BEYOND INSANITY

Moment of Anxiety

Chapter 7

IT HAD BEEN three nights since he was brought here. He could not remember the specific location he was brought, but he could admit that because he was seeing the Atlantic Ocean from the dungeon where he had been kept, he was probably being held at the dungeons at the Executive Mansion. The room was not bigger than the average room space in Monrovia.

James Zonn attempted to stand up but realized that there was a rope strapped on his waist to a board on the floor. Though he had been in this dungeon long enough, and could now make out some of the features in the room, he still felt dizzy, and weak. This was because the soldiers who had deposited him at the dungeon had insisted that he must confess to them all that he knew about the rebels.

The three soldiers who had interrogated him had proven that they could be mean and dangerous. One, seemingly the commander, since he was always referred by the others as CO, held him to the ground, while the remaining two soldiers made several attempts to strangle him. At one of the numerous actions, he had lost consciousness, and had regained it when water was poured over him.

“Who are the rebels?” The question had stunned him, since though he was a Gio; he had no contact or knowledge of any rebels.

“I don’t know no rebels.” He had said that in pain, while the other soldier choked him. He came to the conclusion that there might be something good in dying after all. Why? The deliberate human suffering, the murder of his mother, and the disappearance of his father, and his sisters, and the wind of fear hovering all around Gios and Manos, were indications that dying was better than living, under conditions that were distressing and horrible.

“All you Gios and Manos are sanamabitches.” That was the unmistakable voice of the man who had tried to strangle him the third time. And why he was not succeeding, Zonn could not know for sure. At one point, he almost succeeded when he dropped his huge frame, a frame that Zonn considered to be about two hundred pounds on him, while the others held him to the ground.

He had only choked, when in an apparent act out of sympathy, born out of a soldier’s commitment to protect and defend his countrymen, without being selective, one of the shorter soldiers had said he doubted the boy had any connection with the rebels. That assistance had generated some argument among the soldiers.

“If he is not a rebel now,” the other soldier said, “he may be one day.”
“After all, this war is a war that is killing all Liberians.” The other had insisted, and in a determined statement, pointed out, “We are all Liberians, if even our tribal affiliations make us different. Being a Krahn is not by choice.”

“And would you go against the instructions of the president?”

“All I’m saying is that our hatred for the Gios and Manos has blinded some of us,” the other said, in defiance, “killing this boy may be nothing, but as a man, at least, and a soldier, there should be some conscience remain within our bosom.”

The soldier who had come to his defense was truly making some sense, but did he know that his action would lead to his own death? That was what Zonn was thinking, for he knew that Liberians or Krahns married to Gio and Mano women, and were unwilling to agree for their spouses to be murdered, were also being killed.

And that was how the CO and the second soldier stormed out of the room. And Zonn knew he had no chance of leaving the dungeon alive, he managed to say, “thank you,” to the soldier. But before he left the dungeon, the soldier had said to him, “I know I will not live very long, and so if you survive, remember, it is not all the Krahn people who want your people dead.”

THE DEATH of Colonel Moses Gosoe came two days after the encounter at the dungeon. And Zonn could not control his tears, especially when he remembered what the soldier had said to him, before parting.

“I know I’ll not live very long, and if you survive, know that not all the Krahn people want your people dead.” Remembering those words struck him like he had lost an immediate family member. And of course, he would not have known that the soldier was dead, had the second soldier not come to inform him.

“You damned Gio ass,” the soldier had taunted him, “the Gio soldier-lover is dead and we’ll see how you will get out of here alive.”

And before the soldier left, he had sent a warning to him. “You made us to kill a Krahn person; it’s your turn to die.” That statement had rendered him speechless, and it was the more reason he wanted to die before they came for him. It appeared that the soldiers were determined to kill him. For the last six days, he had not been fed.

