OMARI JACKSON'S CORNER

Storybase.net - writing prompts for fiction writers

2009-06-10T20:53:00.000-07:00

Storybase.net - writing prompts for fiction writers

Looting Game in Liberia

2008-12-30T23:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-30T23:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-28T22:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-02T21:46:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T22:19:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T22:16:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-24T22:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-06-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T17:39:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-02T16:59:00.000-07:00

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…

2008-05-27T22:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-25T19:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-25T18:50:00.000-07:00

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.

THE PROMISE

2007-12-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

(The confession of a lover)

By Omari Jackson

I could not remember the last time I had a promise worth recollecting. And here was I, before Shaki, a dear one, making me a promise that I am yet to disclose to you. Her eyes flickered, and her 5 -2 frame waited for my response. I was not supposed to give any hard and fast response but I could sense that she was willing to make the kind of sacrifice any man would be glad to have.

Remembering that the promise was made on a Friday, my mind went directly to Friday the 13th, and though I was not the superstitious type, I could not help but grin at my friend, Shaki, and several thoughts came to my mind. In truth, Shaki was a stunning kind of woman, and while I am not ashamed to confess it, I felt it was too soon a time for me to show clearly that she was someone in my heart. She had a cheerful face, which was complemented with her ebony black color. Her voice was low and softer, and it sounded like a melodious tunes of Christmas.

I felt it would be quite unfair, to admit to a woman I had not known in many days that I had the greatest feelings for her, though I could understand that a limited level of confession could serve the purpose. But, could I be blamed for entertaining feelings that seemed I had no control over? I would not give the impression that I was so obsessed with love that I was prepared to chase Shaki around, with my head hung so low, declaring that she was everything I had seen up till that time.

I had heard it being said that love is blind, a declaration that I felt had little support as far as I was concerned. My position is, love possesses qualities, which include self-sacrifice, forgiveness, overlooking of the other's weakness, and considering it insignificant physical appearance of the other, among others. Which means love is not blind but rather infatuation could be. And infatuation, the instant attraction, in the present case, allowing the woman's physical beauty to attract me and to make decisions for me.

I was no fool and I knew that to deal with a woman of such beauty, I needed some care, and a reasonable amount of time to communicate my feelings to her. I know, yes, I know, you may be thinking about the works of human nature, and would be suggesting or saying in your heart that when the heart decides, there can be no turning back.

But at the same time, I felt I needed time to come to know her. On few occasions that I had worked briefly with her, I had stolen some glances, at her, and had always prompted her to talk with me.

I am not sure she even observed my subtle actions, but being a woman of superior beauty, I could not fail to imagine that she would just open herself up to me, without even presenting any opposition. In truth, Shaki’s plump body was in all practical purposes black with that kind of face that sometimes sings melodies to a person in love, if you know what I mean. Her hair was long, wavy, and dark brown. Then what seemed to accomplish her make-up were her grey-green eyes. Her beauty made me wonder about the creation of God and how delicate the man up there might have seen his handiwork and be proud of it. And again how pleased He was when He fashioned the first man and his wife with clay! I must confess that the beauty in human nature has always been a source of inspiration and wonder to me. And truly this is the moment that some sentimental melodies would flutter in my heart and mind. I would be at peace with my self.

There was no argument that I was enchanted at the young woman's beauty. And a subsequent event confirmed my expectation.

She was deciding to take her lunch and either by accident or design, our eyes met. She flushed, and I could see a dimple on her left corner of her mouth. I was not sure but she resembled a certain woman that I had known when I was in Africa. All the same, Shaki appeared to me a perfect woman, the kind that one could offer praise full of admiration and gladness.

Then one day, which was the same Friday the-yet-to-be-known-promise was made, she was busy with one of the three slicing machines that we usually used at the store. I was then in search of a kit, like a roast beef kind for a customer. I was not sure why I went to the very slicing machine she was standing behind, and whether I was confused or I had lost my mind, my gaze centered on her, and found myself, slicing what I didn’t need.

It became apparent to me that she realized my confusion and made an effort to rescue me from it. I could feel her breath so close to me, and lifting up my eyes, my soul entangled with hers. I was not sure if she felt the kind of emotional sensation I felt, but in an instance, she had brought me up to my senses, and I was sane again.

I am not sure if I was being realistic with the inner sensations that seemed to dictate my reactions. And I must confess that those sensations were moving me in a direction that I fantasized would create the possible avenue to give me some level of satisfaction.

In truth the young woman made a great deal of impression on my mind, and it was apparent that I was love-struck.

With that said, how could I not have loved her? Her 150lb frame matched her easy slithering movements, and when she walked, her behind responded to the steps she took, moving this way and that way. Her hands sat proportionately by her sides.

Her voice exuded the kind of tenor, in the classical fashion, which the gods in ancient Greece had always fought to capture by using violence. And completing her shape was the perpendicular stretch of her shoulders. It always reminded me of a woman whose presence on this earth was to pronounce how majestic the creative act of God was, since the fall of Adam.

It could be reasoned that I had been over descriptive of the young woman’s natural beauty, but this could be understood since in fact I had the opportunity to observe her closely with the eye of an eagle, and therefore I deserved the honor to paint my fair lady with the kind of descriptive word painting that I could command to my assistance. For, it is not my intention to send a wrong message.

And since I do not intend to create any wrong impression I can only point out that my friend Shaki made an elegant promise, based on another promise that if she found my narrative about her interesting and also consistent with her nature and personality, she would deliver to me, without any strings attached, the most valuable gift, worth offering to a beloved friend.

And to be honest, as I write these lines, my heart palpitates, unable to conceal its anxiety for the gift that only Shaki could give unconditionally, on the morrow, or when we would meet in the future.

Truly, I could not wait to meet her again!

Trial by Ordeal

2007-11-05T18:32:00.000-08:00

(A short story)
By Omari Jackson
Story idea: Recent news reports on sassywood (Trial by Ordeal in Liberia)

Old man Zayzay Boakai knew he was now too old to argue with those claiming that sassywood was a crime against his people, but he could do nothing about it. In all his seventy three or four years in life, he had witnessed one problem after another. Moving painfully on the dirt road across from the little village of Klay’s Broad Street, in the northwestern part of Liberia, the old citizen grounded his teeth, or the remaining ones still serving him, and watched the rising sun with some interest.

In those days gone by, when he was still a young man, yes, those days were days that he could run across the small street, and still have some breath left for other things. But now, things had changed and with the coming of the war, he had never found life more distressing.

“Sassywood,” the old dude, said to himself. “Many, many years ago, that was the only medium that we the natives had to demand some justice when someone deliberately took what did not belong to him.” He huddled along the road, and once in a while, would stand to catch his breadth. The early morning sun rose from the other side of the town, and turning around, the sun’s rays shot through the old citizen’s eyes, trying to blind him. And just like in a cue, he responded, flailing his right hand, and brushing it over the few strands of hair, still remaining on his head.

A closer look at Boakai would indicate that he was a man who had commanded respect in his youth. Even at the ripe age of seventy three, or four, since he was not sure which of the dates suited the day he was born, his towering figure, which inclined to stooping, marked him out as a man who had seen both better and challenging times. His shoulders still had the broad stretch that was once the envy of women, and colleagues. But then, he knew that that was all he had left at the moment.

“There were two laws in this land at the time,” he said to a group of young men, gathered just across from him, and who were debating and discussion about the pros and cons of the traditional method of extracting the truth from an accuser. “The innocent is not harmed at all, and it is only the guilty who suffers in the exercise.”

“But pop, in this modern time, should we continue with such a practice?” The question had come from the shorter of the young men. The old dude regarded him with some interest, and still grounding his teeth, said, with a smile, “There is every reason to believe that you the young folks do not understand the truth in the exercise.” He hesitated, and the young man was about to throw in another question when the old dude said, “In all sincerity, the practice or system of sassywood has its merits and demerits. To condemn it outright because it does not conform to the modern scientific method of searching for the truth is like saying all our systems are wrong.”

The three young men’s attention had been drawn, and it was apparent that they were more interested in the discussion, now. Sensing their curiosity, the old citizen sauntered towards a nearby chair, dropped his lanky frame into it, gathered his gown around his feet, stretched his arms to release the tension and stiffness that had built there, and grimaced.

The young men responded, shaking their heads in acknowledgement. The old man planted his right elbow on his right knee, and in a swift second remained aloof of the others.

Then, just as he had relapsed into silence, Boakai swiftly turned to face his young friends, and a crooked smile danced on the corner of his mouth. His one-time muscular and olive-skinned, thin, sharp-featured face looked abused from the years of his personal suffering. But then, as he gazed at the distance, his silky, grey hair seemed blurred, and his eyes watched the young men, as if he was far removed from the present. In a moment his blood-shot eyes watered and his body appeared to go limb.

The young man, who had earlier thrown a question to Boakai, moved closer to him, and said, “Pop, are you suggesting that there is some truth in sassywood?”

The old dude deliberately held on to his peace, and with a scowl on the corner of his mouth, said, “These days may be different from my own, but I can tell you that the practice of sassywood, as you people call it now, Trial By Ordeal, does not showcase the meaning of any ordeal. It is a system that exposes the guilty and exonerates the innocent one.”

“Then it means that,” the tallest of the three young men, said, “instead of making rash decisions to condemn and stop the practice, it will serve the people better if the practice is studied and examined….”

“Now you got it,” the old dude interrupted him, “The modern system of justice is also fraught with uncertainty. After all, the system of justice in this country involves the expert opinions of lawyers, witnesses and others…all these people can make mistakes.

“I hear that in far away America, some DNA has helped free innocent people already condemned by the system from further detention, and many others also from death.

“It is only those Western-minded people, who claim that relying on a custom such as trial by ordeal, is not only harmful but deadly, and here in all the reports, they cannot cite any statistics to back up their claim,” the old man said at length.

“That’s true, pop,” the second young man said, “everything in this world demands care and examination. To condemn our practice because it is strange and different from what the modern jurisprudence has said is to me, not proper action.”

A smile moved across the old man’s face, and he was encouraged that there were still others who would reason, and examine the legacy of the Liberian traditional judicial system. Old man Boakai believed that the practice of sassywood was older than the current method of justice, and it would serve a useful purpose if care could be applied, and in that way the practice itself could be reformed to meet the demands of our time.

With that understanding, Boakai’s old bones regained some strength, as he moved away from the young men, to concentrate on the economic burden of the time. And to speak plainly, he was on his way to Ma Musue’s Restaurant or Cold Bowl Shop, several steps away, to provide his body’s demand for food.

The End

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-09-03T22:47:00.001-07:00

Epilogue

Now Is the Time

IT WAS EVIDENTLY a case of having lived to fulfill his wishes, for what the creator did for him. He knew he could not have it any other way. Death had come so close and yet, the hand of God had intervened, and it was no accident that he was alive. If for anything at all, James Zonn knew that he had had his demons destroyed and it was time he lived true to his vows.

For now, it was nearly three years since the war ended, and it was just the period he had anticipated. What was more, the church that presently he was officiating as the lead pastor was making more progress, and sometimes he felt the blessings of God on him and it was time he concluded his aim.

