Looting Game in Liberia

By Omari Jackson

Ron was surprised the first time he saw it in action. No, he did not see it, but the first time he saw a form of corruption being practiced on him. He was just seventeen then, and had gotten his first vacation job in Monrovia.

The experience would be another first in his life.
Just before he encountered him, he and his colleagues of students had been warned about the corruptible influence of doing things to achieve their selfish desires.

“Never take any money,” he listened as the official made his remark, “from those we are sending you. Even if anyone insists, and want to give you money, don’t take it.”

“There are vipers out there,” the Liberian official told the group f more than fifteen, “if you must live up to the calling as future leaders in this country, then you must live above reproach.”

Ron was full of ambition to work, by going to the source of those who should be paying their taxes to the country. Liberia needed all that belonged to it. That was how he felt, and he was very much determined for it, and his friends were also.

His face was like a stone. He would put a strong face to resist any attempt at compromising his fidelity to his country. He even wondered why someone would insist that he should accept money. He could not understand it, till he arrived on Water Street.

The store owner was apparently glad to see Ron and his friends, from the Ministry of Commerce.
“You’re welcome,” the manager, his bald head marking time with him, said with a grin.

What is going on here? We just arrive here and this man is behaving as if he is seeing his own children!

“What can I offer you?” the man said, rubbing his hands together. The morning weather was becoming hot and he would not want these youngsters to be here without some “cold water.”

“We’re students on this job,” Ron told him, “we don’t expect you to give us any special treatment.” His voice was very low, and the man’s face did not change. He licked his mouth, and turning around, said to a young man, who sat at the corner of the store, the Alie Brothers Store.

“Bring them something to drink,” and turning to Rob and his friends said, his voice rising, “you’re my people and you will do what I say just how is always done.”
“Do we have to be treated like the way you want it?” It was one of the students, Liz, who was responding. Elizabeth Doe was seventeen and it was her first Vacation Job.

Sensing the man’s reaction, Rob had moved in.

“I told Mr. Alie the same thing,” he said, “but he would not hear it.”
“What can we do now?”

“Unless we do what he wants,” Rob said, “it is likely that we’ll have to go elsewhere.”

“Hmm!!” Elizabeth’s response had shown a bit of disappointment. But it seemed they would have to agree to be treated and then…

“What your say?” The manager’s voice had interrupted the discussion among the young interns, and it appeared they would just succumb to the appeals of this businessman or else...

“Don’t worry about this,” he told the young men and women, “All the people do the same.”

Unable to resist the man’s offer, Ron and his friends compromised and allowed the manger to take them through a treat.

After all the man had said that was how it was done here, and Ron could see that it was a tradition set by one of those who had warned about the corruptible influence of “cold water.” If not so, how did he know?

Mr. Samson Gabbie was the deputy manager at the Ministry Of Commerce, and he would have grown through the system.
What did the man say?
“That’s how we do it here.”

Though Rob had felt disappointed for being unable to stand up against the offer, in the end, the records they came to examine, they realized had some bad problems. They were inconsistent with the copy of what they had brought from the Ministry.

In this case, it appeared that this man would be facing a lot of trouble with the law, and that happened Liberia would reap the benefits.

But here they were, with all their stomachs full with gifts, and edibles. Without knowing the man had ensured that a small pouch containing some money had been readied for each of the fifteen young vacation workers, and having compromised their faithfulness to Liberia, Ron could read the guilty verdict all over their faces.

But he realized no one was condemning them, which he thought was good.
That was how it had ended back then.

Now at the mature age of forty five, he could not deny that corruption had been in Liberia as long as many of those crying against it were born.

Then the civil-war came, and everybody, including the fighters and their leaders, took whatever they wanted: looting and looting everything!

While Prince Johnson and his group were looting the Freeport of Monrovia clean, Charles Taylor and his group were cleaning up the natural resources they could get their hands on.

Then the various expremental-goverments came, one after the other. And that was how they also cleaned the national coffers, leaving the country poorer than before. But who would anyone blame?

“We must blame ourselves,” he told himself, “no need to blame anyone, ourselves.”
That seemed like a wonderful answer but then there were many who would not accept that they had contributed to looting Liberia clean.

Now he knew how such a practice had resulted in making getting the easy things in life more difficult. But he knew, yes, he knew…In Sundays and the various churches, the parishioners and their leaders would sing their hearts out for Christ.

They would listen to sermons, pounding on the weaknesses of man, and how those with such weaknesses would not inherit the Kingdom of God.

Rob had been in such a service, on numerous occasions.
But in the end he had watched with pain as the senior pastor compromising his faithfulness to his wife and cozying out with a girlfriend.

“That was bad,” was all he could say that Sunday.

He knew that was how things had been, and wondered how far would they be allowed to continue? He did not have any answer for it, but felt it would continue until every Liberian in authority, and those mature enough decide to put a stop to it.
“When will that be?” he was asking himself, “when will that be?”

The Lonely Bones

By Omari Jackson

My name is John Reed, popularly known among my friends as, JR, and a survivor of the Liberian civil-war. I have a story to tell. You see, I have on many occasions refused to agree that it has to be told but I am unable to snub it. It kept coming back to me.

It is tearing my mind apart, and I knew that I had to do something about it. The lonely bones? Yes, I saw them. But I could not imagine whose bones they were. That’s to say, from the beginning whether they were those of human or beast. And yet I moved into their shadow, hoping that I could have a correct picture of them. I was just fourteen then, and the war in Liberia had gone on for nearly six years. No, I was never a fighter, meaning I never held a weapon for any of the fighting groups.

The soldiers…and they were many when they came to our town. The afternoon breeze was cold, and despite the feeling of uncertainty, because of the war, there was some hope that something positive could happen and maybe the fighters of the various armies would end the war. Though it was an illusion, many of the people correctly believed that, as far as the soldiers were concerned, the war would continue for a while.
And it did.

Now, what was I talking about? Yes, I remember, I was referring to the lonely bones, and this was how I found them. Well, I could not be sure whose bones they were, since when I discovered them; I initially thought they were those of some beasts of prey. They were about six of them, the bones, I mean. I discovered the first three behind a mangrove swamp, and I assumed they were the bones that supported animal torsos, and the last three were what seemed like forearms of what I thought were the remains of beasts.

The borough of New Kru Town sat on the east of Monrovia. The population was increasing in numbers, since it was considered a safe-haven in those days of the war. Our house was one of the first you encounter, especially when you approach it from the east, where the former Monoprix Supermarket was located.

Though the Monoprix Supermarket had served the various communities of Duala, New Kru Town, Point Four, Caldwell and Virginia, it was now empty, which meant it was broken into as hunger deepened and the people could no longer maintain their decency.

But the day I discovered the bones, I was not really expecting anything exciting to happen to me. There had been so many rumors upon rumors about the successes of the government soldiers on one hand, and those of the rebels, on the other.

Since all news media outlets had been closed, news came only from foreign radio stations, and the British Broadcasting Corporation, known popularly as BBC, was the leading contender. In addition the rumor mills from ordinary Liberians were competing for attention, and they were doing fairly well.

The cold weather had decreased, and though in September, the period that the weather was supposed to bring in the cool season, and this was strange because we were experiencing an unusual weather; jokingly described as “some day hot, some day cold,” and we had not known that kind of weather before, in recent time, that is. But then I could tell since events in Liberia were different from what we had known. So, as I moved towards Funday, which was adjacent to the Atlantic Ocean, I did not know what I was really looking for, when my eyes, as if by some practiced action, shot towards the three protruding hands in the swamp.

Near their location were several women, searching in the swamp for the local Kiss Me, a tiny snail-like species that were bountiful on this part of the world. The women were moving to this way and that way, and amid the ding of the unusual weather, I found myself starring at the bones.
Yes, the lonely bones.

I shivered, and made a face, just at the mere thought of being in the swamps and looking at those lonely bones. Human beings had become sport for the enemies in the land. There were reports of deliberate killings of civilians, and there were much fear and anxiety in the city. Monrovia was increasingly becoming a ghost town. It was not a ghost town because there were no people, it was becoming one because dead bodies of the Liberian dead were being buried everywhere there were large spaces to accommodate them.

That was what came to my mind when I saw the bones, and felt how lonely they were! After some soul-searching, I decided to go closer and examine the bones. There was no fear in me as I moved closer. And then I saw them: I could swear that they were those of the Liberian dead.

The bones, the lonely bones, I imagined, had once belonged to the living bodies of some Liberians, and now with the bones protruding from the bowels of the earth, and in the midst of the swamp, I found myself unable to agree that the Liberian war was a just war, as Tom said recently. For, I had initially believed that the bones belonged to some beasts, which now starred me with the plea of the doomed. The bones were different from those of the beasts, and everyone agreed that they were those of the murdered. But since they were found in the heart of the Borough of New Kru Town, and in one of the several swamps, I wondered how that could be, especially, when the Borough was described as a safe-haven.

Walking away, my mind raced back and forth on those persons who might have owned the lonely bones. Then I promised that whenever there was peace once more, I would collect the bones and find them decent resting place.

But I left Liberia before total peace returned, and as a result I could not fulfill my promise to give them a resting place.

Two years after the war, the issue of the lonely bones had come back to me, again and again. In my dreams I had seen them. In my thoughts they had occupied them.

Now, sleeping had become a burden, for the bones had been crying out to me, for some attention. But then I remembered the popular saying in Liberia that, “a promise is a debt.” In that case, I owed the lonely bones a place for their eternal rest. And one day when I return, I may give them their due, so that they can rest for all time.