As James Zonn reclined on the prison bed, he lost all sources of comfort. However, he remembered the many days he had attended church services and at Sunday school, he had learned some comforting words from the Bible, it was time to use it while he waited for the end.

So while he searched his memory bank for assistance from the Bible, he knew that his days were numbered. How many days left for the soldiers to come back and to dispose of him? He could not be certain. He had heard many stories since the war began when several Gio and Mano people began to disappear. Their bodies had been found, but their heads were missing. He knew the situation was depressing, but what could he do?

He blamed Liberia for letting his people down.

He knew he would die, but at the prime age of seventeen, it was difficult to accept it. Then he felt elated, but could not understand why.

In the next minute, he understood why. If a Krahn man could lay down his life for him, who was he to refuse, when it came for him to do the same? Here, he admired the sacrifices of Jesus, as he had learned in Sunday school. No, he was no Jesus, but to die without knowing what you had done, was something he could not understand.

His stomach churned him, demanding for food that was not there. He closed his eyes, as the cold breeze from the Atlantic Ocean seeped through the only window in his dungeon. He felt the salty water on his tongue, and dropping his head on the hard board, Zonn, who had deliberately been denied sleep, as a form of torture, received the visit from providence, and went into a deep slumber.

Betrayal

By Omari Jackson

He was approached early that morning. He could not agree that of all people in the Liberia, someone close to him would agree to present him with such a proposition. But then he knew how wicked human nature was, but still felt that doing what she had presented to him would indicate he was doing their bidding, and failing to do that would also show their hatred for him, as a person, and to the role he played as an adviser to the only president they had.

"What proposition?" he asked with some level of curiosity. He saw the other winked. She pulled a large envelope, like a sheet of paper from under her coat.

"I know you're aware of this," she pointed to the envelope and handed it to him. "This is your picture, you're in a disturbing act, what do you say now?"

"You mean me?"

His voice failed to respond to the suggestion. He could not agree that the picture with the two women and what appeared like himself in such an uncompromising posture, would mean anything to the people. "But what do you say?" He shot back, pretending he was unaware of it.

"You cannot deny it, can you?"

"What do you mean?" His voice was loud but fading. "Is it me?"

"You damned well know it's you," the other retorted with anger in her voice.

"So he sent you to do it?" It was not a question but he said it anyway. His face turned red and perspiration formed on his forehead. "Is it a picture?"

"You have asked for it," the other threatened, "you're going to get it."

"Me?"

"Can you help the Speaker?"

"Me help, who?"

And that was the beginning of his end. Jack Williams was a man who had known better times. In the current admiration in Liberia, he was recognized as the brain behind the successes of the president. But then, what? He was a man and a human being, wasn't he? That was no question, but with a nation recovering from years of war, such an uncompromising picture of a three-some would indicate that he was an enemy of the female sex.

Considering that the president was herself a woman and fighting to restore the dignity of women in the country. But if he had any illusion that his enemies would let him be, he was wrong. The picture that his cousin had shown him was by any account his own. He thought of it and closed his eyes, wiping his brow.

What would happen if the picture was published, as he had been threatened? He could not agree with himself that anyone wanting his downfall would go to such length to demonstrate to the world his most ugliest side. But could any of his countrymen be the first to cast the first stone, at his crucifiction? It was true that many people in high places were deep in the practice of three-some, and four-some and even five-some, and while that might be an abhoring experience, there was the horror to imagine that publishing the picture as he had been threatened would indicate the length of the decay that his had sunk.

That night sleep deserted him. On several occasions, he awoke, draining in his own sweat. He had worked so hard to build a reputation that he saw by the stroke of an enemy's doing, would be gone in smoke. But who would he blame if push came to shove?

That was his thought when the next day someone called on the phone to break the news.

"Williams?"

"Yes, what's up" His voice had broken the monotony of the day, and whether he knew it or not, there was something wrong in the call. He had never heard from anybody in such a morning, but now he was hearing it and he must as well make sure that he understood what the other was saying.