As he contemplated on his past, his present and his future, there was every indication that he was among the blessed in this land of horror and sorrow. Who could he blame? He could blame the founding fathers of the land. And what was their crime? Why, didn’t they neglect to remain true to the land of their adoption? Were there schools or the educational institutions that supposed to help many of the people out of their ignorance? Wasn’t it true that when the rebels, mostly those of his countrymen, gained considerable control of the land, they killed anyone with an Identity Card? Didn’t they kill even those who shared the last name of the president of the republic whom they had been sent to eliminate? And it was true as he survived the war that his people, the very ones who were abused, rather took it upon themselves to just kill their fellow Liberians for sport? Weren’t their actions as a result of pure ignorance, since majority never had the privilege to have an education, and to know the difference between an enemy and a sympathizer?

He could argue against that because the leaders of the war were all men and women who had had valuable education. But again, he was horrified that his people, and later joined by other ethnic groups, like the Mandingos, slaughtered others at will? But supposed Liberia, the land of his birth had been developed, and educational and other opportunities were plentiful, would it not have gone without saying that they would rather have been involved in more productive work, than joining the rebel armies, which circumstances caused their very existence? No, James Zonn, now the man of God was not trying to offer any form of justification for the crimes committed on the land by his countrymen. Yes, he was making an effort to understand the insanity that went beyond the ordinary cause of events, during the fifteen years that the Liberian war lasted.

Now, across from him, Rev. Zonn watched at the figure, seated before him, at their Logan Town residence in Monrovia. Since the end of the war, and the formation of the new government, many things had happened, and very fast too. His beloved Klubor, sitting nearby, was mending a shirt that she very much wanted him to wear for this Sunday’s church service. Their three children, the oldest nine years old, played alongside his siblings, and the man of God felt blessed.

With his church drawing people to the Lord every Sunday, and the country recovering in a slow pace, the reverend agreed that more sacrifices were needed from all to redirect the future of Liberia. But he could not agree with those who had been clamoring for a quick recovery to the period that they had passionately, called, “the good old days.” As a man of God he believed that if there was any period in the history of his country, known as the “good old days,” those days were yet to come.

The events that resulted into the agony of the land were because of the mistakes in the past, yes, the same past others were calling the good old days. The people, he admitted, would have to develop strong aversion to dealings, and attitudes of the past when actions were taking for granted. The period when many of people would not pay utility bills and individuals simply lived their live for fun. It would have to change, and from that change, one could say, there could be some good days to come.

The man of God considered the fervor of the spirit demonstrated during the recent national elections, and admired the spirit and resourcefulness of the young people. He realized it was the same spirit the youths showed with vim during the course of the war. “If they can translate that attitude and spirit to nation building,” Rev. Zonn, mused, “there is every chance this country will enter into a period of goodness.” But the man of God didn’t believe that such a spirit could ever exist, and if it existed at all, it would not be utilized. Here, he saw his role as a man of God clearly, and in it he saw the heavy burden on his shoulders.

Rev. James Zonn had been a man of God for the last three years, and in those years, he had been able to draw many of the former child-soldiers to his church. There were some of the former child-soldiers that he recognized and many that had always stood before the congregation and gave their testimonies. It was a situation that the man of God considered not only a miracle, but the kindness of God. And as a result he had commended the Liberian people for their outright forgiving spirit.

In some instances, some of the former child-soldiers had wept, and requested Rev. Zonn to call God’s anger on them so that they would die. In such instances, Rev. Zonn had made use of the Scriptures, and had opened several areas, and read God’s mercies to the frail souls of the former child-soldiers. And the reverend had had on several occasions to use their agonies to caution the now emerging new nation. Now was the time, Rev. Zonn had always said, whenever he had the occasion to pull the former child-soldiers from the pit of their sorrows. They had become more prone to shedding tears, and they reminded Rev. Zonn of the Scriptural admonition that in the last days, there would be mourning and the gnashing of teeth, as God’s mercy drew near. Though Rev. Zonn considered the outburst of the former child-soldiers as signs of total repentance, he wished economic issues would move faster to make them self-sufficient to sustain themselves, a condition that was unknown to them and therefore strange to the former child-soldiers, for fifteen years.

Now as the man of God whispered a favorite gospel tune to himself, his eyes glowered with satisfaction, and he saw clearly the saving graces of his creator. He felt sustained and blessed, for Liberia, would continue to lead the course of peace and would result in prosperity, all for the glory of God, if the people did not tire out.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-25T21:14:00.000-07:00

The Rescue

Chapter 15

“BIG BROTHER COME out.”
“Big brother come over here quickly.” The voice, shrilled and calm, repeated the call. Zonn’s heart thumped repeatedly as he ventured outside to the call of the unknown voice. He had been placed in a shack, waiting for the final determination of his life. After all, thirty minutes was not too much to waste any more precious time. But now things were changing. He eased himself out of the small door to meet a flush of fresh air, and squinted to adjust his eyes to the immediate glare of daylight.

“Yes?” His voice rose faintly above, and he saw one of the rebel soldiers, Small Boy Soldier, standing there, his M16 slung across his chest, his right hand indicating to Zonn that he meant no harm, beckoning him to follow him. Zonn wanted to ask about his companion, but the Small Soldier did not allow him the chance, when he said, “don’t worry, she is safe.”

He followed the soldier, and they moved along a narrow pathway. After several twist and turns, they arrived at a location bothering on a rubber plantation, and it was there that he saw Klubor sitting at one of the several benches, lined up on both sides of a clearing center. His heart leaped in his chest when their eyes met.

Then another man, probably a rebel soldier, emerged from between two of the zinc shacks, and beckoned Zonn and his companion to move away, towards the direction of the main road. None of them had exchanged any communication, and Zonn realized that some power above man had intervened to save him and his companion. Zonn looked up in the heavens, and said a silent prayer.

In his heart, he kept repeating, “Lord You’re in Control.”
About five minutes later, the Small Soldier moved swiftly to Zonn and handed him a bunch of cash, but Zonn hesitated, and looked the small soldier in the eye, demanding to know why the generosity. The other, standing about four foot three, looked at him with a smile, and indicated by pointing his hand towards him, asking him to accept the money and be gone. Zonn, whether he wanted to cry or smile, looked at the soldier with surprise, and then grasped the money, and muttered below his breath, “Thank you.”

Small Soldier, apparently, with some appreciation, told him, “we’ve killed many of our brothers,” his right hand sweeping around his neck, to indicate the manner they had used to kill fellow Gios and Manos and other Liberians, “Go away and don’t come back.”

The morning sun was gaining, and Zonn felt warm. In his heart, he credited the God of Heaven for His show of mercy, which he knew many other Liberians had been unfortunate to miss. His survival made a deeper impression on him, and whatever he considered from now was deciding to make amends in God’s service. With the report of murders of thousands of Liberians, that he had been spared on two counts, were not only miracles, but an act of God’s undeserved kindness. What else could he do to show his appreciation for the Lord? True, his parents, sisters and many thousands of Liberians had been wasted, victims of the war that would not end. Perhaps, their murders could mean a new direction that he would take. But, why?

Probably, surviving meant a message for him to follow the Lord, and to make disciples for Him. It was also true that the young men and women in arms in the bush needed redemption. He remembered thinking about that aspect before. Now, he must demonstrate his calling to the Lord, and someday find a way to make some of them, if possible, all of them, and turn them into children of God.

Presently, they continued to walk away from the check point, and at a reasonable interval, another soldier, who had apparently been instrumental in the rescue walked to meet them. It was then that Zonn recognized him. Earlier when Zonn and his companion came to the Paynesville Red Light district, they had come across a man who had requested for financial support. In fact he had come begging for money, and without giving him any hard look, Zonn had conferred with his companion, and had given him ten Liberian dollars. Afterwards, the man had hung around wanting to talk, but Zonn and his friend were too much involved in their troubles that they did not pay him too much attention. Here, he knew it was a payback for a good done.

“I didn’t know you were a soldier,” Zonn told him. “We’re grateful to you.” The other had simply responded with a smile, and grabbing Zonn by the hand, pumped it several times to indicate that everything was fine.

“I have an advice for you,” the man said, “As you travel through the areas we are controlling, there will always be some of our friends who want to do you harm. And so joining the army here can be between your personal safety, and how you are treated from thence on.”

“A soldier?” Zonn’s response might have shocked the soldier, but he only offered a dim smile, and looked away. The idea of totting a gun, and going into war was something he had always hated. And yet, he realized that despite the harsh treatment he had suffered at the hands of his fellow country men, there were still other Gios that still had a level of humanity in them, and could reciprocate a good deed done in silence.

“Two miles from here,” the soldier broke his thought, “you will come across a bus stop, you can take it, and when you get to Gbarnga, you will be safe.” Zonn could not control his tears, his pent up emotions, which had sided with him when he had every reason to take consolation in it, now came to his assistance. He turned to look at Klubor, and her eyes were filled with tears too, her emotion already spent. Holding her by the hand, they walked briskly towards the safe haven they had been directed.

Thirty minutes later, Zonn and Klubor boarded a twenty right seated bus bound for the central Liberian town of Gbarnga. Even here he saw the presence of many young soldiers, some smaller than the ones he had earlier encountered. There was also abundance of weapons, and that convinced him of the danger the ordinary rebel soldier faced.

ST. KOLLIE TOWN (SKT) was the gateway to the central Liberian town of Gbarnga, the headquarters of the rebel movement. Here, barely four hours since their vehicle left the outskirts of Mount Barclay, deep inside rebel territory, James Zonn and his companion, along with other Liberians, were stopped. It was around two in the afternoon, and there seemed to be a flurry of activities going on here.

SKT, Zonn guessed, might have had not more than seventy mud houses, on either side, since the dividing line of the town was the access road, directly towards the city of Gbarnga. It was reasonable that being the link to the rebels command center and residence of their leaders, security would be on the high alert. Similarly, the SKT was the home of the Liberian Agricultural Company, LAC, where modern residential houses were located. And rightly, the leaders in Gbarnga were using the lodgings as residences.

But it was apparent that James Zonn had not thought about meeting with any experience worth its name. But considering the splintered nature of the rebels, there was everything to imagine that misunderstanding, even on a trivial issue, could result in the loss of precious limb or life. But the rebel soldiers did not let Zonn to wait further, when fifteen minutes after their arrival, what appeared as an apparent confusion was brewing ahead.

There were a number of rebel soldiers, their guns at the ready, moving about in a hurry. “I can take care of that bitch,” he heard a soldier say, and then another, probably twenty, his face lined with worry, and unable to discern between life and death, said, “If you kill me today I die and my business is finished.”

It was then that Zonn saw that the source of the contention was apparently the murder of three members of a family. Their bodies sprawled across the road, and there were still others standing by in tears. Among the dead, Zonn learned was a woman, a Gio, who had defended her husband, who was a Sarpo.

“The woman said the man was her husband,” a young man told Zonn, as the vehicle was finally released to go, “she would not hear the soldiers decision that the man should be killed, and as a result she chose to die with her husband.”

“What about the third body?” Zonn’s curiosity moved him to ask. “Why did she die?” The other, his eyes downcast, said, “She was standing across the road when another soldier called her, and told her she was a Sarpo and before she could defend herself, he shot her dead.” As the vehicle hummed along, Zonn turned his attention to the road as it raced toward them. All of Liberia had become a jungle, and there was no Liberian who was safe. It was a hard judgment call, but whether anybody would survive the civil-war could be anybody’s guess. In fifteen minutes, Zonn felt the bus slowing down to a halt.

