The Freetown High Court has become a theatre of the absurd this week, as a posse of British judges and barristers, flown in on what I can only assume was a taxpayer-funded jumbo jet of moral superiority, lead the charge against four alleged child groomers. The defendants stand accused of marrying girls as young as 12, an act that in the verdant hills of Sierra Leone would normally barely raise an eyebrow, but today is a scandal of such magnitude it requires the full force of the British justice system. I can almost hear the collective gasp of the legal establishment: 'By Jove, these savages haven't read the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child! Quick, fetch the wigs and the French polish for the gavel!'
Let's be clear: child marriage is a vile, abhorrent practice that belongs in the dustbin of history. But the sight of British lawyers, fresh from defending Premier League footballers against tax evasion charges, now solemnly intoning 'Your Honour, the evidence is clear' while pointing at a birth certificate is a spectacle of magnificent hypocrisy. Have we nothing better to do at home? Perhaps a trial for the water companies that have turned our rivers into open sewers? Or a quick prosecution of the billionaires hiding their wealth in the Cayman Islands? No, no, we must bring civilisation to the dark continent, one courtroom drama at a time.
Witnesses have described scenes of barely suppressed farce. The prosecution, a team of QCs so silver-tongued they could sell sand to the Sahara, attempted to explain the concept of 'marriageable age' as determined by the 2007 Child Rights Act. The defence, meanwhile, argued that the girls had 'consented' and that their families had received a bride price. The presiding British judge, a man whose face resembles a bloodhound that has just smelled a particularly fine port, reportedly muttered 'Utter bilge' under his breath.
The trial has split the local population. On one side, you have the Western-educated elites who see this as a beacon of progress. On the other, the vast majority who believe the whole thing is a colonial hangover, a last gasp of the Empire's civilising mission. 'They should focus on our roads,' a taxi driver told me, 'or the electricity that cuts out every time it rains. But no, they want to lecture us about marriage while their own Queen married her cousin.'
The absurdity reaches its zenith when you consider the financial cost. The British government has shelled out an estimated £2 million for this extravaganza, money that could have built a dozen schools or provided clean water for a hundred villages. Instead, it has been spent on first-class flights, five-star hotels, and enough gin to fill the local swimming pool. I know because I am currently half-drunk on it, courtesy of the hotel bar.
But let us not forget the victims. The girls, now teenagers, have been dragged through a traumatic process, their lives dissected by strangers in wigs. One of them, asked by the prosecution whether she understood the concept of 'consent', replied with a blank stare. 'I did what my father told me,' she said. 'He said the man would give us money for food.' The judge nodded sagely, as if this was a profound insight into the human condition.
The trial continues. Judgement is expected next week. The defendants face a maximum of life imprisonment, though I suspect they'll get a slap on the wrist and a lecture about 'restorative justice'. And the British legal eagles will fly home, mission accomplished, leaving behind a country that is no better off, but certainly more confused.
As for me, I will be in the bar, wrestling with my conscience and a large G&T. The ice cubes are melting, much like our moral certainties in this warm, troubled land.