"You saw the picture?"

"What picture?"

"The three-some."

"The what?"

The voice on the other end remained silent, and he could hear his own breathing rising higher and falling again.

It was true, he knew the enemy had carried out the threat.

He stood there, his legs dancing under him.

"This is pure betrayal," he said but the other was gone. He folded the top of the cellphone and placed it in his breast pocket. He had to dance the beat of his own drum, and he was aware that he would survive.

"This is pure betrayal," he said, still the other was gone.

BEYOND INSANITY

The Agony Deepens

Chapter 6

JAMES ZONN had now come to accept the reality that these days were dangerous days. He remembered what the English writer, Charles Dickens, wrote in his monumental masterpiece, A Tale of Two Cities, and with his face, flushing in bitterness, as the sounds of AK-47, and M16 rifles, boomed all around him, remembered what was said by the Englishman.

But Zonn could not be certain if Dickens had Liberia on his mind when he wrote what, evidently was the portrayal of Liberia’s insanity when the book was written.

“It was the best of times,” Dickens wrote, and yet “it was the worst of times.” Yes, who would deny that events in Liberia since the infamous year of 1980 resembled the very elements that the English writer had written about? James Zonn, as young as he was at the epoch making year of 1980, had learned afterwards, the calamitous events which however provided an opportunity for total national reconstruction, which was not to be. Though the beginning of the 1980s was the best of times, but the political upheavals, with its attendant destruction of thirteen politicians and later some members of the military junta, the People’s Redemption Council, indicated clearly the prophetic meaning of Dickens’ farsightedness, and truly “it was the worst of times indeed.”

At the New Kru Town Junior High School, James Zonn had developed interest in literature, and on many occasions he had taken refuge in it. So, little wonder that at this particular day and age when Liberia had been pulled asunder, and those who had vowed to defend the people had become enemies to some of the people, he could find solace nowhere but on the pages of a writer whose time was far removed from his own.

But he knew that Dickens was no prophet, despite the clarity of the message that seemed to represent the madness of the time in Liberia he was living in; he could not but admire the Englishman who further observed, among others that “… it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.” Darkness, yes, and as it was becoming clear, and the newspapers had reported it, “Dark Clouds Hung Over Liberia.” The clouds were overwhelming a nation that was originally established to become the champion for the freedom of all Africa, a realization that James Zon admitted, as tears rained down his face.

For the truth was clear as daylight to James Zonn, a son of Nimba County, that barring a miracle would any of his people remained alive. This was because, the last few days had been hectic, and there had been reports of several Manos and Gios having disappeared from their homes, when they were picked up by men in military uniforms, only to be discovered with their heads missing. Reports from the various towns, and the county itself were too distressing. One of his relatives, who arrived three days before the disappearance of his father from Sanniquellie, reported that even children had not been spared the deepening agony of madness by their elders, and many had been buried by the soldiers in unknown graves. It was then that he remembered the Biblical paraphrase that “Rachel is mourning her children because she could not be comforted.” For all around him Gio and Mano women were washing their disappointment with tears in torrents.

And painfully, he could not even understand why Liberians married to Gio and Mano women and men had been reported disappearing from their homes.


James Zonn brooded over the calamity over his people and country in the empty house that had once been their own. His sisters, he did not meet them when he returned few minutes ago, after the violent beatings and rapes the night before. This, he reasoned, was a deliberate attempt to wipe his people from Liberia.

Call that genocide, if you please, was his thought. Yes, he was convinced that he would either survive the injustice facing his people, or perish by starvation. He must do something, and it must be done with all precision.

What hope was there for him and his people? And remembering the poignant description of our time by Dickens, he returned to his memory bank, and sought solace from there, at least to understand the dangers Liberia had sunk into so far, and how and what could be done to save it.