“This is another check point,” the other told him. It was apparent to Zonn that his informer was a frequent traveler on this part of Gbarnga, and as Zonn looked him in the face, the young man said, “Our suffering is beyond reason. We are unable to understand what crime we have committed to be treated this way.”

“Wipe your tears my friend,” Zonn urged him, when he saw his new friend in tears. “Believe in God, and pray for survival as long as the war continues to be waged.”

“Yes,” his new friend also looked into his eyes, “our treatment is beyond insanity.” Zonn felt the rush of emotion gripping him, and turning around he saw Klubor soundly asleep. He felt some urge within him, but knew that till they reached the city of Gbarnga, the various checkpoints would present another barrier after another. But then he had given everything he had, and committed it into the hands of God. For, he believed that for whatever Liberia had become, God had a way for them to live. He would find it, and search for it if he did not find it the first time. Then he would lead the campaign to save lost souls back to God.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-21T01:06:00.000-07:00

Waiting to Die

Chapter 14

WHOEVER SAID SEEING is believing had it right, James Zonn considered that since his present predicament was in the hands of his own countrymen. It was a situation that the young Gio found it distasteful but acceptable. Who would have thought that while a Krahn Good Samaritan overlooked the misdirected vengeance against his so-called enemies and sacrificed to set him free, fellow tribesmen would do just the opposite. Now thrown in a windowless shack wedged on the grasslands of Mount Barclay, he saw his chances dwindling, and his sense of hope growing dimmer.

What was more, his companion, held in another windowless shack shrieked from time to time. Just before he was thrown into the shack, he saw a couple of hurriedly constructed sheds, with somehow crooked ceilings scattering this way and that way. It had occurred to him that the shacks were sometimes used by the soldiers to pass away the boredom, whenever they were setting ambushes for their enemies. How wrong his estimation had been.

This was a case of seeing the true colors of some of his people. He would not want to know what could or what was going on in Klubor's mind. How long had they known each other? A day and a half? He had just been released from his den, when providence, perhaps, caused them to meet. He had known all along that the war in Liberia had divided the people, with the Krahns, Mandingos on one side and the Gios on the other. The Sarpos, on the other hand, had just become mere victims, since the rebels had placed them alongside their Krahn cousins, and had declared them suitable to die.

A while ago, someone, like a woman’s shrieks reached his ears. It was when they were carrying his companion to the women shack, a stone throw away, that he thought he heard the moaning cries of a voice that he could swear was that of a woman. And despite her tears, some loud noise, like the muzzle of a gun had exploded and the woman’s shrieking had stopped. He was convinced as hell that the rebel soldiers had killed her, no they had rather murdered her.

His heart and his mind descended into some doubts, and he could not make any sense of what was happening or what he was witnessing.

He was becoming more afraid the more he considered some of the stories he had earlier heard from several other civilians who were on their way to seek shelter or refuge elsewhere. He now thought deeply about the young man’s description of the horrors meted out to Liberians of all persuasions by his native Gio brothers.

“The worst man to hold a gun,” the man, a large scar on his face, his right hand in a self-made sling, had said, “is a Gio or a Mano man.” Zonn had listened to the man’s tears in disgust, and had been able to ask him, “Did they do that to you?”

The man’s eyes had widened in horror and with some difficulty retorted, “the Gio rebels did this to me. They said I looked like an AFL soldier?”

Zonn, in apparent disbelief, which did not mean that he did not completely believe that his people could not inflict such a wound on a civilian of no consequence or threat to their ambition, nonetheless, in a voice full of consolation and sympathy, said, “It may seem that we are all in danger in this country.” It was not that he completely believed in what the badly wounded man had said, but with his own personal experience of what the soldiers in Monrovia were capable of doing, he felt there was every chance that his country men could do worse.

Now, he must endure his own agony, simply because he tried to protect a woman, a fellow Liberian, whose past suffering, joined them together, to elude the enemy, and seek safety in the confines of those who had been telling the whole world that they were fighting for freedom.

And now that he had been told he would die in thirty minutes, he saw his anger, his worry and disappointment returning to overpower him. He had initially believed that the national soldiers were taking the issue into the excess, and was bitterly angry at their disrespect to life. What he had heard and was seeing in this rebel territory, outside Monrovia, was evidence enough to render him incapable to understand the tragedy that had befallen the Liberian people and nation. It was evidently, a situation in which the ordinary Liberian caught in the divide, had nowhere to hide. The shack he was being kept did not possess anything worth to name. Since the rebel war started around 1989, no one had heard about any prisoner of war. In fact there was no place where those who had been accused for whatever reason were sent to be interrogated and possibly released. From stories he had recently learned, even for a civilian to possess an identification card of any kind could be the cause for one’s execution. It was apparent that the rebel soldiers did not know an enemy from a sympathizer. For, how could they have failed to understand that all those Liberians streaming into the areas they controlled were seeking a safe haven? Why would women and children, as well as the infirm be subjected to endless searches, floggings, and rape? Zonn now realized that the current war was a war determined to kill Liberians for sport, since the rebel soldiers and the enemies did not care about their suffering. Zonn then realized the grand opportunity that his countrymen, due to their desire to kill, had missed. He knew that had they behaved differently, they would have been welcomed as liberators. And in truth the Liberian people had hoped for a redeemer to end the chaos, a wish that the rebel soldiers failed to uphold.

He knew, from the manner things were going that his life was in a balance and could result in his own death, but on second thought, he had a sense of hope that God, once again, could perform an amazing feat, for his survival. But, then what would he do if his companion was eventually killed, since of course and in truth, she was a Krahn? “That won’t be possible,” he said to himself. It was not that he had any confidence anymore left in his expectation for his freedom. The delicate nature of the present situation rendered him incapable of understanding the kind of war that was being prosecuted in his country. The kind of rebel soldiers he had seen the morning they arrived, their behavior to each other, and their lack of respect to even the guns they slung across their backs and on their chests, indicated to him that the rebels themselves stood at the brink of self-destruction. Take for example, the boy called, “small soldier.” A ten year old, and the weapon across his back, the M16, seemed to dictate his every move. How could such a child understand the value of his own life and those of the hundreds seeking shelter in Greater Liberia? He was totally convinced of his brief experience with the rebels, and from where he was held that he knew death could come any moment.

Zonn did not have the luxury to cry this time. He would go in peace, and meet his maker, if that was what had been written in his star.

Then the door, creaked open.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-19T23:15:00.000-07:00

In The Face Of Death

Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

Going Behind the Lines
Chapter 12

THE FOOTSTEPS ECHOED behind James Zonn, and he felt his legs weakening, and protesting their movements. It was too early to face another danger, he knew that well. The steps were crunching behind him, and at one point he wanted to run. But why would he run?

He was no criminal, just someone who had been freed from bondage.
By now he was beside one of the many zinc shacks scattered near the Buzzi Quarters, and his mind urged him to find a hide out. Until now he was beginning to feel that his personal sufferings were somehow, if not all, at least, a little over. He had, somehow, the premonition that despite the goodness of the man who had set him free, there were more dangers in the future.

He could, he admitted, leave the city and find his way to where the new soldiers were claiming they were controlling, and might be accepted or welcomed. But from central Monrovia to the hinterland, and with the manner the soldiers were checking all those they came into contact with, it might be another or an unusual miracle, and a help from above, before he could be clear of the influences and the domain of the soldiers who had lost their primary focus of providing safety for every Liberian, and even the resident.

“Who are you there?”
The voice was louder, and he could feel his legs, this time shaking. “Lord, not this time, please.” It was a plea to the God of heaven, since he felt that he could no longer stand another round of the suffering he had endured. True, there was so much that a person could take.

With his heart panting, Zonn turned around, and what he saw calmed his heat. By now the footsteps had reached near him, and he could see the face of the person.

“You almost scared me to death.” His response might have taken the other surprise, when she said, “Fear not, for I’m also in danger, and am fleeing from the enemy of the Liberian people.”

This meeting was one of the quieter moments, for our hero. The woman, about five foot six inches, looked frail, and Zonn did not need a soothsayer to inform him that she was coming from the kind of dungeon that he had been rescued by the kindly act of God. Yes, she could be one of the voices he had heard in the dark of the many nights, in the dungeon behind where he was held.

“The man saved me, and asked me to follow you,” she said, placing her hand on his shoulders. “I was there for eight days, and as you can see, the food in my hand is the only food I have ever had.”

“Did he give it to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“I tried but he wouldn’t allow me to know.”
“Let’s pray for him, then.”
“I told him before I left that God must be with him.”
“Did he tell you he was a Krahn and that if you survive, remember that all Krahn people are not wicked, and would not want us to die?”
“He said such words to me.”
“Were there any other girls in your prison?”
“Yes, there are still fifteen more there. The youngest one told me she is twelve, and there were other old women there, too.”
“How old are the women?”

“Out of the fifteen, six were women in the age group of forty to fifty five.”
James Zonn thought about it for a moment and gave a deep sigh. By now they were clear of the Executive Mansion area, following the direction the Good Samaritan had given them. They could see the Buzzi Quarters to the left and an abandoned Gas Station sitting forlornly to the right.

“I don’t even know you,” Zonn said, wanting to know his companion. A flicker of smile swept across the other’s face, and in a voice full of concern and appreciation, said, “I am Korlu. I’m twenty eight, and I thank God that we are free from the jail.” Zonn wanted to ask her about the treatment received, at her end. While in the den, he heard, on several occasions, the cries of women, pleading in tears not to be hurt. He considered that act to be the time when they were being raped. How he wanted to ask Korlu! However, he could not bring himself to ask her, for he knew the shame that affects a woman, when her honor is robbed, and in this case, by soldiers, a people who were supposed to be their protectors.

His mind was so occupied when he heard Korlu say, “I was abused in the jail, and the others, were always abused too.” Zonn’s eyes did not betray the horrible story or rape, or abuse, as the young woman had confessed. He knew her confession had come because of their suffering, which had been together, though the women and men were kept separately. Then he heard Korlu’s sniffing, indicating she was crying for the shame she endured at the dungeon.

“Hold your heart,” Zonn urged her, holding her hand, “For God will pay your debt. Now, to be safe from these soldiers, we’ll be ok to leave Monrovia for good.”

“I wish I can leave Monrovia,” she admitted, “because I’m not sure my parents and brothers are where I last saw them.”

“Where did you live?”
“Slipway, near the New Bridge,” she said. “It is likely that most of the people there have left, since several houses were set ablaze just before our house was raided. I’m not sure my father even survived, because he was very sick and we were planning to send him to the country, the day before the soldiers came.”

“Then I suggest that we depart for Nimba,” Zonn pressed on, “since it may not be safe for you to return to Slipway.”

Zonn could feel her companion changing her mind. He could agree that since being a Gio or Mano in Monrovia was too dangerous with the soldiers all over the place, and since they were questioning civilians, and now that they had been released by a Good Samaritan, it was likely that the soldiers who had taken them prisoners might go back there looking for them. Then something bothered him. What about those in the bush? True, he heard all along that they were Gios, and Manos. Would they treat them differently, than the soldiers? And one trump card he possessed was the ability to speak the tribal language of his people. With his eyes gleaming for help, and some kind of confidence sweeping over him, he felt some feeling of triumph, and goodness.