CLEANING HOUSE

By Omari Jackson

Becky Wilson knew it was time to clean her home. The past belonged to the past, and the future would represent her, forever! But could she just forget the past, and forge ahead, not ever thinking about what had gone before? Was she able to do that and leave her ghost behind?

At times she felt there were others who were born to give other people more headaches. And there were at times she would imagine that life itself deserved to be forced to do what one wanted.

Marriage, the institution of it, she never had the idea to imagine could turn out to be bitter. Not that she was naïve she would not want to accept the reality that all matured adults were aware of. It was just that when life was treating you so nice, it would seem to you that you were special and would not meet with it discouraging part.

Now she knew, and she was glad that she had come to know at the time she had all senses correct.

That was why when Angelina paid her a visit, the only friend who had always understood her worries; she opened herself up to her, on what all she had gone through, and her new resolution in life.

“Was it that bad?’ Angelina’s face had blushed, and her teeth held together. Becky could understand her shock, for she knew how much she had loved the man in her life. It was not that Samson had turned out to be a monster all of a sudden.

“It was that bad,” she said, “it began when he came a year after I had arrived in the US.” The mere fact of making reference to her past churned her stomach. It had been six years now, and she had been able to replace the hurt with love, and the physical emotion that came with it had been replaced with compassion.

“I cannot believe this,” Angelina said. It was not that Angelina lived in a perfect world. No, she had had her share of unfaithfulness and physical abuses, but to hear Becky’s own story from the lioness’ own mouth, she could only wonder in amazement.

“On several occasions I went into coma,” Becky told her friend, “One time, I thought I would not survive it.”

Her friend’s eyes misted with tears, and moving closer to her, she lowered herself onto the chair next to her. The two-bedroom apartment was larger than the usual one she had known, and that, she thought, gave Becky more room with her daughter, Shania.
“He associated with some friends,” Becky continued, “and on several times he told me how there were good women waiting to marry to him.” Becky lowered her head when she said that, and Angelina, seeing what was happening, moved in to give her the comfort her friend crave.

“I know you’re a stronger woman now since the divorced,” she told Becky, who was still in an emotional roller-coater.

“It’s been six years now since the divorce,” Becky told her friend, “At such a young age, could I have ever imagined that I would be a divorcee?” It was a legitimate question but with the world becoming an increasingly difficult place, Becky could not, but accept the reality to accept her fate.

For now!
“Now I’m ok,” she said, “I’ve lived here as a single mother for the last six years, and you would imagine that I’m enjoying my life.” Her friend had looked at her, with surprise.

“I know you’re doing fine,” she said, “your work and your current educational pursuits should be enough to occupy your time.”

“I’m allowing myself sometime to reflect and to re-organize myself as I’m doing now,” Becky said, “Maybe tomorrow, I mean after a couple of years I’ll consider that part of my life.”

“Right now your daughter needs you,” Angelina reminded her, smiling.
Becky also laughed, and her eyes brightened.

“If you want to know how I managed all these years,” Becky said, pulling from her handbag, which was on the table beside her, and spreading a paper she had removed with care.

“Read this,” she told Angelina”

Cleaning House
Last Week I threw out worrying, believe you can do the same; it was getting old and in the way.

It kept me from being me; I couldn't do things God's way.
I threw out a book on MY PAST; believe you can do the same;
(Didn't have time to read it anyway).
Replaced it with NEW GOALS, started reading it today.
I threw out hate and bad memories,
(Remember how I treasured them so)?
Got me a NEW PHILOSOPHY too, threw out the one from long ago.
Brought in some new books too, called I CAN, I WILL, and I MUST.
Threw out I might, I think and I ought.
WOW, you should've seen the dust.
I ran across an OLD FRIEND, I hadn't talked to in a while.
His name is JESUS, and I really like His style.
He helped me to do some cleaning and added some things Himself.
Like PRAYER, HOPE, FAITH and LOVE,
Yes... I placed them right on the shelf.
I picked up this special thing and placed it at the front door.
I FOUND IT- its called PEACE. Nothing gets me down anymore.
Yes, I've got my house looking nice.
Looks good around the place.
For things like Worry and Trouble there just isn't any space.
It's good to do a little house cleaning, Get rid of the things on the shelf.
It sure makes things brighter; maybe you should TRY IT YOURSELF.
BE BLESSED AND BE A BLESSING TO SOMEONE ELSE!!!!
May the Lord open the windows of heaven and pour you out a blessing that you will not have room enough to receive it all.
Malachi 3:10.
May the Lord bless you exceedingly abundantly above all you could ever hope for.
Philippians 4:19.

When she got through with the note, Becky’s snoring was echoing in her ears, and her face shone brightly like an angel’s. Angelina felt glad that her friend had found Christ in her agony.

She herself would also clean her house, she thought, and maybe find a way to rejoice in Jesus.

There was a comforter nearby, and she pulled it to cover Becky, hoping that Jesus would look after her.

Justice Without Fail

By Omari Jackson

He glanced at the list and his eyes watered, and pulling a paper towel from his breast pocket, he slowly dabbed his face. Once in a while, he would turn around and glanced at the mass of people sauntering about.

He was not in Liberia but why was he looking among Americans to identify those whose names were registered on the news-bulletin? He could not be sure why, but at the same time, Sam Wollobah could not fail to remember that many of those wanted might be hiding in one of the cities in the America.

He was not a representative of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Liberia but that did not suggest that he should close his eyes without looking.

He moved a few steps in front of the Bank of America building in Lawrenceville, and glancing at the paper he held in his right hand, he read the introduction, again and again: “List of perpetrators or alleged perpetrators who have been invited but refused to appear before the TRC in response to various forms of human rights and international humanitarian law violations ranging from murder, massacre, rape to forced displacement, etc, levied against them.”

On the list were names, as if in their order of authority, during the days of the Liberian civil-war. A smile came to his mouth when he considered it.

The first name was Charles G. Taylor. Then he turned to read the introduction again.
“List of perpetrators or alleged perpetrators who have been invited but refused to appear before the TRC…”

“But Taylor is not a free man to refuse to attend the TRC,” he said it loud and it drew the attention of a young man who had been eyeing him. Sam had, however, observed him, and not wanting to sound alarming, had pretended to ignore calm.

He thought he was being watched since he had just come from the bank, and these of days of government bail-outs, he could not entertain the negative notion that the man might want a bail-out from him.

He was turning around when their eyes met, and he mockingly bared his teeth. The other man, about twenty eight or thirty five returned the smile, and began to walk towards him.

Sam was not really afraid since it was almost twelve noon; a glance at his wrist watch told him that.

“You from Liberia?” The man said, complementing it with a smile. Sam nodded in answer, and began to fold the paper in his hand.

“I have been watching you,” the stranger said, “the war; I mean the civil-war.”

“Yes,” Sam said, and from the stranger’s accent he could feel the Liberian in him. “I know you were watching me, anything?” His reaction might have told the stranger to react friendlier.

“Well, I have heard the news about the list,” he said, “and though I am not surprised, I am glad that they are asking many people, those who played major roles to appear.”

“You see,” Sam regaining his composure and realizing that there was no danger, opened up, “its interesting a person like Charles Taylor has been asked to appear.”

“But he is still in The Hague, right?”

“That’s what I thought,” Sam said with a grin. “What about Christopher Vambo, whose nickname is Mosquito.”

“That could be his ‘commando’ title,” the other said, “by the way; I’m Tom, originally from Gbarnga, Bong County.”

“Have you been in the US long?”

“Three years ago,” Tom said, “my entire family was wiped out during the war.”

“It was a tragic war,” Sam told him, “I resided in Logan Town and during the Octopus the rebels stole me to Gbanrga.”

“Is that Coocoo Dennis’s name on the list?” Tom said, “I know him back in Liberia.”

“Yes,” Sam said, “their names look like a role-call for a soccer game, where the first name is for the goalkeeper.” Sam continued to smile, and the stranger also laughed.

Both men glanced at the list:
1. Charles G. Taylor
2. Christopher Vambo (Mosquito)
3. Coocoo Dennis
4. Edward Farley
5. Eugene Wilson
6. Gborbo Gblinwon
7. George Boley
8. Melvin Sogbandi
9. Momo Gebbah (Bull Dog)
10. Ofori Diah (Iron Jacket)
11. Roland Duo
12. Ruth Milton
13. Sando Johnson

“So as you said,” Tom said, “since Taylor will be the goalkeeper, Vambo will be the reserve goalie.”

Tom was still smiling, when Sam said, “There is a day of reckoning for everything that is done on this earth.”

“True,” the other agreed, “but sometimes justice stay too long that those who are deserving of their just punishment do not receive it.” And that was absolutely true, Sam thought.

Sam was no stranger to suffering. When he was bodily captured and carried to Greater Liberia, as the rebels called their arrears, he saw what human suffering was all about.

He saw dead bodies of both men, women and children, unburied, and the more he thought about it, the more he could not understand the senselessness of Liberia’s tragic past.

His silence bothered the stranger, who sensing what was happening, said, “To talk about the Liberian war and not to share a tear for our people is something I cannot understand.”

With a face still remembering the painful memories of the past, Sam folded the paper, and placed it in his breast pocket, and gave a deep breath.

“I know how it was,” Tom said, placing his right hand on his left shoulder.

“What I don’t understand is,” Sam said, bracing himself to face the reality he knew he must face, “George Boley is somewhere in America, can’t he be arrested and sent to face the TRC, like they did to Taylor?”

