of the country before the police had time to get themselves organised and stop me from leaving.
The first flight displayed on the ‘Departures’ board was a Kenyan Airways flight to Nairobi, which was in completely the opposite direction to where I wanted to go. Having managed to elbow my way through the crowd and purchase a ticket, I sat nervously, in the chaotic departure lounge and waited for the flight to be called.
It wasn’t until the following morning as I sat in the Business section of a British Airways Jumbo-Jet, on route from Nairobi to London, that I felt able to relax.
Some weeks later, back at home, on the edge of the West Pennine Moor, I received two letters from The Republic of Sierra Leone.
The first was from the Department of Justice in Freetown, instructing me to appear in court to face charges of ‘Smuggling and Tax Evasion’, crimes which carried a maximum sentence of twenty years’ imprisonment.
The second, was from an associate of ‘faithful George’ (the same George who had betrayed us and ran off with our stash of diamonds), asking me to transfer the sum of two thousand dollars into his Western Union account. He explained that he had another friend who was a high-court judge, and upon receipt of the money he would be happy to represent me. He would, he said, be able to deal with the charges raised against me on my behalf, thereby saving my good reputation and the expenses of having to travel back to Africa.
Needless to say – I ignored both letters.
To this day, I have never returned to Sierra Leone, and what is more, I can honestly say that I hope I never will.