But again, should the new group in the bush decide that he must join their army, then what? No, it was too early to think on that. Whenever it became a reality, he would find a way to deal with it. Despite the treatment he had received, he had no intention to join in anybody’s army. He was in deep thought over what might happen in the future when his companion said, “I have a problem.”

“What problem, Korlu?”
“The problem of going behind the lines.”
“Which means what?”
“I am Krahn.”

“You’re what? Why did they keep you in the dungeon, then?”
“Because I could not show the soldiers where my husband, who is a Gio, was hiding when they came to our house to kill him.” Zonn’s breathing became hard. The news from the hinterland was bad. It was bad for the Krahn people, and here he was asking a Krahn woman to escape with him. So, what dialect did she speak? That could help if she spoke Gio or Mano alongside the Krahn ethnic dialect.

“What language do you speak beside Krahn?”
“None other than English.”

Zonn felt immediately spent. He couldn’t understand why. It might signify, he reasoned, that taking the woman with him to “Behind the Lines” as the areas controlled by the rebels were described, would unleash another round of trial for him. He didn’t care about the tribe or ethnicity of the woman. All he cared about was that she was a Liberian, like him, suffering at the hands of killers and animals. And like him, she needed redemption and a secured environment. Since others had sacrificed for him to live, he wouldn’t mind sacrificing his life for Korlu.

And so to “Behind the Lines” they went together.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-13T19:05:00.001-07:00

Self Examination

Chapter 11

THE GOOD SAMARITAN was also a soldier for the government,and as he walked away from the dungeon where the young boy was kept for nearly a week, he was filled with revulsion and anger. He felt the strain in his muscles and somehow became agitated. Why? He had done what he felt was a good deed, releasing the young boy who had been brought and thrown into the dungeon for the last six days. It was not strange in this day and age that a young boy would be abducted and thrown into a prison, waiting to be killed.

Sam Dolleh had known all along that other soldiers were rounding up civilians, and were bringing them to the secret hold-out at the Mansion and killing them in the dark of night. How many young men and women of Gio and Mano ethnicity had been brought here that he had watched in his hideout, as they were flogged, raped and eventually killed? He had counted twenty, and oh no, thirty, and the number was counting. The young man he had released was the seventh he had been able to set free.

But why was he doing it?

“That’s my nature,” he admitted to himself. “When Gosoe was killed for speaking against the abuse of the young Gio boy, I knew that my role in this thing was set.”

Sam Dolleh was a father, with five children and at the age of forty five, not only had he participated in the campaign of death in Nimba County, he had watched many people killed. Though he was also aware of the penalty for working against the authority of the president, he felt an element of shame and at the same time responsible towards those innocents who were being wasted every night. He did not think it was helping the war, to pay young men and women for the military’s losses in the bush against the rebels. “We are in hell, already,” he admitted, “our butts are being kicked, just listen to the BBC.” But in truth that the rebels were kicking the butt of the soldiers did not suggest that he should join forces or work in concert against the expectation of the national army. It was apparent that his change in action was due to an experience he had witnessed during one of their campaigns in Nimba County.

The idea of what happened in that campaign always brought a sense of shame to him. It was few months after the rebels announced that they were taking on the national army. He was among nearly fifty soldiers who had been sent to Ganta, one of the major towns in the county, and to their surprise, they found the town almost deserted. Now, with the Gio or Mano man’s natural desire for music, the soldiers decided to set a trap to get all the able bodied Gios and Manos to come out from their hideouts. With the soldiers was a tape recorder that had been seized from some fleeing civilians in Monrovia. It was not apparent that the soldiers meant to carry the tape recorder to Ganta, but since they were taking things from civilians, they were fortunate to have the machine along.

As the tape recorder was activated, and one of the popular Gio songs blared out aloud from the instrument, it did not take that long when the pleadings in the song affected the heart of the Gios and Manos. And unsuspectingly, they emerged from their hideouts into the hands of the soldiers, and the trap worked to perfection.

Sam Dolleh, as he walked away to his quarters at the Mansion, still felt the pleas and cries of men and women his group arrested, and accused of supporting the rebels. Their murders, which did not spare their children, had been a blot on his conscience, ever since.

Of course, he was, and he could not convince himself that the losses by the army from all strategic positions around the country, was a valued reason to declare war on all young men and women from Nimba County.

He remembered, many years ago, when he attended the Zwedru Multilateral High School. The school had a population of more than six hundred and students came from all over Liberia. There were Gios, Manos, Mandingos, Krus, Bassas, Lormas, and many others from any of the remaining sixteen ethnic groups.

And nostalgically, he remembered that they had all attended classes together. In fact the school’s soccer team composed of all Liberians who were able to play the game. There had not been any problem then.

Then, why should it be now?

He knew it was the end of the period of time. Was the end time now catching up with Liberians? The whole Liberia was suffering. But again, after all, he was a Krahn, and so what? This was a war for power, and not a war to preserve the Liberian nation. He was a soldier, who believed nonetheless in the sanctity of human life. He was not making any accusations against any one, but it seemed that the meaning of life had been diminished and all Liberians were suffering and crying.

He could agree that what was happening would become the basis for more horrible things to come that the government could not, and would not be able to contain them, even if it wanted to. The news from the hinterland was not encouraging. From day in and day out, the BBC, the only radio station still providing news about the war, had been broadcasting the rebel leader, Charles Taylor’s triumphant declarations of what, where and how his men were making their way to Monrovia.

As a Krahn, he knew when push came to shove, he might not live. But what did he care? The tears and blood being wasted for personal intrigue were not doing anyone any good, let alone the president of the republic.

The rebels’ successes, if the BBC should be believed, had inserted fear in the men and women in arms. And what had they gotten in Monrovia? Arresting young men and women was not the right course of action. He was horrified when, just last week, he discovered the heads of five men and four women on the beach, just next to the Mansion.

He had been called to supervise the burial of “some” rebels and what he saw made him think twice on the current war. It was then that he made a vow to himself: never again would he allow those bloodthirsty soldiers to hide in the comfort of the Executive Mansion, and capture young boys and girls and kill them for sport.

If the soldiers wanted the enemy, well, they could go on to Kakata, and even Gbarnga to test their killing skills there. Killing boys and girls under cover of darkness and at a hideout at the Mansion, to his mind, was a war against the people.

Sam Dolleh, the soldier and protector of people, and a lover of mankind, decided right then that the war with the rebels was already lost. And again he knew also that he must watch his back.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-11T20:38:00.001-07:00

The Good Samaritan
Chapter 10

IT HAD BEEN seven days now since the young Gio boy was forcibly brought into this dungeon by soldiers looking for rebels. And it had been seven days now since James Zonn heard about food. He was in danger of dying, becoming weak by the day. Sometimes he wondered how he had been able to endure such a bitter experience, and sometimes he had felt that he would survive the ordeal.

He could not convince himself why he would be lucky to survive, and neither could he find the mouth to explain why he would die, and his body thrown into the Atlantic Ocean. For the young man, all meant the same. It had come to the hard part of life. Before he was brought here, there were shootings by the soldiers, and killings of people and their bodies lying down from street corner to street corner.

He had awoken this early morning, to a strange sound. Somebody was knocking at the door where he was being concealed, and glaring at the door, he could not make any mistake of a shadow of what seemed to be a man standing there, beckoning him to come closer.

With his heart panting, remembering what the big soldier had said to him, he made great effort to be sure the day for his home going, as promised by the soldier, had not finally come. Immediately, beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead, and the room that he could not see at such an hour, was becoming visible.

Then he saw what the cause was. The man, demanding him to come, had a lantern, and though his attire was that of a soldier, it was apparent that he was there for a different reason. If he was one of those who had promised to come get him, he reasoned, he would not have any reason to stand afar, and ask him with caution to come near. After all, if he were one of the soldiers, he would have known that he was tied to the board to the floor, and he was not free to just move about the room.

It was apparent that the other had seen the boy’s dilemma, and began to do something. James Zonn watched in amazement, as the man, with the help of the light from the lantern, engaged the door, and in a second, it swung open.

“Shsssssssss…” Zonn saw the man’s finger on his lips. Zonn watched as the man moved his tall height through the door, and saw that he had a dark brown shirt. Closer now, the man’s black eyes and a wiry hair increased the boy’s anxiety. But at the same time, the boy had a sense of goodness, since the man was doing whatever he had to do with care. Still without saying a word, he pulled a cutter from his trousers pocket, and cut the rope, that held the boy to the board. Right then, a flicker of a smile swept across the man’s face, and grabbing Zonn by the hand, he said for the first time, since he entered the room, “God has sent me to redeem you, my son. Today, I am helping you out of this place.”

Zonn was about to say something, when the man, looking directly in his face, said, “There is not much time. Those who are determined to kill you have been sent on a mission, and before they return, you must be gone.”

Zonn nodded, as if he understood what was said. The man helped him out of the dungeon, and for the first time, fresh air shot through his body. He felt dizzy, the result of the seven days that he had been kept without food. When Zonn straightened up in an attempt to gain his foothold, for he almost fell to the ground when the Good Samaritan released his hold on him, he saw a bowl, that he correctly thought contained cooked rice, wrapped up, and wedged beside the door.

And he still wanted to ask a question, when the man said, “There are places you can pass to leave from this Mansion underground. Take this food and after you have secured yourself a good hideout, you can eat it.” The man was still talking when Zonn dissolved in tears, as he heard the man say, “I am a Krahn, and I am a Liberian. Let God be with you.”

By now they had walked away from the dungeon and had come through what seemed like an artificial tunnel, which opened directly facing the Atlantic Ocean.

“Walk by the side of the sea,” the man instructed him, pointing his hand to the right. “You will come to a three-way interception, turn to the one on your right, and go about twenty minutes, the road will branch to the left to Buzzi Quarters, and from there you will be out of danger.”

Zonn, who was few minutes ago walking with difficulty, felt his spirit reviving, and some measure of confidence overpowering him. The idea of having been freed had changed his mood, and now not only freedom he had regained, the Good Samaritan, who, before he could turn around to thank him, had disappeared, had provided him some food for the journey away from hell.

So as he walked away in a hurry, he was filled with thanksgiving, and appreciation for God’s saving grace. He never had the chance to learn anything about the man, just that he was a Krahn and a fellow Liberian. Even in these difficult times, there were still true Liberians, he mused. What was more, any attempt he had made to know him had met a stiff resistance. The man wanted freedom for him, and to top it all, he had brought him some food. “God,” the boy asked, “what manner of father are you?” Zonn’s tears were uncontrollable.

Meanwhile, the Atlantic Ocean, as he turned around to watch what appeared to be the deep blue see, rumbled on and on, in an apparent praise to the wonders of the creator. The majesty of God’s creation, the appearance of the Good Samaritan, reinforced Zonn’s belief in the goodness of God through man. How then, he asked himself, were some people so wicked and unfriendly? The faces of his captors, what they said to him, threatening him if they were to return, and their failed attempts to choke him to death, all convinced him that despite the goodness in man, we can choose what we want to do to others, so long as it serves ours interest.