“I wish I know the answer to it,” Tom said, with sympathy for Sam and anger for Boley. “After all Boley was also a murderer, whose forces killed hundreds of Liberians.”

“That’s the world for you,” Tom told him, with glee.

“But why are they refusing to attend to explain the roles they played in the war, why?” Sam found himself asking, and the stranger watched him with some amount of concern.

“I know one day,” Tom said, “they will get their pay.”

“That’s for sure,” Sam said, “God’s justice is slow by human standard, but it is sure will not fail.”

“Amen,” Tom said.

Mob Justice

By Omari Jackson

When they were finished with him, they called him a monkey. They were not even satisfied to deride him, and lower his honor. On a Monday morning, thousands of them ran through the principal streets of the village. In fact it seemed that they were rejoicing for his eventual down fall.

“Monkey come down,” they sang in chorus. “We’re tired with the nonsense.” They sang aloud and there were children among the mob. There was also hysteria and many of the people did not care if he died or not.

From where he sat, behind men and women who had sworn to protect him even unto death, Jack Solomon held his peace. His eyes would blink from time to time and his mouth would betray his resolve to defy his enemies, who sought his downfall.

Now he was a monkey, and he must come down! True he was once, when he ruled the entire village from coast to coast. It was the time, several years ago, when the people allowed their young daughters and young men to parade down the center of the village, calling on his name, as if he were a god.

Now he knew they had done with him and he must come down.

And he was still sitting behind two of the men when a third person, perhaps he was a soldier or someone in authority announced that it was time for monkey to come down.
“What you mean by monkey?” It was the voice of his best pal, who could not agree that Jack Solomon’s time in the village was over. “It’s wrong to call him monkey now.”

It seemed that the man who had made the announcement was not prepared to hear it. His face seemed to indicate that he was come to help monkey down.

Solomon’s face registered regret, for until his enemies insisted that he should come down, he was the darling of everyone in the village.

“The whole village is in turmoil and we need peace here,” the same man said, and it was apparent that he meant business this time. It was also true that he was some kind of authority, a police man or something. He pulled his gun from his shoulder holster and dangled it before for all the friends, about ten of them to see.

He did not speak his mind afterwards, and with his eyes looking this way and that way, Jack Solomon could not think on anything but the time he would be handed over to his enemies.

He would regret the time and day of his surrender and of course the time would come in the end. His father fought and lost to the end!

He then raised his two hands over his head and gave a deep breath. His face looked so sad, and his lanky frame was beginning to dwindle short. Some of his friends sitting by him saw the changes in him and several apparently felt sorry for him.

After all Solomon had been responsible for the deaths of many of the children in the village. He had boasted about it and at the time he felt there was no power in the world that could call him to account.

His father, killed several days ago by the same mob, got the worst treatment worth recording, both ears slashed off, and his legs broken under him. What was his crime? His mind was asking him and he had the answer.

As a leader of the people, his father had given him power, and he had abused it. There was a story, still told in the village, when Solomon crushed a woman to death, when he drove in his motor car, which was paid for with the money from the village.

There was another story, still told in the village, where Solomon had slapped another woman who had mistakenly crossed his path.

The stories were many, and he was aware of that. So it seemed that now that he was being described as monkey, like the mob did to his father before him, he would have no choice but to come down as the people wanted.

What would they do to him, when he came down? He was not sure but felt that coming down could give the mob the choice to either kill him as a pay for the lives he had destroyed or just beat the hell out of him.

“I will come down, now,” was what he said. His friends thought he was going out of his mind, but he stood firm.

He nodded his head to the nearest man to him and re-emphasized his earlier declaration to step down.

“I am coming down,” his voice this time was clear and everyone, including his friends heard him loud and clear.

Then the man who had reechoed that he should come down grabbed him by the shirt and swung him down, and just when he was landing on his butt, he thought he heard a loud noise, say, “that’s monkey coming down now.”

The mob then moved on him and began to execute violence on him.

Though there were women among the mob, none wanted him to survive. As his eyes dimmed and his breathing began to lose its power, he could hear faintly the chanting song of the mob, “monkey has come down.”

He lost consciousness then, and died thereafter.

Sando’s Camera

By Omari Jackson

It was after the war, and many things done in the past were being exposed. They were being put in the eyes of the public, and while Monrovia and many of the people loved it that way, there were still others in authority who did not like it.

“It began with the Veep,” Sam Wlue was saying, “when his picture was snapped he ordered his men to seize it.” Sam Wlue was only twenty four years, but he was a comical person.

The Veep in question could be a reference to the Vice President of the Republic, Hon. J. Boakai who had ordered a camera seized, during a ceremony in Monrovia. It was not clear if the Veep was unhappy because of the angle the cameraman stood to snap the picture.

Since that time, after the president proper had decided to restitute the loss, it was considered that those in authority would not continue to embarrass the government, again!

Among the newspapers presently being published in Monrovia, the Daily Observer was doing its best. And in the same vein, Cameraman Sando was also doing his best.
“Look at that picture,” Sam Wlue was still saying; a copy of the Observer straddled on his lap “I just love the way the woman is sitting there and her children surrounding her.”

“Sando‘s a good cameraman,” Beatrice Won, said, grinning. Beatrice was sixteen, and was a street vendor, selling newspapers. Like Sam, lack of financial support had forced her to “work” and with three children to feed, returning to school seemed her less worry.

In another day, and another time, Sando’s camera had snapped a little girl, sitting down under a tree. It was the rush hour, and just across from her, there were others her age, in their neat-fitting dresses on their way to school.
The contrast in the picture was clear though, it was not a mockery in any sense, the reproach in it could not be overlooked.

At a time when women were being encouraged to lead, and one of their own was leading the Liberian nation as a president, it showed a sense of reversal when young females were not fully educated. But in this country, education was the duty of a parent and not that of the government.

And that was where the borderline between Sando and his camera was drawn.
Though, like the vice president, some in authority had resented Sando’s ubiquitous voice in his Camera lens, and might do all they could to prevent their picture from being snapped, Sando still found a way to get what he always wanted.


But whoever thought that Chief Justice Johnnie N. Lewis would add his name as one of the Camera seizers? After all he was the number one law-man in the country. He was supposed to respect the law.

In a country that lawlessness reigned supreme for fourteen years, it was a poor example for a Chief Justice to seize a camera, and none but the one belonging to Cameraman Sando.

“Was he mad,” Wlue said, staring at Christiana, as both huddled around customers moving back and forth. “What does the law say?”

“If that is the case,” continued Wlue angrily, “then where is the rule of law?” His companion was inattentive, since there were many people making purchases. And it took some interval of several minutes before she could straighten up, and adjusted her skirt about herself.

“It was in poor taste,” she said, wringing her hands.

But then it appeared that the Chief Justice was not prepared for any reconciliation. For after the incident, the Press Union declared: “In 48 hours we want the camera delivered to us.” It was an intriguing development since confrontation with violent in its sleeves, was brewing up. Who could not have seen the confrontational nature of the Press Union’s release?

It was during the visit of Mr. John Agyekum Kuffour, president of neighboring Ghana, and a journalist had asked the Chief Justice whether he was bothered at all about the ultimatum from the press union. The Chief Justice’s face had turned red, his nose had begun to expand, and his eyes were wide like he was seeing a snake.

His answer was this: “Don’t ask me (a) foolish question. Get out of my way.” That observation was read by John Wlue, and he was not happy about it.

Though he was a street vendor, hawking newspapers, he had had some good learning, and like his companion, money had forced him to discontinue his education.

“Maybe everybody needs some trauma counseling,” was all he could say to that. And an eighteen year-old boy, standing by, and who heard Wlue’s remark could not fail but laugh.

“Some of these big people were not here during the war,” he said, “but I can tell you they all deserve some counseling to develop new attitude.”

That suggestion could be further from the truth. But if that should be the case, how can anyone explain with certainty the action of the Chief Justice? Since it appeared he did not have regard for Cameraman Sando, how could someone respect him?

“Read that side,” the young man pointed that out to Wlue, “the president of Ghana says he is sorry for what happened to Liberians in Ghana. Can we do the same to ourselves?”
That was also an intriguing question.

For the meantime, Cameraman Sando was reported to be considering the experience with some caution. Hardly the one to open his mouth, he was said to have noted that those at the top should show an example that would be worth emulating.

“I see why minister Woods wants this nation dismantled. As a Chief Justice he must make the law reinforced and that way we will not be talking about dismantling the nation,” another person, standing by said with some warmth.

When Wlue heard that remark, he was beside himself with laughter.

“Education should make me a good man, like Sando,” he said. And as intriguing as his remark was, the casual observer could not fail to notice the excitement in his voice. Though the Chief Justice’s action was not one of good behavior, and it was apparently the reason many in Monrovia called for a truce, the damage to his position had already been compromised.

“Why is he embarrassing the country?”

Sam Wlue’s remark might not have been heard by his companion, for she was seen rushing towards a passenger car, to deliver a product to a customer.

“Has anything changed after all?” This was another question for thinking Liberians to ponder over.

Time to end It

By Omari Jackson

Tony felt sick after he learned he was the target of the attack. The assault was led by Sam, an assassin, which snuffed out the life of his younger sister, Janet. It was like a stab in his heart. How could they have done that? Didn’t they know she was just an innocent kid?

His eyes misted, and tears rolled down his tear-drenched eyes. His face was like someone suffering from one of those diseases that had been credited to Apollo and the days when the Americans were shuttling to and from the moon. He could feel the dusty itch tearing his eyes, and he wondered how long he could continue like that.

