BEYOND INSANITY

In The Face Of Death

Chapter 13

VISUALIZE BETTER DAYS ahead, was the mind of James Zonn as he, accompanied by Korlu, arrived at Mount Barclay, thirty miles east of Monrovia. Wedged across the road was a checkpoint. He saw several young men his age, guns on their backs, sitting two by two, intervals of fifty feet, from each other. He had seen enough and was determined to fill his mind with better things other than what he had gone through in Monrovia.

From where they waited, they saw hundreds of people, including women and children trooping towards where the young soldiers sat, their eyes directed at the people passing by. Further down, there was a rope, a twine, made out of leaves blocking the main road, and on the right side of it was an opened space, and a cover cloth, which was ostensibly meant to check numerous civilians moving into rebel territory.

From time to time, the young men in twos would walk across the road, and adjust their weapons, the AK-47s on their back. There were also younger children that Zonn considered to be in their early teens. There was one or two, that he had heard been called, “Small Soldier.” The first one was about ten and the second one was about eight or nine. Their lanky frames huddled under weapons that were too heavy, apparently for their bodies to carry.

Zonn wondered what had become of the people, yes, those who were responsible for the war. How could a child of nine know how to handle a weapon like an M16? How could such a child engage a trained military professional in combat? But the truth be told, the rebel soldiers over there were the ones who had been fighting against the national soldiers of Liberia. And now here they were, on the outskirts of Monrovia, he was seeing the soldiers whose actions had caused the interminable suffering of his people. It was then that he remembered what the AFL soldier had said to him when he was at the dungeon, “If he is not a rebel now, he may become one someday.” It meant that to survive in the jungles in the face of the war, he would choose to become a rebel soldier, for any cause necessary. It seemed to him that on that one, the soldier was right. For before him the rebel soldiers were not ready to welcome him as one of theirs. And again he wondered if they were some of the very ones who had been reported to kill other Liberians for sport, including their own. He felt some excitement, when he heard them communicating in his ethnic dialect. Though he had heard how dangerous the rebel soldiers were, from reports over the BBC, and from Liberians who had come in contact with them, he felt some warmth towards them. Possibly, they would be different and those stories about them might be from their enemies. Now, he was meeting them, and would judge for himself the veracity of those accounts.

Joining the multitude of people moving into rebel territory, fleeing the menace of the soldiers in Monrovia, there was a clear indication that the journey would meet its devil. In single file, civilians, including old women and children, marched on, and were directed to an entrance to be searched.

In the shed, seated on a stool, was a young man of probably eighteen. His eyes looked hollow, like he was suffering from jaundice or fever, and a false hair, or wig hung on his head. His trousers were torn on the side, and a knife, the kind used by butchers, hung on his other side. Just across from him sat stoned face, a young woman in tatters, clasped in her hands two shiny weapons. It was no argument that she was one of them, Zonn guessed. The small shed had an opening, which was evidently a window, and the top was covered with weeds, and scrubs from the area. The outpost nature of the area gave it a depressing look. All around, the cries of birds would very often break the silence and there was also some loud noises or cries that might have come from some wild animals. The look on the young man’s face gave Zonn the creeps. Maybe he might be the commanding officer, a CO, a title that was just a medal for any of the young rebel soldiers who had distinguished himself on the battle field.

“You come over here,” the soldier pointed his finger at James Zonn and his companion, beckoning them to come closer. “Nobody must lie to us here, if you want to live, you hear me?” The instruction made its first attempt to destroy any hope or confidence that Zonn had first entertained about the freedom fighters, as the rebels sometimes called themselves. Here the soldier wanted to know something about him, and perhaps about his companion. Since the soldier said he did not want any one to lie to him, he meant really to say, he did not want any one to tell him information about himself that was not true.

“Your name?” The soldier’s cranky voice almost made Zonn smile, but he checked himself, and straightening up, said, “James Zonn is my name.”

“How far you going?” This second question was intended to force the responder to explain the real motive of his journey into the rebel territory. But Zonn thought something was missing. It was no argument that Monrovia was being set ablaze, the soldiers were rounding up suspected Gio and Mano citizens, and hauling them off to be destroyed, and didn’t this soldier know that?

And he was still considering his next answer when the soldier said, “What tribe?” Here Zonn felt that he had the soldier wide open, and answered, “Gio, from Nimba.”

“You sure?” Zonn was not certain if this rebel soldier had been trained to ask such crisp questions, whenever a correct answer was given to an earlier answer. But all the same, he held on, trying to make the best use of the situation. The situation demanded that he remained tactful, and must play the ball in the rebel soldier’s own backyard.

“Can y’all speak Gio?” Here, Zonn one more time realized the rebel soldier had added his companion to the interrogation, with the ‘y’all’ which was known to mean more than one, and now was seeking further proof that the two of them were not imposters, or from the hated Krahn, Sarpo or Mandingo enemies, disguising themselves as Gios. Meanwhile, another “small soldier” was called to help out.

After some rapid exchanges of what Zonn understood were about them, the small soldier asked him in Gio, “Why are you leaving the city?” And just as rapidly as the boy had asked him, he responded without blinking his eyes. A smile danced crookedly on the corner of the small soldier’s mouth, and turning to his commander, informed him that he was a Gio.

“What about the woman?’
“I aint think she is Gio,” small soldier told his commander in Gio. Zonn’s heart moved faster as perspiration beaded on his forehead. He deliberately looked sideways, and could see the hot flush of fear in the woman’s face. He dared not tell the rebel soldier the truth, since they had made it clear that they were here, in his own words, to collect all the Krahn, Sarpo and Mandingo people for the chief. There was no need for Zonn to attempt an explanation. Whoever or whatever was the chief, and needed the kind of people the soldier was searching for, was his own headache.

“I need to talk to your woman alone,” was what the rebel soldier told Zonn, as he ordered two more rebel soldiers to stand watch over him. What appeared like gloom overcame him, but he remained unmoved. He had escaped from one butcher to meet another. In a moment, he decided against the idea for the soldier to take the woman away, and moved to act.

The rebel soldiers watched him, with their AK-47 riffles in front of them.

“Brother,” he said in Gio, “in Monrovia the soldiers are killing us because of you, and in your midst we are also being haunted like animals. What do you want from my wife, who had been there for me, when they wanted to kill me, brother?” The rebel CO swiftly turned around, and Zonn saw the bitterness in his face. Zonn’s head throbbed to the left and to the right, as the rebel soldier moved towards him, saying, “That people like you that protect our enemies, and I think you’ll die together here.”

Immediately, despite his protest, the other soldiers moved in and forced him to the ground. In the end his hands were tied behind his back, or as the rebel soldiers described it, he was tabayed, and with the woman going through the same treatment, they were tied together, facing away from each other.

Their executions were set.
“In thirty minutes both of you will die,” the commander announced to the captives.