Though he was a free man, where would he go? There were still soldiers in the streets. From where he was running away to, the sounds of weapons, contesting for attention cried out in protest. But, it was too soon to dismiss the grace he had been showered. He thanked God, and blessed himself.

“Father,” he said, his voice choked, “the rest of the journey is yours.”

It was then that he heard footsteps behind him.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-07T18:26:00.000-07:00

Are You Ready to Confess?

Chapter 9

JAMES ZONN woke up with a start, and made an attempt to stand up, feeling the pain on his side. He could not, and he realized that since he was brought into the den, he had been tied down, on a wooden board. He fought his way to recognize the three men standing over him. He did not hear the door to the dungeon creaked, but here they were, before him.

“You ready to confess now?”
The question was directed at him, and after sometime, he could make up the features of the three soldiers standing by each other in the room. He remembered that when the entire episode began, three soldiers had come to him, and the fourth day, he had been told one was dead. Now the same number had come back. There was still the tall soldier, standing at six foot nine, yes, the very one always addressed as the CO, that he assumed to mean their commanding officer. The second soldier was bulky, and he saw that he was balding. The man was plump, with a craggy face. He had short, brown hair and hazel eyes. From the brief time he had come to know him, he never saw him laugh.

The third soldier was probably twenty five. He never bothered to assume ages for the other two, maybe the CO was around forty five and the second solder might be thirty nine, and the new addition seemed younger. He did not feel any attachment to the men in the green uniform. Perhaps they had come to conclude how much time remained before he was killed.

“You ready to confess?”

The question, this time had come from the new addition. His voice equal to his stout body, Zonn could admit to that. What was he supposed to say? On two occasions he had been asked if he was ready to confess, but to confess what? He had told them he was no rebel, as the new enemies in the bush had been referred to. Though the CO suggested, during one his visits to the dungeon that if he was not a rebel now, he would be later, and therefore he had to be destroyed. What was that supposed to mean?

But what was happening with the war itself? Had the government been able to destroy the rebels? And why were they putting too much attention on him? He was no soldier, since seventeen year-olds were not supposed to be in the army. But if, he reasoned, the national army was now looking for people his age, then it went without saying that the war was becoming a dangerous one. It also meant that the enemies in the bush were using people his age, and even younger to fight the national army.

So what would he say to the soldiers? He had protested his innocence, and yet, they still brought him here. His parents’ residence had been razed to the ground; though he refused to accept it, he had a premonition to admit that his father might have been killed, since his mother was already dead.

Then the second soldier pulled him by his collar, and attempted to force him to stand up. The soldier held his collar, and pressed his hands together, choking him. The pain of the pressure shot through Zonn, grimacing in protest. He smelt liquor in the soldier’s breadth.

“Hey your rebel,” the soldier told him, “you have few minutes to confess. If you don’t confess, you will be responsible for your own death.” Then at the end of the warning, the soldier released him, as he fell heavily on the board. Zonn began to sniff, and the tall soldier commanded, “When I return to you again, you’ll be dead, you hear me?”

Zonn’s tears continued to come to his assistance. The thought of being killed, though he had been thinking about it, now made him afraid. The three soldiers stormed out of the den, and Zonn’s tears continued to fall. When the soldiers were outside of the dungeon, Zonn saw the silhouette of one of them taking off the fluorescent light that sent its rays, a flicker of light, into the dungeon. From the only window attached somehow directly facing the Atlantic Ocean, he heard the shrilled screams of the eternal sea, rumbling up and down. He had heard much about the life in the ocean, and wondered if that would become his last resting place.

“What about the sharks and all the human eating animals in the deep of the ocean? Won't they have a feast when I am thrown into the sea?”

He had heard they were man-eating monsters in the deep, who would attack their prey at the sight of blood. He tried to find a way to look at the heavens, but his position made it impossible. He wanted to look at the owner of the universe, and if possible, throw him some questions. He remembered at church service, and during choir time, he would join many of the Christian-brothers and sisters to sing the popular hymn:

“This world is not my home
“I am just passing through
“Heaven is my home, somewhere beyond the moon…” yes that song was his favorite and though he could not remember the rest of the words, that he could remember the few was comforting of some sort.

He was not really a good singer, but the memories of that song, whenever they sang it in church, brought him some comfort, as it was doing now. But did the soldiers also know that, like him, this world was not their home? So, if all human beings were strangers here on earth, why would anyone determine how long he must live? And also, if human beings were mere strangers here on this earth, as the hymn indicated, then why would the soldiers fail to understand that all of them shared equal responsibility in making this earth home more habitable?

After all, weren’t the soldiers supposed to defend and protect the Liberian people? Which meant all the Liberian people, right? Zonn could, from here, see clearly the sad specter of the Liberian situation. He knew, the current war and destruction would prick the consciences of the soldiers and all those making war in his once peaceful homeland, in the years to come.

But right now, the soldiers had told him they would be back.
And what did they say they would come for? He knew the answer, and with no help coming, he waited for them. “I may go home to the Father of tender mercies,” was his consoling thought.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-08-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

When They Came For Him

Chapter 8

IT COMES a time when a person’s worries and all causes of dissatisfaction tend to be in their imagination only. And, for a life time, James Zonn, could be considered in such a state. It was a situation in which you can find yourself unable to understand the outworking of blind fate. But, is fate blind? If not, how come is it that there comes a time, under some uncertain circumstances that tend to draw you into what is worrisome and bad all the time?

It is shocking to even imagine why someone should be tormented because of his ethnic identity; and it is also troublesome to consider the level of barbarism that can be engendered against another person of another ethnic group, since in the case of the Liberian tragedy, it was all too clear to see how thousands were set to face their doom.

And the saddest part of it was that they were misled to believe that it was a war that had identified its own enemies.

James Zonn, as was established in the last chapter, went into one of the deep slumbers that providence, in a period that it decided to make some amends to the broken soul of the young Gio, paid him a visit. The visit, despite the dungeon nature of it, agreed to the physical needs of the suffering Liberian boy, that he followed the dictates of nature. It would be difficult for many, reading this, to understand how Zonn could forget about all his problems, and take consolation in slumber.

One can agree that Zonn had accepted his fate, and was prepared to wait for the final determination of his own existence. I am not sure if in the brief period that he had been overwhelmed by events in Monrovia, he could find any reason at all, to condemn the nation that decided he was unworthy of its residence. Zonn, I must confess, had seen enough in the brief period, and with any of those who would express dissatisfaction on the sorrowful state, hunting him down, there was no chance or situation that could have prevented him from slumbering, since I must be honest to state that in life’s various circumstances, and here I must seek yet another assistance, and this time from the Bible, that a person’s soul can be willing, but the body can be weak, providing the momentum and wherewithal for the final conclusion of the weakness of the mind, when hope seems to be nowhere to be found.

It was, by any account, a disastrous situation. Political events in Liberia were deteriorating fast enough to the extent that human life, not that only of the average Gio, Mano, Sarpo or Mandingo, but all who breathed at this period in Liberia, was also affected. So, at least the reader can, to some level, accept the tragic resolution of James Zonn, as he lay in the dungeon, facing, what he felt and considered might be his end. It was true, and no one could have begrudged him for the realities of the uncertainties he faced.

For a fact, the Gios, Manos, Krahns and Mandingos of all persuasions were being destroyed, and the disappearances of his family were enough to provide the young man the last idea that was necessary for his self awakening unto the gloomy future he saw his life. And since he was brought into this den of no return, being six days now, food was one thing that he had not seen, let alone ate. And so as he “lay dying,” to still quote, William Faulkner, James Zonn’s mind and heart were at peace.

He was transported into another era, another time of his beloved Liberia, when he was still a Gio, and from Nimba County, the Blue Mountains, where many people had often compared with the weather in Europe, of all places. For, it was there that he was born. In this dream, Zonn encountered for the first time, the fullness of his family, and laughed too loud from ear to ear that had it been a real experience, he would have wondered how could fate have been so unfriendly, and the unhappy bringer of the message of distress, in any situation of comparison.

In his dream, he was at a Sunday church service, and his mother, father and three sisters were all there. The pastor, Rev. Gongerwon, his lanky frame towering over the congregation, stood up, his right hand held on to the Bible, a smile, sweeping across his face, and pacing up and down. The congregation, in attention at the House of God, listened as the man of God thundered one verse after another.

“He is your salvation and the Rock of Gibraltar,” the pastor intoned, eyes gleaming, and feeling great. “Give your troubles to the Lord and you’ll suffer no want.” The Lutheran Church, sitting across the street, was one of the places that Zonn and his family had always found shelter in the mercies of God. And when all things came crumbling down, it was this particular safe house, the soldiers decided to force it to vomit its load.

How those words and assurances comforted him! How long would such words continue to make him happy, now surrounded by family and friends, in the house of God?

And that was when Zonn felt a sharp pain on his rib.
Perhaps, they had come for him at last.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-07-28T20:01:00.001-07:00

Moment of Anxiety

Chapter 7

IT HAD BEEN three nights since he was brought here. He could not remember the specific location he was brought, but he could admit that because he was seeing the Atlantic Ocean from the dungeon where he had been kept, he was probably being held at the dungeons at the Executive Mansion. The room was not bigger than the average room space in Monrovia.

James Zonn attempted to stand up but realized that there was a rope strapped on his waist to a board on the floor. Though he had been in this dungeon long enough, and could now make out some of the features in the room, he still felt dizzy, and weak. This was because the soldiers who had deposited him at the dungeon had insisted that he must confess to them all that he knew about the rebels.

The three soldiers who had interrogated him had proven that they could be mean and dangerous. One, seemingly the commander, since he was always referred by the others as CO, held him to the ground, while the remaining two soldiers made several attempts to strangle him. At one of the numerous actions, he had lost consciousness, and had regained it when water was poured over him.

“Who are the rebels?” The question had stunned him, since though he was a Gio; he had no contact or knowledge of any rebels.

“I don’t know no rebels.” He had said that in pain, while the other soldier choked him. He came to the conclusion that there might be something good in dying after all. Why? The deliberate human suffering, the murder of his mother, and the disappearance of his father, and his sisters, and the wind of fear hovering all around Gios and Manos, were indications that dying was better than living, under conditions that were distressing and horrible.

“All you Gios and Manos are sanamabitches.” That was the unmistakable voice of the man who had tried to strangle him the third time. And why he was not succeeding, Zonn could not know for sure. At one point, he almost succeeded when he dropped his huge frame, a frame that Zonn considered to be about two hundred pounds on him, while the others held him to the ground.

He had only choked, when in an apparent act out of sympathy, born out of a soldier’s commitment to protect and defend his countrymen, without being selective, one of the shorter soldiers had said he doubted the boy had any connection with the rebels. That assistance had generated some argument among the soldiers.

“If he is not a rebel now,” the other soldier said, “he may be one day.”
“After all, this war is a war that is killing all Liberians.” The other had insisted, and in a determined statement, pointed out, “We are all Liberians, if even our tribal affiliations make us different. Being a Krahn is not by choice.”

“And would you go against the instructions of the president?”

“All I’m saying is that our hatred for the Gios and Manos has blinded some of us,” the other said, in defiance, “killing this boy may be nothing, but as a man, at least, and a soldier, there should be some conscience remain within our bosom.”

