Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 6

  Truck driver Mitchell's first job at seven in the morning had been to collect fifty six boxes from the sea port so some hassle was to be expected. But Mitchell never thought too much about hassle either before, during or after. Life was hassle. Life was about coping with hassle.

  As a truck driver visiting the port of Freetown, Sierra Leone, hassle meant sitting in a sweltering queue of other trucks. It meant arguments over paperwork. It meant coping with deliberate obstruction from self important officials and, if things got really bogged down, it meant using a few spare Leone notes that Mr Suleiman, his boss at Mambolo Transport Enterprises gave him to keep safely in his back pocket ready and waiting for whenever there was a need to oil the bureaucratic wheels. Mitchell coped well with hassle and Mr Suleiman liked Mitchell because of that. Mitchell was future management material.

  Mitchell dealt with the hassle of waiting by leaning out of the open window of his truck shouting to fellow drivers and smoking cigarettes that he rolled himself with a few leaves of something he bought on the road out towards the port. And, in between, he would gulp water from a two litre plastic bottle that stood amongst the clutter of yellowing old newspapers, scraps of paper, empty cans of Coke and the dirty old tee shirt that he used to wipe his wing mirror when it rained.

  Mitchell had finally driven out of the port at eleven fifteen with his fifty six boxes that, according to the paperwork, contained three hundred second hand laptop computers for a charity called School Aid, Freetown, Sierra Leone and that they had come all the way from the port of Felixstowe in England.

  Mitchell's destination now, according to the instructions Mr Suleiman had given him in the office, was Rocki General Supplies in Sani Abacha Street, Freetown. And ready waiting at Rocki General Supplies would be another one hundred and fifteen boxes waiting for him. But Mitchell never asked too many questions. Mitchell just drove his truck to wherever he was told to and put up with whatever hassle came his way.

  In the heat of the late morning market chaos in Sani Abacha Street, Mitchell was carefully reversing his tarpaulin covered truck into a small overcrowded space between boxes of tee shirts and crates of yams and surrounded by people walking by on all sides with bundles on their heads. The heat and noise was intense. Mitchell's simple plan was to get the rear of his truck as close as possible to the rusted front door of Rocki General Supplies. But an argument had erupted because the tail end had struck an umbrella being set up to shade on-street transactions over the sale of a high stack of cans of lime green paint and caused it to topple onto the yams. Mitchell, himself, leaning from the open window, beads of sweat running from his forehead, was the target of the abuse. But, still smoking and still smiling, he made it, reversed the last few feet up to the doors, rattled on a handle and waited for someone to open it.

  The man who opened it was in a suit, albeit a dusty, ill-fitting one, with a tie and off white shirt. A puff of cool, air-conditioned air wafted towards Mitchell as the door was scraped open and he stood for a second to appreciate it as the man in the suit wrapped a chain around the door.

  "Good day, Mr Moses" said Mitchell, politely, "It is very hot today. I have fifty six boxes of computers. They are for Daisy Charity. I think that is you, Mr Moses."

  Mr Moses was a man of few words. "Over there."

  Mitchell sweated for half an hour carrying the heavy boxes one by one into the dark recesses of Rocki General Supplies' warehouse. As Mr Moses watched, he piled them as neatly as he could, but not too high in case they toppled. When he had finished, Mitchell went to the truck, swallowed the last drops from his water bottle and returned with his clip board for Mr Moses to sign the paperwork.

  "You has one hundred and fifty boxes for me to collect, Mr Moses?"

  "Yes. Be seated."

  As there was nowhere else to sit, Mitchell did as he was told and sat on a wooden crate..

  Five minutes passed before Mr Moses reappeared. "Take your truck to the rear entrance. There you will find one hundred and fifty boxes."

  "Is they big, big or small, small, Mr Moses?"

  "It does not matter. You must take them all."

  So began Mitchell's next hassle - driving away, finding the first turning left, left again and reversing up to the rear entrance of Rocki General Supplies where Mr Moses was waiting for him. Behind Mr Moses were the one hundred and fifty boxes that Mitchell thought might just fit inside his truck .He removed his shirt and started work. It took him an hour. Satisfied the boxes were stacked safely and soundly, Mitchell stood, wiped his sweating brow and then went inside to look for Mr Moses. "They is all loaded, Mr Moses. Is there something to sign?"

  "No, nothing."

  "So where is you want them delivered Mr Moses?"

  Mr Moses handed him a piece of paper with an address and Mitchell looked at it. "Ayyya! Sulima Construction, Mr Moses. Sulima is a long way. It is nearly in Liberia. Maybe I do not arrive today or tomorrow but the next day."

  It took Mitchell two days to reach Sulima after a punctured tyre somewhere between Moyamba and Mano and trouble with his engine outside Sumbuya that he fixed himself with a piece of wire. But, resourceful as he was, he found Sulima Construction. It was a rectangular concrete block building with a corrugated roof in a litter filled side street by the river that smelled of used engine oil and sea breezes. But it was not until he started unloading the one hundred and fifty boxes that he noticed labels on some of the boxes. 'Daisy Children's Charity', they said.