He stood at his Lawrenceville ramshackle house, and he could hear the sounds of cars passing by. He could also smell the arcane scent of leaves and felt the cold weather on his face.

The thought of his niece’s death scorched his heart. They killed an innocent child, and he could not accept the reality of it and he blamed himself, somehow. Now he was meeting Sam, and making up his case against him. Jane was a child of his older sister, who died when she was three. The last time they were together, the young woman had called him, “Uncle Tony.” What would his sister thought of him? A failure? A disappointment? He was full of venom from here on.

“You killed her and destroyed my life,” he told him with a sniff, “You will have to pay for it.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replied, “Be ready to follow her to hell.”
“Why did you kill her?”
“I was looking for you,” Sam said, “And when she would not reveal your hideout, I decided to teach her a lesson.”
“You killed an innocent child,” he told him, with anger building up in him, “Isn’t life for life?”
“Then come get it.” The other said, and he positioned himself for the eventual combat.

Tony launched preemptive strike against the man who held his peace at the corner of the room. First it was his right leg, like a Chinese in a Kun Fu movie. Then his left leg followed in rapid succession, and he could hear the man’s groan. It was like he was suffering from a heavy banter to his head.

Tony did not really care any more. He felt enough pain and was now prepared to deliver the ultimate blow to his adversaries. He was not, to be fair, a violent man, but the days had changed and things were now different. Lawlessness had been in an open display, and he could not be counted out.

If for that reason someone would describe him as a violent man, then so be it. At a time when young boys and girls had been armed by politicians to kill off their brothers, uncles and parents, there was no wonder that Tony had become a Jackie-Chan-type of character.

The Chinese might not have deliberately chosen to make physical combat their national pastime. It might have been a strong reason for that.
Now Tony was kicking butt, and who dared to interfere? By now the enemy had crumbled before him, blood oozing out from his head. Despite the poor visibility, Tony could see very well the damage he had caused the murderer.

With a thud, Tony’s victim had earlier lost his balance and had fallen heavily on the ground. In the process, something had slipped out of his fingers. A closer looked and Tony could tell it was what he correctly thought, a gun. For whatever the situation was, Sam could not bring himself to use the weapon, and died not able to use it.

One down, and Tony was up and running to the next rendezvous. It was like an appointment with death itself!



Tony was risking death to escape from John. It had happened before, and he only survived by applying some of his wits. That day, three months ago, he had been caught napping, and John was in control. John was one of them, a man who was the second in command of a murderous gang. They had been terrorizing, and robbing the people off their wealth.

The battle that day was tough.

He had Tony’s head between his legs, and his large thighs held his head, and John’s massive right hand banged on his head from time to time.
“Say you are my master,” he ordered the vanquished Tony to say, “I will always serve you.”

It was too much for him and when he decided to lift his head in a swoop, John, who by then had relaxed his hold on his head, vaulted backwards, sending himself into the deep gutter behind him. Now free, Tony took the turn and as he paid John in his own, he had wept like a child.

And so now they were meeting again.

From the beginning, Tony pretended he was down and out. John thought it was an opportunity and he went for it. His right hand was outstretched and he was moving to hold Tony by the neck when the other reacted. His swift reaction threw John off balance, and he went down.

Tony was standing over him, as the vanquished John crawled away from him. Tony had moved swiftly and had crushed his head into a pulp.

It had happened suddenly!

With John dead things were turning out to be different and Tony did not think the enemy could be ahead of things no matter what happened next. He had disposed of Sam, one of the toughest guys in the Useful Gang and now John was also gone. The gang was responsible for rapes and assaults on women in the Lawrenceville area, and since the law was slow in reacting, the former army sergeant Anthony (Tony) Roscoe, was doing it his own way.



Wesley Dollar tried to force Tony to join his group and when he refused, he decided to act tough on him. They were standing apart from each other and Tony sensed Wesley’s uneasiness. It was barely three hours after Tony’s encounter with John Penny.

Tony apparently was enjoying the spectacle. He had vanquished the two men who had been sent to kill him. Their master was now before him and he was having fun.
What might have confused Wesley was apparently due to Tony’s presence. This man was supposed to be dead, but then what had happened? Wesley was the big boss, who had sent a couple of friends, assassins to complete his mission.

The report said the eighteen year-old girl, raped and killed by the gang members was Roscoe’s sister. Now he could see the event carefully.

In fact Wesley had not expected to meet Tony here, for he had been told the job of killing him was a simple one. But those who thought Tony’s murder could be simple could not be found. He had not believed that Tony could have the strength to eliminate two tough guys.

But why did he forget Tony’s strength? Did Tony not participate in Operation Iraqi Freedom? Did he not survive several attempts on his life, and when he returned to the United States, did he not earn the “Purple Heart” from G. W. Bush? But if Tony Roscoe was too tough a guy, where was he when his native Liberia was in flames?

But everything being equal he would have to deal with Roscoe, and how well that would translate into action was anyone’s guess.

One thing, he was without a weapon, and with Tony’s right hand behind his back, what was he holding on to? Had he called on the police to come get him? Rumors indicated Tony was working for the law, was that true?

“It’s the end, Wes” he heard it, and it was loud and clear. His voice never lost it vitality, and now he was urging him to end it.

“What happens,” Wesley said, “if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to die, right?” The question had come with a strong powerful voice. That was what scared him now.

Then he heard the siren blaring towards them.
“So you did it?” Wes said, “You called the cops?” He was moving backwards, and Tony wished he could order him to stop.

“You don’t need to kill yourself,” he urged him, “Be a man to face the law.” But it was too late as Wesley Dollar allowed his body to fall behind and with a whooping sound disappeared. When Tony looked keenly to see if he was still there, there as an empty space.

“He has put the end to it all,” he said, and took the device from his pocket, and shut it off. “He thought the cops were coming.”

Willie’s Tragedy

By Omari Jackson

Willie Kolmar’s detention did not make sense to him. The police had come to him late Saturday, a month ago, and wanted to speak with him.
“It’s important to see you,” the officer, who had introduced himself, had said, “We’re not here to hurt you.” Willie listened to the officer from the confines of his room, a two-room apartment that he shared with his wife, in central Monrovia. He heard murmurings of several people outside the door, and he felt that something was wrong.

“You’re an officer, right?” His voice was shrill and direct. Since the end of the civil-war the Liberian local police was assisted by the United Nations, and Willie knew they would respect the standard procedure, respecting policing. “Is there any UN police officer with you?”

“Hey, Willie,” the voice outside continued, “We’re all Liberians, and you’re asking if a foreigner is with us?”
It made sense to Willie, but in today’s Liberia, one should not trust too much. But Willie Kolmar could not understand the reason for the visit. As a journalist, and here he examined his activities in recent time, he had not written any story that could be described as “embarrassing” to the government. Except those who were bent on engaging in corruption, and he was determined to expose them, and make life too difficult for them.

So, how come police men were looking for him?
“I know we’re all Liberians,” he said, “and you know that was true of the rebels.”
“We know it is late,” a voice from the other end said, in reassurance, “just nine o’clock and as officers we must do our job.” Willie knew he was making sense. He was a law abiding citizen, and would not want to set an example to disobey and disrespect members of the police service.

“You must have an authority to come here, you know,” he reminded the officer, as his door creaked open, and immediately five officers pounced on him. It was like a dream, lightning fast!
“What the hell is this?”

“We got report,” the officer told him calmly, “you raped a ten year-old girl.”
“You received a report from where?”
“We’re doing our job,” the officer insisted, firmly.
That was how he found himself in this detention center. He could not remember if he insisted on seeing any Warrant of Arrest that the law required for the probable cause, authorizing the arrest and detention of any citizen of the Republic of Liberia.

He knew it was a failure on his part, but then even if he had remembered and insisted on that they would still arrest him, as they did. That night was a humiliation for him.
By the time his wife, Antoinette, who had awaken due to the exchanges, came to the door, the famous journalist’s hands were firmly secured on his back, his eyes downcast, as he fought back tears.
“What happened here, Willie?” Her voice, shocked, could only demand to know her husband’s crime.

“This man,” one of the police officers, said, pointing his right hand to the captive, “raped a ten year-old girl.”
“So you condemn me before we go for the law, eh?” Willie said, because since it was an allegation, the officer should not be too sure about the crime.
“Who told your he raped a ten-year-old?”
“If you want to know,” the same officer informed her, “Come to the station tomorrow.”

So for thirty days, Willie languished in jail, and he knew it was a set up. But who was behind it? The new Liberia, not the one he had known and experienced in the course of the 14 years of war, supposed to change.
“This could be the work of corrupt people in this country,” Willie said it aloud; as he examined what could be responsible for his predicament.

Meanwhile, the local dailies, and even the internet magazine he had been working for had a field day with his story.
“Famous Liberian Journalist Busted for Rape,” one newspaper said. “Journalist Caught In Sex Act,” another said, and gave in graphic details, quoting the mother of the alleged victim, without any quotation from any medical official to confirm the rape.

And so when his wife came to visit in the second day of his detention, and to his horror, he was told about the accuser, Willie just sank into the corner of his cell, and looked into the heaven, as if he was done.
“You brought that girl from the street,” Antoinette told her husband, “now her mother is saying you raped her.”

“I didn't do anything like that?” the journalist said, his face looked spent, tired. “Someone is framing me.”
“The girl ma told the police.” Antoinette said, “The newspaper even say you did it to some Ghana woman you were going out with.”

“So my own people will not get my side of the story,” the journalist said, tears in his eyes. “Somebody has set me up, and my friends are unwilling to come to my help. This is a new day in Liberia indeed.”