“It was the spring of hope,” Dickens wrote, “it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us.” James Zonn had always believed that there was much good in the quality of the character of Liberians to cherish. History had taught him how the Pioneers came, seeking for freedom and human decency. And the same history told him how those who sought freedom did not allow his people to enjoy the decency of life they had sought for themselves. So to his mind, the Krahn, the Gio, Mano, Kru, Mandingo, Vai and all the ethnic groups of Liberia were victims of man’s inhumanity to man. But in the wake of that reality, what was happening now? It was clearly a wedge of misunderstanding between and among the ethnic groups, as the tribes could no longer hold together as one. What was supposed to happen? Here we must beg Nigerian author, Chinua Achebe for assistance, and declare that “Things began to fall apart.” For the powers that be, identified his people as the worst on earth, and began a systematic revenge killing ever to occur in the annals of Liberia.

This, Zonn, admitted, was not only wrong, but downright insane.

“We were all going direct to Heaven,” that was what Dickens wrote, adding, “ we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” The surreal nature of Dickens’ review of the dark days of his time, as far as his tale was concerned could….

“Anybody in there must come out here,” Zonn came out of his reverie, when he heard voices outside of the house, demanding anyone in there to get out. “Put your hands over your head so that we can see you.” He heard the crunching of gravel in the yard, and he realized that they were soldiers out there seeking for him.

“What have I done now?” His thoughts refused to accept the reality, this time, that all was coming home. He had said previously that the time had come for him to either die or live. Now they had come, and had come for him. As the boots outside his room demanded his presence, he heard someone shouting behind the house, “they are setting fire to the house.”

In such a situation, death was more preferable than life. He could understand that, and he could wish for that. Adjusting his worn out trousers about his lanky frame, James Zonn reacted with defiance, a characteristic of his Nimbain people, tall, proud and willing to meet any danger. “I’m coming out.” And he meant it.

What could they do to him? His father, mother, and sisters were all gone, and he was alone, he believed that and now he might be going out of this unfriendly world. With his hands over his head, his face demonstrating his faith in God, the young man pushed the door open, and what he saw, with the day light streaming on his face, were men in military regalia. No, this was no dream, and neither was he in the cinema, watching a Rambo movie. He starred in amazement as two soldiers moved towards the house, setting it ablaze.

Across from the house, someone asked, “Who they come for again?” And the tallest of the ten soldiers, remarked, “Shut up and move from here before I make you a dead body.” It silenced the intruder, and those who could not help it, stood at a distance, watching the end of a Liberian family.

In a distance, gun shots screamed for attention, as the soldiers, tying Zonn’s hands behind his back, took him away.

WHEN THE MAN DIED

By Omari Jackson

It had been too long for no one to recognize the sacrifices of her husband. Yes, it had been too many years now. And nothing had happened. But today of all days, her feelings had returned to him and she could not think on anything else, except the finals days before he left the comfort of their home.

Though many years now, it seemed like yesterday, or today, or few hours ago.

"I'm on a mission," he told her, with a bitter smile. It was such a smile that always signified he was in agony and somewhere in his heart some demands were requesting to be made. "I may come back or not come back." And that was the part that upset her heart.

She had then walked towards him, embracing him.

"If the danger is too much," she suggested with a smile as painful as his. "Then why go in the first place?" As she ended her question, she could read the painful smile on his face. She was aware of what he had always said to her, "I'm a soldier first, and when it comes to any issue affecting Liberia, if I die, so be it." Now she remembered the period of April 12 1980, when at the time he was an unknown soldier, he and his friends, including Samuel Doe.

Remembering these feelings hurt her heart but she could not stop.

"You're not the only Liberian alive who is affected or disturbed by the events in Liberia today..." her voice had trailed off, her eyes looking deeper in his. "Some sacrifices are greater than you can make."

Deeply, the soldier allowed his breath to loosen up, and in an instant the woman thought she saw fire in his eyes. Her heartbeat increased and it reminded her of their days in Liberia, when Tom joined several of his friends to redeem the people.

