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.