The journalist considered the recent allegations and detentions of the misunderstood ex-military general, Charles Julu, and his colleague, Andrew Dorbor, and he understood his agony. However, like the two who were vindicated after their ordeal, he would be vindicated, and then he would fight for, not only those who could not fight for themselves, but for those who would become targets for the powerful establishment.


In truth Willie Kolmar could not admit that he did anything wrong. As his wife reminded him, he remembered almost six months ago when he saw a little girl alone sleeping under a bench, he had felt sorry for her.

There had been several NGOs helping abandoned children in Monrovia and other places, and here he was, able to help out, and the girl of that age, homeless, what would he do? He was a man, a father, who had a fear of God.
That night, he took the girl to a nearby shop, and made sure she ate something, and from there took her to his house.

“Look after her,” he told his wife, “she is your daughter till we can find her ma.” Remembering this story wrenched his heart. He wanted to help one of Liberia’s abandoned children, the ones the government could not help and now see what that action had led him.

And he was even more horrified when on the tenth day of his incarceration, his wife was also detained, for, as he was told, defending him, insisting that he was innocent.

Now that he had been inside for 30 days, he appreciated the experience of those who had been on the other side of the law. Looking around him, the six- by-six room did not give him a way to be comfortable. In the corner on his right sat a small bucket to be used for nature’s demands.

In fact he had to deal with the CIC, a brutish fellow, who had been in detention for his alleged criminal activities. The first night, he was stripped naked, since he did not have the money requested by the CIC.

The room itself was meant to accommodate three to four people; it held nearly ten persons, who had allegedly committed various crimes, and waiting their days in court. And Willie wondered if this was not the new Liberia, created after the violent civil-war. Why? The detained was waiting for their days in court, for more than thirty days. And what did the law say about the number of days for a person to be detained? Willie could only hope for the best.


He decided to fight back, and tell his side of the story.
His lengthy personal narrative on what he considered to be the source of his anguish went out to the general public. It was meant to explain it all and he took pains to pen it. Willie went all out, and pulled all the punches, naming names, and putting the blame where it belonged.

His story, in his own handwriting, appeared in the media, and many people understood why, while others expressed pity for him. “What kind of justice is this?” they asked. Many Liberians made reference to the recent false accusations against two former military officers, and the many months they spent in jail.
“Justice in the jungle, indeed!” many said, in disgust.

Willie, on the other hand knew he was suffering because of his avowed determination to expose corruption and their supporters, and by doing his job, he had stepped on the toes of somebody in high places, and without knowing it he was his target.

Since there was no evidence to link him to the crime that he was said to have committed, he saw the picture clearly, and also realized that he would have a battle to fight.

Though his wife was released the following day, he knew he must fight on, and fight well, and it was necessary, those who caused his incarceration he would help bring them down.


The law, he was aware, said no citizen should be detained more than 48 hours, Willie had been in detention for 30 days now, and so when he was finally processed and appeared before the presiding judge, his accusers, including the prosecution could not provide proof beyond any shadow of doubt of his guilt.

Standing in the dock, the judge almost cried with shame when the prosecution attorney said, “Your Honor, we don’t have sufficient proof against this man.”
As Willie fought back tears, he heard in his mind, the popular Liberian song, “Sweet Liberia,” and lowered his gaze. With all his popularity, if he could be detained for 30 days, what about those unknown thousands? What about those still in detention, who told him that they were innocent of the crimes against them?

As the judge’s gavel lifted in the air to conclude the present saga, Willie heard him say, “Release him and let him go home.” But for Willie, his war had just begun. And it was a war that he would fight to the end. Being vindicated reassured of the goodness in men, and though his experience had all the trappings of revenge, he could not refuse to accept the truth that his experience would serve as a way for him, and others, to understand what was happening in Liberia today.

His vindication had come at a proper time, to make him understand that the experience of the war would result in a situation like a woman in the pangs of distress. And how far she would endure depends on her ability to work for her own salvation.

He didn’t have to die

By Omari Jackson

She could have easily bowed her head in respect and leave the room but she sensed that she could not. Immediately she entered the room, the young men held her hands behind her back, and secured them with a rope. She flicked a startled glance at the men, who did not show any concern for their action. She took in a deep breath and turned to the one closer her, fuming with surprise. “What are you doing to me?” They ignored her question, and went on with their plan.

“I said we wanted you to show us someone,” the one behind her said, as he kept his head bent a little, “I lied. I know you’re Sam Kinta’s wife and wanted to get you inside this room.” And not only that they told her they were strangers, looking for someone and wanted her to help them locate the person.

Now she knew they lied to her. Life had been difficult in her community and with the political situation not getting better; she could admit there was more danger ahead. Then her face looked as if she would cry. Or wanted to cry. After some seconds, the tears would not come, and standing there erect, in the dimly lit room in the outskirts of Monrovia she could think of nothing but shame and fear for her life. Then as if on a cue the young man behind her folded his two hands around her neck, and shoved her with all his strength that she tumbled over the center table and went face down. Janet Kinta thought she would vomit, and at the same time would not agree that it was the time to give up.

“You’re a killer,” the man, who had shoved her so violently, taunted her, his throat sounding, as if he wanted to cry. “It’s people like you that deserve to be shot.” On the floor, Janet Kinta used her right hand to pull down the edge of her skirt to cover her exposed thigh. She would not cry. In fact, crying would give the three men the reason to even kill her.

“Get up, you bitch,” another voice shouted at her. She moved slowly, and with some pain stood up erect. She would die, it was possible, but if that was the decision then she would go down with her head up.

“What killed the man you said was your husband?” This voice had come from behind her again. She attempted to turn around but she felt a hand holding the back of her neck.

“No, you don’t,” was what he said. “Talk and tell us everything.”
She then made a moaning sound in her throat, as she began to tell them how her husband Sam Kinta hanged himself.

“It was three days ago now,” she said, her voice coming in bursts of disappointment, “Sam came home from town…” She could not continue, but then knew that failing to tell them the story, whether they would believe her or not, did not matter and might give the men some reason to act against her. The room where the three men brought her was behind the main road to her residence in their Monrovia quarter. She could not be sure since her eyes were bound and a gag in her mouth when they brought her.

The beam across the room, though it was in the mid-afternoon, her captors had sealed the room shut, and the two windows emanated some flicker of daylight that she began to see, after her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, was a little lower and she placed her right hand to balance herself.

“Are you not talking, woman?” She heard the voice from the first person who had almost choked her.

Sniffing, and at the same time wiping the tears from her face with the edge of her dress, she continued, “When he came home, it did not take some ten minutes when three soldiers came, and…”

“And then what?” The one in front of her shouted, and at the same time slapping her face with his right hand. The force of the blow pulled her backwards and she was about to hit the floor when a hand held her steady.

“No, you don’t.” This voice seemed sympathetic, but she could not be sure that any of the men in the room had decided to treat her better than she had known.
“The soldiers came with their weapons,” she continued, in a voice full of fear, “they wanted to know if Sam was home.”

“And you betrayed him to the soldiers?” Another voice said, “You are cruel and wicked.”

She was turning around to meet her accuser, but thought otherwise about it.
“You know my husband is from the Krahana tribe down river,” she continued, as hope rose in her voice. She was no killer and despite what any of the men in the room would say, she could not be responsible for her husband’s death.

“I thought he knew the soldiers,” her voice broke; she twisted her body, shaking herself, as the attachment woven to her natural hair fell behind her. She would not blame her captors for harassing her, since her husband committed suicide.
“One soldier wanted some money,” she went on. “And they wanted him to show
Johnson Wangoe, but he would not.”

“Me!” The one behind her exclaimed, revealing his identity.
“They were looking for you and he would not tell them.”
That answer might have satisfied the man, for his breathing became hard and she
could hear him breath.

“My husband was your friend, and he would not betray you, and therefore he died for you.” Tears rained down her face, and she fought back to control herself.
“So he would not betray me, and then they took him away,” Johnson murmured, feeling a sense of shame. The other men gazed sheepishly at each other, but could not say what was in their mind.

“I always thought your husband was a traitor,” Johnson continued, in a tone of regret, “See what I have done.”

One of the men cleared his throat.
“Johnson, didn’t you say you took some money from Sam?’
“Eh, yes I did but…”

“But, what? Did you set him up to die for you?”

Johnson sensed the anger in his friend’s voice and moved away from Janet.
“Since your people began to kill other people here,” the other continued, “I see many people die for what they believe to be true.”

“So Sam was forced to kill himself to hide you?” Janet demanded, still standing erect and not looking behind her. “One will think that your friendship with my husband was genuine and truthful.”

She began to moan for him again, and the other two watched in shock.
“To betray a friend is dangerous, Johnson,” the second man, bulky in a rumpled suit, said, in a voice of humor.

“And you are still not satisfied,” the other, standing about five-seven, said, moving closer to Johnson. “You want to kill the wife too, right?”

“Just hold it right there,” Johnson, realizing what he had done, shouted,
“Everything has messed up, and you listen to me.”

The stout man walked to his blind side, and grabbed Johnson with his two large hands, and forced him to the ground. His companion moved in, and before long,
Johnson was pummeled to the ground.

A search in his pocket brought out the money he had told his buddies, had been hidden by Sam, for which he was carried away and reportedly found hang to his neck.
The two men Johnson had enlisted to kill Sam’s wife gazed at each other, in apparent disbelief. The taller one looked at the other and he understood.
“Johnson,” the taller man, said, “You must value friendship.”

With his head still bowed, his hands tied behind his back and his chest forced up in front of him, he began to moan, crying for help.