She could remember those days like yesterday.

It was like a film's reel, running in slow motion before her eyes. The soldiers had succeeded in crushing the century-old True Whig Party, and what was more, the nearly thirteen government officials had been strapped on poles on the beach. She could remember the plea of the international community, requesting that the men should not be harmed.

The situation was challenging and frantic then.

Backed by the politicians, who had coined the slogan, "our eyes are open the struggle continues", there was no time to consider the pleas from the families of the thirteen government officials. And she could still imagine the pain that had seared through the hearts of the wives and children of those destroyed during the frenzy of what was said to be a new dawn in Liberia.

But that was before her agony. For, on behalf of that woman, yes the proverbial iron lady, the three men who had visited Tom, were like vultures before a carcass. They would not leave him alone, and they came, day after day.

"I'm leaving for a call by my people," Tom was able to say at last, his resistance broken, "the duty of a soldier is to defend and protect."

"But when things go wrong," the woman tried to talk him out of it, "would they be there for you, for your family and for your children?" She could not imagine what was going through his mind but a soldier he was, he had reminded her of that.

And of course she was aware of it. She did not need him to remind her of that. And he should have known that a soldier with a family deserved to remain with the family so that the family he was growing would grow to know him.

And to enjoy him.

"I will survive," he assured her, "I will call for you and the children as soon as things are ok." She knew of Tom's resolve and with that statement of assurance, Tom could not be persuaded to back off the request of several of Liberian politicians who had made their lives more hell than she could imagine.

So my husband was so important to our country? But just supposed the unexpected happened, would the family be as important to Liberia as the husband was now? She could not answer the question.

But when a woman marries a soldier, what is she supposed to do? The idea of the soldier being killed during the operation never crossed her mind. Otherwise, she would have insisted that those who were coming to their house to request that Tom travel to Liberia to remove the government of his friend, would have been pressurized to make some concessions. It would have been on the line of: just incase "something" happened to Tom, who would be the breadwinner for the family? She would have demanded that some money be placed in a bank in the US, just as surety or insurance for the family.

But in the end, the unexpected happened.

---------

So when the call came that Tom did not make it and that his wallet had been recovered with her child's photo in it, she agreed silently that Tom, her husband, was not coming back.

Yes, it was then that she agreed, despite her inner refusal that it was the day the man died.

Now, those who encouraged Tom to kill himself have ascended to power in Liberia. And the painful thing she is dealing with now is their failure to recognize Tom's contribution to the new order. Her tears had not stopped crying for Tom, and presently fighting for the utmost sacrifice he made under the sponsorship of the proverbial iron lady. She has reluctantly accepted the truth of his death.

Though she has been making appeals and expressing her disgust on the apparent lack of appreciation for her husband's sacrifice, Tarlor has finally come to accept the truth that no one should die for a nation that will not die for you.

Truly, she has also accepted the reality to fight her cause till someone in authority recognizes the day the man died.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Author's Note: Dedicated to the memory of Brig. Gen. Thomas G. Qwiwonkpa in the appeal for the Liberian government to recognize his loss to his family.

LIVING WITH THE DEAD

By Omari Jackson

Story Idea:
"Finally, we wish to make it clear that no one will be allowed to move into cemeteries and use the sites as residence. The Ministry of Public Works has been instructed to move quickly to stop anyone who may want to use those facilities as residence." --Cyrus Badio, Press Secretary to the president of Liberia.


"I don't have any choice," the young woman said, amid gritted teeth, "I'm the only one left in my whole family." Her voice drummed over the number of Liberians trooping down Gurley Street in downtown Monrovia.
"But are you not afraid?" the other wanted to know. "I mean to make the grave yard your home is something I cannot think I can do."