The soldier who had come to his defense was truly making some sense, but did he know that his action would lead to his own death? That was what Zonn was thinking, for he knew that Liberians or Krahns married to Gio and Mano women, and were unwilling to agree for their spouses to be murdered, were also being killed.

And that was how the CO and the second soldier stormed out of the room. And Zonn knew he had no chance of leaving the dungeon alive, he managed to say, “thank you,” to the soldier. But before he left the dungeon, the soldier had said to him, “I know I will not live very long, and so if you survive, remember, it is not all the Krahn people who want your people dead.”

THE DEATH of Colonel Moses Gosoe came two days after the encounter at the dungeon. And Zonn could not control his tears, especially when he remembered what the soldier had said to him, before parting.

“I know I’ll not live very long, and if you survive, know that not all the Krahn people want your people dead.” Remembering those words struck him like he had lost an immediate family member. And of course, he would not have known that the soldier was dead, had the second soldier not come to inform him.

“You damned Gio ass,” the soldier had taunted him, “the Gio soldier-lover is dead and we’ll see how you will get out of here alive.”

And before the soldier left, he had sent a warning to him. “You made us to kill a Krahn person; it’s your turn to die.” That statement had rendered him speechless, and it was the more reason he wanted to die before they came for him. It appeared that the soldiers were determined to kill him. For the last six days, he had not been fed.

As James Zonn reclined on the prison bed, he lost all sources of comfort. However, he remembered the many days he had attended church services and at Sunday school, he had learned some comforting words from the Bible, it was time to use it while he waited for the end.

So while he searched his memory bank for assistance from the Bible, he knew that his days were numbered. How many days left for the soldiers to come back and to dispose of him? He could not be certain. He had heard many stories since the war began when several Gio and Mano people began to disappear. Their bodies had been found, but their heads were missing. He knew the situation was depressing, but what could he do?

He blamed Liberia for letting his people down.

He knew he would die, but at the prime age of seventeen, it was difficult to accept it. Then he felt elated, but could not understand why.

In the next minute, he understood why. If a Krahn man could lay down his life for him, who was he to refuse, when it came for him to do the same? Here, he admired the sacrifices of Jesus, as he had learned in Sunday school. No, he was no Jesus, but to die without knowing what you had done, was something he could not understand.

His stomach churned him, demanding for food that was not there. He closed his eyes, as the cold breeze from the Atlantic Ocean seeped through the only window in his dungeon. He felt the salty water on his tongue, and dropping his head on the hard board, Zonn, who had deliberately been denied sleep, as a form of torture, received the visit from providence, and went into a deep slumber.

Betrayal

2007-07-25T01:41:00.000-07:00

By Omari Jackson

He was approached early that morning. He could not agree that of all people in the Liberia, someone close to him would agree to present him with such a proposition. But then he knew how wicked human nature was, but still felt that doing what she had presented to him would indicate he was doing their bidding, and failing to do that would also show their hatred for him, as a person, and to the role he played as an adviser to the only president they had.

"What proposition?" he asked with some level of curiosity. He saw the other winked. She pulled a large envelope, like a sheet of paper from under her coat.

"I know you're aware of this," she pointed to the envelope and handed it to him. "This is your picture, you're in a disturbing act, what do you say now?"

"You mean me?"

His voice failed to respond to the suggestion. He could not agree that the picture with the two women and what appeared like himself in such an uncompromising posture, would mean anything to the people. "But what do you say?" He shot back, pretending he was unaware of it.

"You cannot deny it, can you?"

"What do you mean?" His voice was loud but fading. "Is it me?"

"You damned well know it's you," the other retorted with anger in her voice.

"So he sent you to do it?" It was not a question but he said it anyway. His face turned red and perspiration formed on his forehead. "Is it a picture?"

"You have asked for it," the other threatened, "you're going to get it."

"Me?"

"Can you help the Speaker?"

"Me help, who?"

And that was the beginning of his end. Jack Williams was a man who had known better times. In the current admiration in Liberia, he was recognized as the brain behind the successes of the president. But then, what? He was a man and a human being, wasn't he? That was no question, but with a nation recovering from years of war, such an uncompromising picture of a three-some would indicate that he was an enemy of the female sex.

Considering that the president was herself a woman and fighting to restore the dignity of women in the country. But if he had any illusion that his enemies would let him be, he was wrong. The picture that his cousin had shown him was by any account his own. He thought of it and closed his eyes, wiping his brow.

What would happen if the picture was published, as he had been threatened? He could not agree with himself that anyone wanting his downfall would go to such length to demonstrate to the world his most ugliest side. But could any of his countrymen be the first to cast the first stone, at his crucifiction? It was true that many people in high places were deep in the practice of three-some, and four-some and even five-some, and while that might be an abhoring experience, there was the horror to imagine that publishing the picture as he had been threatened would indicate the length of the decay that his had sunk.

That night sleep deserted him. On several occasions, he awoke, draining in his own sweat. He had worked so hard to build a reputation that he saw by the stroke of an enemy's doing, would be gone in smoke. But who would he blame if push came to shove?

That was his thought when the next day someone called on the phone to break the news.

"Williams?"

"Yes, what's up" His voice had broken the monotony of the day, and whether he knew it or not, there was something wrong in the call. He had never heard from anybody in such a morning, but now he was hearing it and he must as well make sure that he understood what the other was saying.

"You saw the picture?"

"What picture?"

"The three-some."

"The what?"

The voice on the other end remained silent, and he could hear his own breathing rising higher and falling again.

It was true, he knew the enemy had carried out the threat.

He stood there, his legs dancing under him.

"This is pure betrayal," he said but the other was gone. He folded the top of the cellphone and placed it in his breast pocket. He had to dance the beat of his own drum, and he was aware that he would survive.

"This is pure betrayal," he said, still the other was gone.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-07-15T16:51:00.000-07:00

The Agony Deepens

Chapter 6

JAMES ZONN had now come to accept the reality that these days were dangerous days. He remembered what the English writer, Charles Dickens, wrote in his monumental masterpiece, A Tale of Two Cities, and with his face, flushing in bitterness, as the sounds of AK-47, and M16 rifles, boomed all around him, remembered what was said by the Englishman.

But Zonn could not be certain if Dickens had Liberia on his mind when he wrote what, evidently was the portrayal of Liberia’s insanity when the book was written.

“It was the best of times,” Dickens wrote, and yet “it was the worst of times.” Yes, who would deny that events in Liberia since the infamous year of 1980 resembled the very elements that the English writer had written about? James Zonn, as young as he was at the epoch making year of 1980, had learned afterwards, the calamitous events which however provided an opportunity for total national reconstruction, which was not to be. Though the beginning of the 1980s was the best of times, but the political upheavals, with its attendant destruction of thirteen politicians and later some members of the military junta, the People’s Redemption Council, indicated clearly the prophetic meaning of Dickens’ farsightedness, and truly “it was the worst of times indeed.”

At the New Kru Town Junior High School, James Zonn had developed interest in literature, and on many occasions he had taken refuge in it. So, little wonder that at this particular day and age when Liberia had been pulled asunder, and those who had vowed to defend the people had become enemies to some of the people, he could find solace nowhere but on the pages of a writer whose time was far removed from his own.

But he knew that Dickens was no prophet, despite the clarity of the message that seemed to represent the madness of the time in Liberia he was living in; he could not but admire the Englishman who further observed, among others that “… it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness.” Darkness, yes, and as it was becoming clear, and the newspapers had reported it, “Dark Clouds Hung Over Liberia.” The clouds were overwhelming a nation that was originally established to become the champion for the freedom of all Africa, a realization that James Zon admitted, as tears rained down his face.

For the truth was clear as daylight to James Zonn, a son of Nimba County, that barring a miracle would any of his people remained alive. This was because, the last few days had been hectic, and there had been reports of several Manos and Gios having disappeared from their homes, when they were picked up by men in military uniforms, only to be discovered with their heads missing. Reports from the various towns, and the county itself were too distressing. One of his relatives, who arrived three days before the disappearance of his father from Sanniquellie, reported that even children had not been spared the deepening agony of madness by their elders, and many had been buried by the soldiers in unknown graves. It was then that he remembered the Biblical paraphrase that “Rachel is mourning her children because she could not be comforted.” For all around him Gio and Mano women were washing their disappointment with tears in torrents.

And painfully, he could not even understand why Liberians married to Gio and Mano women and men had been reported disappearing from their homes.

James Zonn brooded over the calamity over his people and country in the empty house that had once been their own. His sisters, he did not meet them when he returned few minutes ago, after the violent beatings and rapes the night before. This, he reasoned, was a deliberate attempt to wipe his people from Liberia.

Call that genocide, if you please, was his thought. Yes, he was convinced that he would either survive the injustice facing his people, or perish by starvation. He must do something, and it must be done with all precision.

What hope was there for him and his people? And remembering the poignant description of our time by Dickens, he returned to his memory bank, and sought solace from there, at least to understand the dangers Liberia had sunk into so far, and how and what could be done to save it.

“It was the spring of hope,” Dickens wrote, “it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us.” James Zonn had always believed that there was much good in the quality of the character of Liberians to cherish. History had taught him how the Pioneers came, seeking for freedom and human decency. And the same history told him how those who sought freedom did not allow his people to enjoy the decency of life they had sought for themselves. So to his mind, the Krahn, the Gio, Mano, Kru, Mandingo, Vai and all the ethnic groups of Liberia were victims of man’s inhumanity to man. But in the wake of that reality, what was happening now? It was clearly a wedge of misunderstanding between and among the ethnic groups, as the tribes could no longer hold together as one. What was supposed to happen? Here we must beg Nigerian author, Chinua Achebe for assistance, and declare that “Things began to fall apart.” For the powers that be, identified his people as the worst on earth, and began a systematic revenge killing ever to occur in the annals of Liberia.

This, Zonn, admitted, was not only wrong, but downright insane.

“We were all going direct to Heaven,” that was what Dickens wrote, adding, “ we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.” The surreal nature of Dickens’ review of the dark days of his time, as far as his tale was concerned could….

“Anybody in there must come out here,” Zonn came out of his reverie, when he heard voices outside of the house, demanding anyone in there to get out. “Put your hands over your head so that we can see you.” He heard the crunching of gravel in the yard, and he realized that they were soldiers out there seeking for him.

“What have I done now?” His thoughts refused to accept the reality, this time, that all was coming home. He had said previously that the time had come for him to either die or live. Now they had come, and had come for him. As the boots outside his room demanded his presence, he heard someone shouting behind the house, “they are setting fire to the house.”

In such a situation, death was more preferable than life. He could understand that, and he could wish for that. Adjusting his worn out trousers about his lanky frame, James Zonn reacted with defiance, a characteristic of his Nimbain people, tall, proud and willing to meet any danger. “I’m coming out.” And he meant it.

What could they do to him? His father, mother, and sisters were all gone, and he was alone, he believed that and now he might be going out of this unfriendly world. With his hands over his head, his face demonstrating his faith in God, the young man pushed the door open, and what he saw, with the day light streaming on his face, were men in military regalia. No, this was no dream, and neither was he in the cinema, watching a Rambo movie. He starred in amazement as two soldiers moved towards the house, setting it ablaze.