“You wanted us to kill this woman, and you will not be upfront with us.” The shorter man’s voice came from behind her, and with tears still in her eyes, she could hear Johnson plead for his life.

“Now you woman,” the voice said again, this time with authority, “Leave this room and never look back.” The man moved closer to her and pulled the rode loose.
She then moved swiftly towards the door, and was assaulted with the noon-day sun, when her eyes engaged it.

She felt humiliated but not ashamed. Her husband had been forced to commit suicide because he had believed and trusted in a friend’s promise. At twenty eight years, he had trusted in a friend too much and died.
As the door slammed behind her, she heard the cries of Johnson, pleading for his friends to forgive him. Life was hard since the political situation turned difficult and several leading tribesmen began to hunt each other down.

She wished there was a government to stem the tide of blood, wasting in Saberio, a country established to showcase the dignity of man.

As she walked away, and tears dripping her blouse wet, her mind went to the man she married five years ago.

“If only he had listened to me,” she said to herself, as she moved along, “He didn’t have to die.” She could not know how her life would become now that she had three mouths to feed. And the children, a boy and two girls, would become her world.

The Silence of the Bishop

By Omari Jackson

He was a man of God, an obvious recognition by virtue of his title, bishop. But in this case he was unable to speak his mind, as he had done on many occasions. He had long known that some things or situations were not meant to boast of. But what could he do? He admitted the days he was a master or the number two man in the country of his birth were not those he could be proud of. But, hell, who could have lived in that period and with all the advantages before and yet remained unconcerned or uninterested?

For two years, yes, only two years were the number of times he served as the vice president of the country. It was nearing the end of the period, and then the soldiers struck with their revolution. Where was he at the time? He was asking that question because his colleagues who remained, thought they did not choose to do so, and were caught in the nightmare were strapped on posts on the local beach in the city, and were summarily shot, and buried together. That thought gnarled him to the bone.

He knew then that his life was in danger. True, he was far away when the soldiers seized the throne, and he believed he was saved because as a man of God, he trusted the good man up there; sometimes find a way to shield his own.

But wasn’t the president of the country also a bishop, and as a result a man of God? And wasn’t the president sacrificed by the soldiers? He slanted his eyes as the hot sun streaked towards him through the window. His house overlooked the beautiful city of the American West, where he had lived for many years now. But he knew he as alarmingly glad that when the soldiers decided otherwise, he was far away, from the scene.

Since then he had been involved in the affairs of the country, monitoring everything happening from afar. Now, over fifteen years of the soldiers’ reign of his beloved country in West Africa, they (soldiers) were all dead, killed by their suspicions and distrusts.

In fact the man who had insisted he would fight till the last soldier was caught, when he made an uninvited visit into an island in the city his forces had long lost to the enemy in the recent civil-war, and was captured flesh and blood. “Those who live by the word will die by the sword,” he remembered the scriptural admonition. Let the sinner be aware! What did they do to him? He was caught bound and carried away to the nearby township and in the hullabaloo, his ears were removed, one after the other with a knife, while he was yet alive. At the thought of this, the bishop lifted his right hand and torched his right ear, and the left ear, as well.

“They are there,” he said, and he could not understand why at the same time, beads of perspiration began to form on his forehead in an instant. Though he was far way in America, and the events he was considering happened several years ago, he now walked away from the window he was standing by, and to gaze at the entrance of the door to the room, because he could hear footsteps coming his way.

The weather felt good on his face, since the summer months were coming now. There was no way that he would confuse his present situation with the period that he had spoken about. He could not imagine any of his country men going through such an experience, like say losing your ear, because the hungry man with the gun is asking you, “What happened to the people’s money?” The people? Then he knew. There was disbelief against the politicians for their sincerity. How did that happen?

It was a question, wasn’t it? That was for sure.

Then he thought about his recent piece of observation he had sent on the litserve, on the internet. He was worried that with reports coming from his hometown, the most disappointing one was that of corruption. He had had the time to ponder about how it got started.

But did not man lose grace in the Garden of Eden? And so did it not go to mean that in this life of uneasiness and sin, man himself would be faced with danger and uncertainty? Wasn’t it true that Adam, after taking the apple that was not meant for him, and when the Lord came down to see what he was doing, went into hiding? And did it also not prove that he was unwilling to accept his mistake, his sin, when he remarked, “It was the woman you brought to me, who gave it to me and so I ate?”
So now that man himself had been guilty from his creation, why would anyone not understand that corruption itself gained notoriety from man’s beginning in Eden? If not, why then did Adam hide himself?

But, he knew while corruption itself was born in the Garden of Eden, what he witnessed on the land of his birth, which was later described as the “land of the free” was deliberate, and because of that many of those Liberians watching the politicians turned against their rulers.

“I have spoken against this very thing,” he observed, wringing his hands, and looking up into the ceiling of the room. He was now beginning to realize that as a bishop, he was needed in his home. He agreed he was no more interested in the leadership of the country like before, as a man of God, he had been commissioned to speak against the injustice, the corruption, the lack of work ethic, the poverty in the country and all that he mentioned on the litserve, recently.

“The root cause of the endemic corruption in Liberia must be watched,” he said to himself, but then he was reminded of the writer who requested, in an open letter to him, to speak up. What did he say he must say? He was not known to be asked by mortals to speak. As a man of God, he was a chosen one to lead God’s people back to Him and to also develop materials for Sunday sermons, but the writer’s demands, he should looked into them.

But would he? He was not prepared to carry out any circus show to satisfy the whims of some writers. However, he admitted he could not neglect the series of questions that he posed. He did not want to give the writer any credit for the questions, such as what was the corruption like when he was the vice president of Liberia?

A smile swept across his face, and he felt himself losing his body. And as he had done the last few years, those questions by the writer had challenged him to speak or keep his peace.

Then he decided, pulling the holy writ from among several books on his desk, and leisurely turned to anywhere in the Bible. And there it was written, and it was in black and white.

“In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.” Why, for his hometown leaders were embarking upon the reconstruction of the Liberia, after fourteen years of civil-war.

Though he assumed the writer and others were watching his every move, he would not respond. But if he did not, would that not mean he was….
“Bishop, are you there?” He remembered the footsteps that had been pumping toward his door.

Instantly, the door flew open, and his senior pastor, Sam Goah stood at the door, his face downcast, suggesting he had some news for the man of God.
“You’re here!” The bishop could only inquire about when his pastor arrived, as if he did not know.

“Did you read the Open Letter, Bishop?” Goah said, breathlessly.
“I know you saw it but….” he said, with a painful smile. It was a smile that reminded him of his role as a bishop, a man of God. He also remembered God’s assurance to Joshua, “I shall not abandon you,” after the death of Moses, and he was reassured of the almighty’s loving kindness.“

“Will you respond,” the other inquired, breaking his thought.

“No,” the man of God said. “I will let God be the judged.”

“Why, bishop?” Goah felt somehow disappointed, for there was no demand or question that God could not answer. But then the situation did not center on any doctrinal differences. But would God not provide the wherewithal for His servant to defend himself?

“No reason,” the bishop said, “I will remain silent and wait for His time.”
The new arrival’s smile did not amuse the bishop, for the decision was made. It was then that the phone rang, and the bishop moved and scooped the receiver to his ear.

If I Don’t Forget Thee, Oh Monrovia…

By Omari Jackson

Sam Lonestar grimaced at the mere thought of returning to Liberia. It had been many years, ten to be exact since he last landed on that land. And now with the situation there getting better by the day, which meant since there was no more shooting and killing of people, he could now decide to return home.

“What about the news of armed robbers,” the questioner, though not a doubting Thomas, was thinking like the average Joe.

There was no need to imagine that conditions had generally returned to normalcy and even that should indicate that the thousands of those who had held arms in the war, and now unable to find jobs that were never there in the first place, would now be reigning havoc on the populace.

“I wish I know what may happen.”
His answer did not go well with his friend. Daniel Tokpa was no pessimist but he wanted to make sure that retuning to the place of his birth did not have a condition, meaning where in the end he would regret for going back home.
“First of all,” Lonestar decided to make his argument clear, and with some convincing points. “I’m aware that returning home will have its own dangers.”

“What do you mean, Sam?” the other asked, showing interest.

“Just imagine someone in the area reports that you’ve just returned home.”
“And so…”

“And suppose,” Lonestar continued with a smile, “Your returning is misunderstood to mean you are from the US…”

“I can see where you are driving the argument, but…”
“Exactly that is what I mean,” Lonestar said, “Suppose in the deep of the night the armed robbers come to you…”

“I give then what I have,” Tokpa said, “And in this case I give them nothing.
“And in anger for having nothing,” Lonestar continued with the same level of interest since the argument began, as both men, rested under the Coconut Tree, near the center at the Buduburam Refugee Center, “Suppose the robbers decide to set an example on you?”

“Hmmm….” Tokpa’s voice rose above a whisper.
“Then you see what I am seeing?”

“I do indeed,” Tokpa could no longer hide his emotion. He allowed a brief moment, and wringing his hands, wondered what would be the end if he returned home to Liberia.

It was true; he and Lonestar had always hoped to be resettled elsewhere other than their home country of Liberia. However with the way things had gone for the last several months and the decision by the UNHCR and their host, being the Government of Ghana, there was a way to believe that to Liberia they would have to go, and dare whatever would come afterwards.

That might have been what was on his mind or the expectation of Sam Lonstar at this late date of his experience in Ghana’s Buduburam, where he had lived for more than ten years since the Liberian war began in 1990, and ended in 2007.