"You cannot do it?" the young woman shot back, "all my family is dead and many of them are buried there and I think if there is any place that is safe, I prefer the cemetery." She squinted her eye, as the sun rays from the horizon, streaked into her face. She lifted the edge of her lappa and slowly mobbed her forehead.
Life in Monrovia had changed so fast, especially since the new government came to power. Grace Slonteh was just twelve when the civil-war broke out, and by the time it ended, she was a fully grown up woman.

With three children.
She remembered that before the war, she resided in Logan Town, across the bridge on Bushrod Island; and her family was among many of those who died when missiles intended for the rebels landed in their zinc shacks, obliterating men, women and children.
"I know the rent business is hard," the other, about twenty seven, and also a mother of four, admitted. "I think I can be brave like you."
Slonteh's awning smile flushed her face. Though barely twenty six years, the emotional trauma, the hardship of surviving, and bearing children for fathers who were never around to raise them, could convince anyone who might hold the impression that she was nearly in her forties.

"Pauline you know life is hard since the new government came," she said, as both women sauntered towards the Center Street side of the Palm Grove Cemetery. There were many people, including men, women and their children trooping by them to secure places at the abode of the dead.

"I know because since I returned from Buchanan," Grace said, "every where I went to rent, the people say they want one year rentage. And all the areas are packed and you know the cemetery is the only place to be right now." By now both women were walking behind memorial tombs or graves and Grace could hear some people fussing over some areas that could accommodate four or five people.

"I came here first," the first woman said, shouting, "you see that grave," she was pointing to a grave behind two tombstones, "that's my uncle's grave so all this area is for us." Her right hand stretched across seven to ten graves in a circle, with the middle deliberately left opened.

"So you didn't see that boy standing in our place?" the other woman shot back, "I left my son to stand right here as I went to find my other son."
"Do we have to fight for this place?"
"All I know my son was waiting for me," the other indicated, "I was here yesterday and cleaned among all these graves." Her right hand swept from the right to the left to emphasize her point.

Grace Slonteh's grin swept over her face, as she turned and gave her friend a winking look. As a child she had always been afraid of the dead but her experience during the war had convinced her that the dead knew nothing at all. Many other Liberians were killed during the war, and the dead had not come back to take vengeance on their enemies.

Consider Prince Y. Johnson, who was a master killer. Why, he was a senator and a lawmaker for the Liberian people now. He was the one who killed the former president, Samuel Doe, and why had Doe not come back to pay his debt on him, if in fact there was a world beyond the grave?
These were her thoughts when someone touched her shoulder to bring her back to reality.
"Hello, you woman."
She turned around and standing there was one of her friends.
"Ey Florence, you looking for place too?"
"Yeah ooo."

* * *
It would be difficult for anyone to agree that life in Liberia has become too tough that the living is seeking residence with the dead. The by-product of the civil-war is presently affecting the ordinary people.
The current government of the proverbial Iron Lady is facing a mounting of challenges, but for the people, especially those who are the butt of the society, survival now is the norm.

"The government say nobody should go and stay at the grave," Grace was telling another friend, a day after the presidential press secretary, Cyrus Badio met with the press. "Where can we go now?"
Grace knew it was not a question that anyone could answer. It was, she reasoned, a question that the secretary to the president could answer. But since she could not be able to get to Mr. Badio to answer her question, it would just be that way.
"What about the money I hear they are giving to us," the friend prodded on. "I hear they are giving everyone US 300."
"I heard it too," Grace admitted, "But like anything in this country now, you can hear it but not smell it."
"Like smell no taste?"
"You got it."

* * *
"The police are coming," someone shouted, and Grace and her friends at the grave began to move away. Life had become a see-saw battle. She could not be sure when conditions would become less bearable.
If they could not use the grave site as a way to ease the housing difficulties in Monrovia right now, then what else was there for people to do? Grace agreed that it meant that the government should be able to find a way.

But would it?
"That question is not my question," the other said, licking her lips.
And Grace wished she could answer that question. She agreed then that politicians were the same whether male or female.