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.