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.