There was no argument in his mind that he would very much want to return home, but reports of armed robberies and especially against those who had recently returned to Liberia, was discouraging and he could not accept, no matter who was saying what.

“If I don’t forget thee,” Lonstar said, “Oh Monrovia.” He did not really make any effort at all when those words poured out of his mouth. He might have read it somewhere, and it was about the Jewish people, in their many years in exile, who had always said about Jerusalem.

Now with many years in exile which was not of his chosen, he found himself wishing, the like Jewish people, to return to land that had edged on his mind all those years.

“But if I don’t return,” Lonstar was asying, “Would that indicate that the slayers have won, which was what they wanted in the first place?”

“That’s true,” Tokpa said, “But can we afford to let them win again?”
“Never should that happen.”

“Then what is the message or decision right now?” Tokpa’s insistence was paying off, since he was making more sense and was as a result changing the perception of his friend.

“We’ll go back with all that we have achieved.” Sam Lonestar was even surprised at how severe his voice had become. He had overrun the fear of danger that he had envisioned hanging over him, and was now prepared to return home with everything he had.

And again thoughts of returning home brought memories, emotional memories into his mind. Just before he left Liberia, which in the heat of the war, a rocked, said to have been launched from the Executive Mansion had fallen on several zinc sharks in Logan Town, and two of his children, along with several others perished.

That was particularly something that he had found difficult to accept. He was always uncomfortable to imagine the experience of his children, and those others who lost their lives.

Maybe things had changed as it had been reported.

A new government was in place, and it was said that it was the first in the whole of Africa for a woman to rise to the highest office of a nation.

He was still in deep concentration when he heard someone pulling him from the back.

“Ey..that’s you?”
The voice was that of Janet Dollia who had been coming over to see him, or who had shown her interest in him, and he had also done the same.

“Tokpa told me you were here,” she said, a smile on her face.

‘Oh, yes,” was all he could say. Janet was among several Liberian women who could be said to have lost all they had in life. In truth, her parents died at the Lutheran Church massacre, where soldiers from the then renegade Armed Forces of Liberia assaulted at dusk, and mowed down nearly six hundred women, children and helpless men.

She had always told him that she was alone in the world, and had thrown her destiny to the world. She had become a helping hand, volunteering to help anyone she would have the ability and power to assist.

The last few years, she had studied social service support and was always seen providing assistance to the young ones in the camp.

Now twenty six she had expressed interest to bond with Sam Lonestar, and it was no strange she had come looking for him. Sam Lonestar had shown her with sympathetic ear, and had always sought her advice.

“Janet we’ll return,” Lonestar’s voice did not betray his determination to return.

The young woman’s face changed and her smile indicated that she was with him on this one.

“I know you’ll agree at last,” was what she said, since she had been urging him to return.

“If I don’t forget thee,” Lonestar was also saying, “Oh Monrovia I shall return.”

There was no argument that Sam Lonestar would be returning with a new perception of what was needed from him to rebuild a nation that had been deliberately destroyed by those who were supposed to sustain it. And he had an occasion to shed some tears for her. He was aware that whatever the situation was, he would be in a better condition to make his presence in Liberia, and work to contribute his share to its development.

Ugly Side of War

By Omari Jackson

To engage in physical war-fare is a crime against mankind! And yet in all history, war has been glorified, and many thousands have sacrificed their precious lives to the god of war. And in fact with a little research into history, it is safe to say that there will always be war as man searches for a way to be superior and dominate the rest of his own.

Before the recent Liberian so-called civil-war, there had been a few others.

There was the one between Iraq and Iran, which took ten years to finish and there was the ever present war between the Israelis and the Palestinians. And therefore when the Liberian war broke out and everything seemed set to change, there was no way that we could have known the pain that was set come. There was every indication that death and destruction would be its by-products. Though we could not be too sure about them there was a sense of optimism that it would be a nine-day wonder.

My name is Sam Lonestar, and I am a middle-age fellow of many talents, trust me. During the Liberian war, I came in contact with several adventures and I am deciding to tell one of them. It could be described as the “story that touched the heart” or whatever you would choose to consider it, it is fine with me.

The first of my encounters began when the West African Peacekeepers, known as Ecomog arrived in Monrovia to our rescue. At the time all jobs had ceased and men in general were pure liabilities.

Women in Monrovia had the advantage, since they could venture into several areas, including the Freeport of Monrovia, to secure some food from the soldiers who had come to help stop the war. Though like many people, I was glad that the soldiers came, what I did not know was that their coming would mean many of us losing our dear ones to them, if you know what I mean.

Let me explain.

At the time I was going out with a beautiful Kru lady of moderate height and weight. I was one of the few who liked their women slim, and when Mamie would walk down the road, her body contours would be visible behind her, like a snake slithering down the grass. Her body was gracious and showed off her beauty’s landscape, and do you see why I was not prepared to let anyone snatch her away from me? And by every account, Mamie was a woman of substance.

Mamie was inclined to tall and she very often wore a rose-colored skirt. Her small black eyes matched her long attachment hair. Her voice was somber, and it resembled the evening echoes of a stream, or a river or a creek, like the one near Stockton Creek, Caldwell, outside Monrovia.

With all the danger around, she did not notice the difference as to what was happening in the country. To her, the mere attention paid her by certain Ecomog soldiers was enough, and since she was able to squeeze money from them to adorn herself, she felt life was too sweet with the soldiers to waste her time with a broker and a loser like me who was only proclaiming my love to her without concrete proof of my manhood.

She would not accept the reality that the war had rendered me, and all Liberian non-fighting-men incapable to even take care of ourselves.

So as events continued to worsen, and I was unable to support her like before, she continued to teach me the other side of love. And until today, I have accepted the fact, whether anyone agrees with me or not, that love is pain.

I told you my name is Sam Lonestar, right? Maybe you’re intrigued about my name and how I got it. My surname is Lonestar, and I am not in the position to explain whether I earned it because of my father’s love for the national soccer team, Lone Star. I did not know that my surname had that popularity till I came of age, since that time many people would call me by my initials, SL. There were other friends that I knew, but who were also called by their initials. There was this fellow I knew called JR, and still another D. Square.

It might have been that my birth date coincided with events surrounding Lone Star, and therefore let me leave you with any idea about my name and hurry on to tell you the first of my stories.

My beautiful Mamie finally decided that she would join the Ecomog and give me the boot. On the first thought, because I loved her so much, I decided to fight back.

“I cannot leave you, Mamie,” I protested, “leaving you is like killing my soul.”

“Then what are going to do about it?” The beautiful woman said to me. Her forceful points of disengagement surprised me, and I felt like throwing up. I could not accept the truth that I was losing her.

“Can we talk about this?” I could hear my voice, pleading for her assistance. The beautiful woman I had known for many years’ face changed suddenly. It was apparent that she was waiting for someone since the hour was pushing to six in the night. But suppose the Ecomog boyfriend came and decided to flog me? I was trying to make sense of any eventuality just in case it happened.

The Nigerian soldiers were noted for flogging boy friends of the girlfriends that had just met, and there were stories I knew about where some Liberian fellows were shot, “accidentally,” by the soldiers, and killed; and so I was being smart to consider that option, just in case I had to put up a fight.

I was not strong enough to physically engage any man for a woman who had decided to abandon my love. But I was prepared to put a show of defiance since I felt that it was a coward who would not put up a fight for the one he was in love with.

One reason I could not let Mamie go without a fight was that our little boy-child had died in the course of the war, and I had always loved her.

“You know I love you, Mamie,” I continued my defense for help, “leaving me now can even kill me.”

“Then you must go ahead and die,” she retorted, and it was like a dagger in my heart. “If a woman does not want you, what will you do?”

She wanted me to answer that question but I could not muster the courage to even attempt it.

“Does love not have any remembrance at all?” I had been her bread winner before the war, and with the war everything had changed and I was losing her. And with that question I was desperately making an attempt at what was apparently lost and out of my hands.

Sadly my feeble defense did not impress her any bit. But in truth I had always loved her, and now the end was catching up fast with me.

Then I saw it coming!

The huge Ecomog Truck, known as Bloody Face, rumbled towards us, and I knew that the game was up for me. Mamie walked away from me towards the truck, and from where I stood I could see the outline of her smile that had been once mine, only.

“Oga make Una wait,” I heard my Mamie say that in Nigerian Pidgin English. My heart continued to boil within me, and I wanted to do something. I then began to praise the bravery of the rebels in the bush, who, if I were one, I could have taught this Nigerian soldier some lesson. The Oga was not only taking the woman away from me, she was abandoning the beautiful Liberian English for Nigeria’s Pidgin English. “I de kom Oga,” Mamie said it loud and clear, and there was no way I could have missed it.

My fear then was that the Nigerians and their counterparts were introducing a new way of “speaking” into the Liberian society. Did I feel gravely bad about it? You bet I did. But then I realized that there was nothing so much that I could do to change the developing condition. I felt uncomfortable, and cold bumps descended upon me.

Immediately, beads of perspiration formed on my forehead and my legs began to shake. I wanted to vomit when I imagined that the Nigerian soldier was to have my once beautiful sweetheart all to himself.

When I came to myself, the Truck had turned around and was heading towards from whence it had come. The weather in New Kru Town felt warm, though the cold breeze swirled around me. My eye-lid jerked by itself, and my trousers wanted to fall down my knees, but I grabbed it with my right hand. See, my belt had given up any hope of holding ground, and I was glad that there was no one around to witness my humiliation.

I knew then that I was a loser.

My dear reader, love is pain, indeed!