Across from the house, someone asked, “Who they come for again?” And the tallest of the ten soldiers, remarked, “Shut up and move from here before I make you a dead body.” It silenced the intruder, and those who could not help it, stood at a distance, watching the end of a Liberian family.

In a distance, gun shots screamed for attention, as the soldiers, tying Zonn’s hands behind his back, took him away.

WHEN THE MAN DIED

2007-07-10T23:52:00.000-07:00

By Omari Jackson

It had been too long for no one to recognize the sacrifices of her husband. Yes, it had been too many years now. And nothing had happened. But today of all days, her feelings had returned to him and she could not think on anything else, except the finals days before he left the comfort of their home.

Though many years now, it seemed like yesterday, or today, or few hours ago.

"I'm on a mission," he told her, with a bitter smile. It was such a smile that always signified he was in agony and somewhere in his heart some demands were requesting to be made. "I may come back or not come back." And that was the part that upset her heart.

She had then walked towards him, embracing him.

"If the danger is too much," she suggested with a smile as painful as his. "Then why go in the first place?" As she ended her question, she could read the painful smile on his face. She was aware of what he had always said to her, "I'm a soldier first, and when it comes to any issue affecting Liberia, if I die, so be it." Now she remembered the period of April 12 1980, when at the time he was an unknown soldier, he and his friends, including Samuel Doe.

Remembering these feelings hurt her heart but she could not stop.

"You're not the only Liberian alive who is affected or disturbed by the events in Liberia today..." her voice had trailed off, her eyes looking deeper in his. "Some sacrifices are greater than you can make."

Deeply, the soldier allowed his breath to loosen up, and in an instant the woman thought she saw fire in his eyes. Her heartbeat increased and it reminded her of their days in Liberia, when Tom joined several of his friends to redeem the people.

She could remember those days like yesterday.

It was like a film's reel, running in slow motion before her eyes. The soldiers had succeeded in crushing the century-old True Whig Party, and what was more, the nearly thirteen government officials had been strapped on poles on the beach. She could remember the plea of the international community, requesting that the men should not be harmed.

The situation was challenging and frantic then.

Backed by the politicians, who had coined the slogan, "our eyes are open the struggle continues", there was no time to consider the pleas from the families of the thirteen government officials. And she could still imagine the pain that had seared through the hearts of the wives and children of those destroyed during the frenzy of what was said to be a new dawn in Liberia.

But that was before her agony. For, on behalf of that woman, yes the proverbial iron lady, the three men who had visited Tom, were like vultures before a carcass. They would not leave him alone, and they came, day after day.

"I'm leaving for a call by my people," Tom was able to say at last, his resistance broken, "the duty of a soldier is to defend and protect."

"But when things go wrong," the woman tried to talk him out of it, "would they be there for you, for your family and for your children?" She could not imagine what was going through his mind but a soldier he was, he had reminded her of that.

And of course she was aware of it. She did not need him to remind her of that. And he should have known that a soldier with a family deserved to remain with the family so that the family he was growing would grow to know him.

And to enjoy him.

"I will survive," he assured her, "I will call for you and the children as soon as things are ok." She knew of Tom's resolve and with that statement of assurance, Tom could not be persuaded to back off the request of several of Liberian politicians who had made their lives more hell than she could imagine.

So my husband was so important to our country? But just supposed the unexpected happened, would the family be as important to Liberia as the husband was now? She could not answer the question.

But when a woman marries a soldier, what is she supposed to do? The idea of the soldier being killed during the operation never crossed her mind. Otherwise, she would have insisted that those who were coming to their house to request that Tom travel to Liberia to remove the government of his friend, would have been pressurized to make some concessions. It would have been on the line of: just incase "something" happened to Tom, who would be the breadwinner for the family? She would have demanded that some money be placed in a bank in the US, just as surety or insurance for the family.

But in the end, the unexpected happened.

---------

So when the call came that Tom did not make it and that his wallet had been recovered with her child's photo in it, she agreed silently that Tom, her husband, was not coming back.

Yes, it was then that she agreed, despite her inner refusal that it was the day the man died.

Now, those who encouraged Tom to kill himself have ascended to power in Liberia. And the painful thing she is dealing with now is their failure to recognize Tom's contribution to the new order. Her tears had not stopped crying for Tom, and presently fighting for the utmost sacrifice he made under the sponsorship of the proverbial iron lady. She has reluctantly accepted the truth of his death.

Though she has been making appeals and expressing her disgust on the apparent lack of appreciation for her husband's sacrifice, Tarlor has finally come to accept the truth that no one should die for a nation that will not die for you.

Truly, she has also accepted the reality to fight her cause till someone in authority recognizes the day the man died.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Author's Note: Dedicated to the memory of Brig. Gen. Thomas G. Qwiwonkpa in the appeal for the Liberian government to recognize his loss to his family.

LIVING WITH THE DEAD

2007-07-10T23:40:00.000-07:00

By Omari Jackson

Story Idea:
"Finally, we wish to make it clear that no one will be allowed to move into cemeteries and use the sites as residence. The Ministry of Public Works has been instructed to move quickly to stop anyone who may want to use those facilities as residence." --Cyrus Badio, Press Secretary to the president of Liberia.

"I don't have any choice," the young woman said, amid gritted teeth, "I'm the only one left in my whole family." Her voice drummed over the number of Liberians trooping down Gurley Street in downtown Monrovia.
"But are you not afraid?" the other wanted to know. "I mean to make the grave yard your home is something I cannot think I can do."

"You cannot do it?" the young woman shot back, "all my family is dead and many of them are buried there and I think if there is any place that is safe, I prefer the cemetery." She squinted her eye, as the sun rays from the horizon, streaked into her face. She lifted the edge of her lappa and slowly mobbed her forehead.
Life in Monrovia had changed so fast, especially since the new government came to power. Grace Slonteh was just twelve when the civil-war broke out, and by the time it ended, she was a fully grown up woman.

With three children.
She remembered that before the war, she resided in Logan Town, across the bridge on Bushrod Island; and her family was among many of those who died when missiles intended for the rebels landed in their zinc shacks, obliterating men, women and children.
"I know the rent business is hard," the other, about twenty seven, and also a mother of four, admitted. "I think I can be brave like you."
Slonteh's awning smile flushed her face. Though barely twenty six years, the emotional trauma, the hardship of surviving, and bearing children for fathers who were never around to raise them, could convince anyone who might hold the impression that she was nearly in her forties.

"Pauline you know life is hard since the new government came," she said, as both women sauntered towards the Center Street side of the Palm Grove Cemetery. There were many people, including men, women and their children trooping by them to secure places at the abode of the dead.

"I know because since I returned from Buchanan," Grace said, "every where I went to rent, the people say they want one year rentage. And all the areas are packed and you know the cemetery is the only place to be right now." By now both women were walking behind memorial tombs or graves and Grace could hear some people fussing over some areas that could accommodate four or five people.

"I came here first," the first woman said, shouting, "you see that grave," she was pointing to a grave behind two tombstones, "that's my uncle's grave so all this area is for us." Her right hand stretched across seven to ten graves in a circle, with the middle deliberately left opened.

"So you didn't see that boy standing in our place?" the other woman shot back, "I left my son to stand right here as I went to find my other son."
"Do we have to fight for this place?"
"All I know my son was waiting for me," the other indicated, "I was here yesterday and cleaned among all these graves." Her right hand swept from the right to the left to emphasize her point.

Grace Slonteh's grin swept over her face, as she turned and gave her friend a winking look. As a child she had always been afraid of the dead but her experience during the war had convinced her that the dead knew nothing at all. Many other Liberians were killed during the war, and the dead had not come back to take vengeance on their enemies.

Consider Prince Y. Johnson, who was a master killer. Why, he was a senator and a lawmaker for the Liberian people now. He was the one who killed the former president, Samuel Doe, and why had Doe not come back to pay his debt on him, if in fact there was a world beyond the grave?
These were her thoughts when someone touched her shoulder to bring her back to reality.
"Hello, you woman."
She turned around and standing there was one of her friends.
"Ey Florence, you looking for place too?"
"Yeah ooo."

* * *
It would be difficult for anyone to agree that life in Liberia has become too tough that the living is seeking residence with the dead. The by-product of the civil-war is presently affecting the ordinary people.
The current government of the proverbial Iron Lady is facing a mounting of challenges, but for the people, especially those who are the butt of the society, survival now is the norm.

"The government say nobody should go and stay at the grave," Grace was telling another friend, a day after the presidential press secretary, Cyrus Badio met with the press. "Where can we go now?"
Grace knew it was not a question that anyone could answer. It was, she reasoned, a question that the secretary to the president could answer. But since she could not be able to get to Mr. Badio to answer her question, it would just be that way.
"What about the money I hear they are giving to us," the friend prodded on. "I hear they are giving everyone US 300."
"I heard it too," Grace admitted, "But like anything in this country now, you can hear it but not smell it."
"Like smell no taste?"
"You got it."

* * *
"The police are coming," someone shouted, and Grace and her friends at the grave began to move away. Life had become a see-saw battle. She could not be sure when conditions would become less bearable.
If they could not use the grave site as a way to ease the housing difficulties in Monrovia right now, then what else was there for people to do? Grace agreed that it meant that the government should be able to find a way.

But would it?
"That question is not my question," the other said, licking her lips.
And Grace wished she could answer that question. She agreed then that politicians were the same whether male or female.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-06-17T17:48:00.000-07:00

Tears Over My Motherland

Chapter 5

DUM, DUM, DUM, Zonn's face gave a sign of disappointment. The dum, dum ,dum were sounds of weapons being disacharged all around Monrovia. The fear of the rebels' presence in the city had deepened and the national army seemed confused. To allay their fears and to introduce some element of confidence, the soldiers had been shooting all over the place.

"But where are the rebels?" someone asked another, down Gurley Street.

"The BBC just reported that the rebels have encircled the city," the other said. "That has brought fears in the soldiers and as you can see they are all fired up."

"So by shooting all around here," the other replied, "then it means they are scaring away the rebels?"
"It may seem so."
"But have you seen the rebels?"
"Never," the other said, "but are all the Gio and Mano people not rebels?"
"No," his friend told him, "the BBC said most of the soldiers of the NPFL are Gios and Manos but that does not suggest that every rebel is a Mano or Gio."
"I agree."
" And who are the rebels say they are coming for?"
"The Krahn people."
"Are you sure," the other wondered, worry on his face,"reports from the BBC say the rebels are killing everybody they see over there ooh."
"Then we're in trouble."

The two companions might have had it right. The National Pariotic Front soldiers were coming for their enemies, and if that declaration was something to go by, then it meant that all the ethnic Krahns were marked to die. From the BBC reports, the rebels or the NPFL soldiers were masters in killing their enemies.

And the enemies, as the two buddies concluded with foreboding, included any Liberian who crossed their path. If a Liberian appeared good looking and healthy in body, then it meant he was one of those "eating" the government's money. There were instances in which ethnic Manos and Gios married to Krahns had been executed for defending their spouses.

Another ethnic group which was silently being destroyed, along with the Krahn were the Sarpos, who had close cultural similarities with the Krahns, and in fact many of the Sarpos apparently understood the other's language.