“Married women, married me, don’t leave one another oo, that’s war ooo”

That lyrical phrase sunk into my mind, as I sauntered away from my humiliation. The song was made by the Small Town International Group of Logan Town. The three-teenage-group was determined to fight back, and to recover the injustice as well as moral corruption that were prevalent all around in the Liberian society. My steps were heavy, and my legs, I thought, did not want to carry me away.

Near the Plaza Cinema, I was comforted with the hit song, I think a Ghanaian rendition, “Woman no good no, woman no good oo, my friend ee woman no good, oo!” I had always held the female sex with respect, nonetheless with my experience I was not prepared to accept the blanket statement that women are not good.

It was possible, I thought, that the Small Town International’s other lyric, “In any situation women have their talents” was a good way to understand my experience; and since we were apparently facing the end of our days in war-time, there was nothing wrong for the females among us to find a way to survive.

‘Women have their talents,” indeed!

Though there were some justification for Mamie’s action, I felt she could have done it another way, like helping me to turn some petty cash around, or something.

In the end I blamed the fragile Liberian society, and its failure to cherish what we needed most at such a crucial time of our existence. As painful as it was, in the end, I felt for her, when news reached me that she had been diagnosed with the deadly Aids virus, and everyone was shying away from her. You would imagine that I was elated to hear about her misfortune, right? I was not.

Just before I left Monrovia, one year later, I once saw her sitting at the corner of Broad and Johnson Street, tears in her face, and passers by walking by her, begging for alms. She did not notice me because when I heard her story, I disguised myself with a hat and a cloth around my neck. I did not want her to see me, since her story was all over in New Kru Town in particular, and throughout Monrovia.

“That’s the girl,” I heard two young women discussing her to each other. I stood behind them, and pretended I was a total stranger, and listened. And to be fair, there were tears in my eyes. I could not believe that the woman I had once cherished and loved, now by her action, as a result of the love for what money could buy, was shunned and hated. I wanted to show myself to her, and then grab her and embrace her for the old times’ sake. But then I checked myself since there were many people passing by.

The two young women standing further from me continued to discuss her story.

“That’s the New Kru Town girl who is now having aids?”

“Yes,” the other said, “who to blame; the war, herself or the soldiers who gave it to her?”

I did not have any answer for that one as I placed a Liberian five-dollar note into a plate sitting by her.

“Thank you,” her familiar voice echoed in my ears, and I hurriedly turned my face away from her to hide my tears. Her once plump body had degenerated, and her eyes sockets stared at me with emptiness. Her hair had fallen off, like she had gone through a cancer treatment.

Two years later when I called Liberia to find out about her, the chilling news was, “Mamie died, three months after I left Liberia.”

Her grave, like many in the war, was hurriedly dug and the remains, without a coffin, wrapped and committed to the ground. I was told that a sympathetic fellow, rumors said he might have been one of her lovers, placed a memorial on the ground where her body was concealed to wait for the Lord’s return, which read: “Here lies the result of an adventurous life: may the Lord have mercy on her soul.”

Though I still mourn her, it is because I am a human.

Rest in Peace, Mamie.

A Refugee’s Plan to Return Home

By Omari Jackson
(This is the story of a Liberian refugee, as revealed on a telephone conversation with the author.)

“What are you doing now?” The question did not come as a surprise to me, for the authorities in Ghana had made their position clear: all Liberian refugees must be out of the country by a certain date. The date was what I could not accept since I felt that I also belonged here.

“Tom, Tom,” my shrilled voice echoed, and I felt my own voice coming, from, as if it was from a distance, “there is every likelihood that we’ve no choice as refugees…” my voice trailed off, and to be exact, my voice failed me.

I had lived on Buduburam for the last eighteen years, and hence I could argue that I was almost a citizen, or to put it mildly, I was a resident, who deserved the comfort and treatment like the locals. But then in Africa, this poor continent that many of us preferred to describe as, “a continent with all the natural resources untapped,” unless one was prepared to suffer downright human indignity, there was no need to insist that there was any right that was needed to be enjoyed.

“What then are you preparing to do?” Tom’s persistent question probed my conscience and it was clear that I had to make up my mind to either leave Ghana before the deadline came to its end.

And mind you, I had lived here for many more years, a situation I found myself informing my friend, Tom.

“Tom, just in case they send me home by force,” I continued in my attempt to make some sense to my friend, “will you look after my interest in Ghana?” By that would suggest that I had acquired some properties that I was not prepared to let it be trampled upon by some future users of the Camp.

“Let me see,” my friend began, his two hands outspread before me, “you have two houses, one near Area B, and the other near Area G, right?”
“Yes and…”

“I know about him, your son,” Tom interrupted me, and revealed my second property in Ghana. See, I had managed to build myself two mud houses and had born a child with a Ghanaian lady. My son, Kwame, named because he was born on Saturday, was to honor my wife; since she had insisted that in their Ghanaian tradition names marched the days children were born.

“Oh my son, Kwame…” my voice choked, as I wondered if I would leave him here in Ghana, or take him with me, since he was now twelve years old. My friend looked at me for several seconds before I sensed that he was reading my thoughts.

“Let me answer your question,” Tom, after lifting his right hand to hold my shoulder, said, “I will make sure that nothing of yours get destroyed, when you’re gone.”

I quirked a faint smile and nodded in agreement.

Tom fumbled something in his breast pocket, searching for what I did not know what it was. Then his face registered what I considered as anguish, for he was a Ghanaian through his father and a Liberian through his mother. Now since he spoke the Fanti dialect so well, there could be no argument that he was not part of those of us who had been threatened by the Hon. Kwamena Bartels, Minister of Interior, to leave this land formerly known as Gold Coast.

“Will Gina go with you?” Tom wanted to know.

“Well, with the news that Ghanaians in Liberia may not be happy about the situation, I don’t think she will be glad to go with me.”
“But aren’t you taking her with you as your wife?”

“We discussed it last night but she would not accept the fact that she would be fine, in Monrovia.”

“Then you’ve a problem.”

“I sure do, but anyway I must return to Liberia and for good this time.”

The early morning sun swept across Buduburam, and there were many Liberians, looking like zombies, for the decision by the Ghana Government had destroyed their spirits, since they had not expected the result of the peaceful-demonstration to turn out to be like this.

“Heh, Sam, you going too?”

I did not want to answer Janet, a neighbor, whose husband died the second day of the demonstration, leaving her with five children, the youngest three years old. The late Samson was a friend, and I felt I could not turn my back on his wife, since he was gone.

“Yes, I am.”

Several children raced after each other, and once in a while vehicles using the Awutu-Breku highway would toot their horns.

I mentioned earlier I would be returning to Monrovia for good, yes, I had been going back and forth; doing what I thought was business. I would buy some “Fanti Lappa” and take it to Liberia and after selling them, or rather after crediting them, I would return empty handed to Ghana.

I thought I was doing a fine business, till I did not have any more money to continue with it. The last time I went to Liberia, most of those I credited with the goods had woeful stories to tell me.

That taught me how to do business, in the future.

I wanted to sell my two houses at the Camp, and leave, but no one wanted to buy them. And since I did not have a registration card as a refugee, I was afraid that I could be arrested, and sent home against my will.

Trying to avoid any humiliation, I decided to get my things ready, and whether I got any money or not, find my way out of Buduburam in particular, and Ghana in general for good.

My heart ached inside me as I thought about the fortunes of Africa.

When oh, when, would we understand that Africa is for all Africans? By now, I could not hold back my tears, as my eyes misted with them, and the thought of leaving Ghana came back to haunt me. Another difficulty I thought of was the sense of hopelessness I had witnessed in Liberia during my failed business trips. There were former colleagues who were still struggling to find any kind of job, to be able to earn a living; and there were still others who seemed to have given up any hope that the future for Liberia could be bubbling with gold and honey.

I then reminded myself that Liberia was no Israel, and the promise for a better future was by men and not by God. And with such a forecast, I knew I had to return, even if it was on the orders of Hon. Kwamena Bartels, or someone else.

“I am going, Tom,” my own voice surprised me. “One day, I’ll be back.” With that statement, I was reminded of what the former Liberian president, Charles Taylor said, the day he decided to go into exile. A frown on my face registered my disappointment and I wanted to take my words back. My fear was that since Taylor did not have the freedom to return to Liberia, I might not have the chance to return to Ghana.

“I’m going home by Kwamena Bartel’s order, I am.”

That was all I could say, though it was in the morning, I fell into a deep slumber, and in a dream I arrived in Monrovia to be received by hundreds of Liberians. And they were saying to me: “Welcome Home, welcome home.”

Though I was no Martin Luther King Jr, I heard myself shout: “Free at last, free at last, thank God I’m free at last,” but then something jerked on my side, and I heard my friend Tom, asking, “what freedom are you talking about, here in Ghana?”
“Oh,” I stuttered sheepishly, “So I was dreaming?”

“Yes,” my friend Tom added, as a consolation, “and you spoke about freedom.”

“Well,” I said, “I shall return someday.” Though I had the hope that God could make any unfortunate situation fortunate, I could not overcome the sense of let down, as a result of the perennial silence from the Monrovia Government, the United Nations and Liberian embassy staff in Accra. The consequent agony I had seen, since our women decided to do something about the disappointing situation we have had, brought it home to me that we were just alone in the battle. Suddenly bitterness mixed in my mouth. It was then that in my mind’s eye, I could hear a Liberian musician, I could not remember which of them, his lyric drumming in my ears, “Tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home.”

“Yes, tomorrow, I am going home,” that was me.