Now, it was a situation in which soccer followers would describe as 2-2 draw: the Gios and Manos on one side and the Krahns and the unfortunate Sapos on the other side. In between were the Mandingoes, who had, by accident of coincidence, been hauled into the fray.

Just before all hell broke loose, there had been the talk as to whether the Mandingoes were ethnic Liberians. From the King Sao Bosso Street in downtown Monrovia to historical monuments in Lofa County, there was no Liberian alive that would disagree that the Mandingoes were not ethnic Liberians.

And the president, Sam Doe, had reinforced this convinction that they were pure Liberians, like any other tribe. To show their appreciation for the president's triumphant declaration, many of the Mandingos trooped to join the national army to fight the government's enemies.

That singular action marked them out and the rebels added the Mandingos as enemy number three. So from here, the massacre from the national army was directed at the Gios and Manos, and from the rebels' side, their inhuman treatment was against the Krahns, Sarpos and Mandingos.

In between the slaughters, both the national army and the rebels carried out their violence against other tribes.

And the Kpellehs, whose central city had been converted to the rebels headquarters (Gbanga), were forced to work for the rebels. The Krus, considered forceful and ever ready to fight back, sadly, remained aloof in the war. Even when several of their leaders in New Kru Town, outside Monrovia, (Fred Blay, Roosevelt Savice, and Larry Borteh) were arrested, accused and summarily executed, the most war-like people of Liberia, did not move to organize themselves for the war.

The Bassas, like their Kru cousins found themselves under siege by the rebels, and Buchanan, one of the most exciting places in the nation remained under the control of the rebels; they too did not see it necessary to fight back. Of late, there were rumors of a Bassa Defense Froce, but it existed in name only.

The largest county, Lofa, which share border relations with Guinea decided otherwise after repeated assaults by the NPFL and then the newly formed ULIMO, and went ahead to organize the Lofa Defense Force.

Also subjugated were the Vais, the Deis and several other ethnic groups. As the dogs of war pursued each other and rendered Liberia ungorvenable, no Liberian was left unaffected. Even the so-called Americo Liberians and the Congos had their settlements besieged and ransacked.
It was a case of tears over the entire nation.

And as the cliche went, the enemies of war left no stone unturned in their mad rush to out do each other in the vicious killings that overshadowed Liberia.

The Daily Observer's Stanton Peabody, in one of his last editorials before the paper's offices were set ablaze, mourned: Bleed Poor Nation Bleed.
It was a fitting lamentation for a nation set ablaze by its own.
Yes, it was tears over my motherland.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-06-16T20:52:00.000-07:00

Death's Ugly Hands

Chapter 4

JAMES ZONN had known all along that neither his mother nor his father was coming back home. It had been three days since the mother was physically carried away by some members of the national army. Until then James Zonn had always loved the army and had dreamed of becoming a member in the future. But events, since the late Thomas Q tried and failed to remove the goverment of his friend, Sam Doe, had indicated to him that the army was, to some extent, the most dangerous occupation to sacrifice his life for.

His feelings towards the army had changed dramatically from the on.
Why, he asked himself, would soldiers who were supposed to defend and protect the Liberian people taking sides in a war that many and countless Liberians had no idea why it was being fought. True, he had heard the self-styled defense spokesman of the rebels, Thomas Woewiyue, declaring over the BBC that the only good Doe was a dead Doe.

But why?

From his resident in Monrovia, there had been the talk of Gios and Manos coming from the bush and having joined the army of Charles Taylor. He had heard the name of that man before, and had never seen him. Was he a Gio or Mano? The news, as far he could gather indicated that he was not a Gio or Mano. He also learned that he was once a best friend of the president of Liberia.

Well, then, what happened? From the events of November 12, 1985, he was aware that there had been bad blood between Doe and Thomas Q. So what?

Though he was not old enough to understand the current situation, he remembered that when the announcement was made that Sam Doe had been removed, many of his Gio and Mano ethnic groups and other Liberiands had trooped to the streets of Monrovia and had even danced to the traditional victory song.

And lately, the newspapers, in particularly, the Daily Observer and the Footprints Today, had all been calling on the president to resign.

It came to James Zonn's attention that the president had failed to live up to the expectation of the Liberian people to maintain peace and order. That his failure and the current presence of "rebels" coming from the bush were an indication that his days were numbered.

So why the president had declared he would fight till the last soldier, Gios and Manos living in the environs of Monrovia were facing the daily grind of danger to their persons.

So, he somehow but reluctantly agreed that the terror against his ethnic people was simply because Thomas Q had attempted to remove Sam Doe and that the new army in the bush composed mainly of the Gios and Manos, who had suffered enormously since Thomas Q unsuccessful attempt to remove Sam Doe. He felt there was no justification in the current attacks on his people, the truth was that it was the gospel truth.

A DAY after his self-examination, there were reports of bodies lying about in the street, near their resident. James Zonn, by all accounts, was a man who could not stand trouble when he saw one. It was no wonder then that when he heard the news about bodies lying in the streets, he decided to investigate.

And whether he wanted to believe it or not, one of the bodies resembled that of his mother. As he stood over the remains of what seemed to be that of his mother, tears flooded his eyes, and he began to breath in short bursts.

At one point he wanted to vomit. His stomach rumbled on for sometime and like he was passing gas, his legs danced under him. The bodies, as he inspected them, were in the state of decaying, and flies hovered over them.

And the stench...

"So it's true," he said, tears streaming down his face.

He would now return home and inform his sibblings of the tragedy that had befallen them. It was the ugly hands of death, claiming his mother, while his father had been missing, since he was taken away by some soldiers. Now he was living in fear, and considered that if his parents had been destined to pay the price of his tribe's sin, then it would not be too long before he followed them.

With tears pouring down his face, Zonn gathered his legs, and sauntered away from the bodies. It was clear that Liberia had become a land of the dead. What was plentiful was misery. Another was disappointment. And yet another was sorrow.

"This day," he said, "I may die."

Death would relief him from the horrors of war, and destruction. He wondered if his father was still alive somewhere. He would wait and if he failed to return, he would decide what the next course of action would be.

James Zonn must either live or die.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-05-26T19:23:00.000-07:00

The Day Dawns

Chapter 3

THE YOUNGMAN man looked on with disdain. It had been too long since the war should have ended but it would not. Standing several feet away from the soldier, his heart beat increased and it was clear that he was afraid of what might happen next.

The war had been panting for the lives of its enemies and he was sure that baring a miracle, would he survive. The other night, soldiers, several soldiers from the Armed Forces of Liberia had visited his family. Just eighteen, and little experience in the difficulties that sorrounded the political crisis in the country, the city of Monrovia where he had lived with his mother and four sibblings had been relatively safe. No, it was safe until the political troubles began and it eventually progressed to the direct confrontation against the Gios and Manos and other political figures in the country.

As the man had said to him, when they came, "All you Gio and Mano people are marked for destruction." The soldier had meant business, for he had demonstrated that statement by whipping his mother with the butt of his gun.

"You are killing me," his mother had wailed, pleading for help that James Zonn could not give. In fact when the soldiers saw him starring at them, they thought he was taking mental pictures of their action, and he was warned to look away.

"If you want to live," the other soldier had warned him, "you must never look at us like that, rebel."

From here, he turned his face to the other side of the house but that did not satisfy the soldiers. And he was not looking when he felt a heavy metal slapping at the back of his head.

"Ma they are killing me," was all he was able to say, and then he had blacked out.
He did not how long it took, but by the next morning, he awoke to find his mother was missing, and his two brothers and two sisters sprawled on their mats. He thought they were dead but he was glad that when he began to shake them, they all awoke, with tears in their eyes.

Two of his sisters, one was sixteen and fifteen, he saw, had their underwears torn in several places. And there was blood also.

In tears, he grabbed the hands of the girls and pulled them along to the bathroom.
"They took mamie away," the seventeen year-old girl said, as the rest of the children began to shriek.

Their father?

He had been missing. He had gone in search for food for the family in Saye Town when news came that he had been arrested. From the pieces of information he could put together, he learned his father had been arrested at a checkpoint by some soldiers. And he also learned that his father was a "rebel."

He was now becoming use to the description of being a "rebel" and from then on since any Gio and Mano was considered a "rebel" he realized that it was no longer safe for him to accept the description of being a "Gio or a Mano." But can he change it? He knew being a Gio or a Mano simply meant the tribe he originated from which had its distinctive cultural practices and songs and other things. But he also knew that it was a designation about the language or dialect he communicated with at home with the family. But was a language a crime that others must pay with their lives?
Since his mother was taken away and the father had also been long arrested, he saw how unfair life had become. He thought about one of his uncles in the national army. Was he still alive? Had he been arrested and perhaps killed, since he was also a Gio?
There were sounds of shooting outside and he could hear people running here and there.

"The soldiers are coming," he told his sibblings and they went inside their room. Hunger pangs were bitting them deeper, and he did not know what to make of the situation.

Yes, the day had dawned on him and the future looked bleaker than he had anticipated. He wished he understood the reasons for the suffering of the Gios and Manos, and likewise the entire Liberian people.
He wished he knew.

He also knew that by 1700GMT, the BBC would broadcast the lastest news from the war front, and at the time he would be able to hear what the National Patriotic Front of Liberia's leader, Charles Taylor, say about the war. It was now 1500GMT and there was 2 more hours to go.

BEYOND INSANITY

2007-05-15T16:22:00.000-07:00

When Hope Lost Its Meaning
Chapter 2
WAR IS the greatest enemy of mankind, someone is reported to have said in frustration. It was apparent that whoever said it might have seen the horror of war and he could no longer remain unconcerned for its destructive nature. But again, one may ask: Is mankind's history devoid of war? From the beginning of time, the Bible reports the continuous battles the Israelites engaged in and the destruction that those wars routed on mankind.

So it can be said that the wars of our time, while different in the means and methods of their prosecution, are not really different in their end result. The results are death and the destruction of material properties that have been sought after after many painful years.

But whoever thought that a nation born out of the frustrations of the world's greatest inhuman trade, the slave trade, could end up destroying what was cherished to build in the days when man's desire for emancipation was at its highest demand, might have been considered insane. But the reality after over one hundred years of statehood made it an obvious fact that what can be described as deliberate failure played a major role in the actions of the leaders and eventually sent Liberia to face its tragic history.

I am not sure but I can say with certainty that the fragile foundation of Liberia and the shortsightedness that accompanied its development, sadly, set the stage for the eventual conflagration and division of the nation-state. And when the dust finally settled, the nation was bleeding and panting for breadth.

Poor thing!

So it came to pass that when the war was announced on the air-waves of the BBC, many people thought with the manner the leader of the insurgents, (call them rebels if you wish) was confidently declaring the movement's objectives, that it would have been a few days' clearance.

The unpopularity of the Samuel Doe regime had sunk deeper into the abbys of the people's discontent. He had become a nuisance and the man whose triumphant entry into the Liberian political landscape had engendered so much goodwill was becoming a non-entity among the people. "Monkey come down," was refrain, as thousands demonstrated throughout the major streets of Monrovia, to express their disastisfaction and by that way telling him that it was time to leave the chair. And everybody agreed, though with some exception, that Samuel Doe had outlived his usefulness. In doing this damage to his ego, the insurgents' leader, Charles Taylor declared with an element of confidence that the "only good Doe was a dead one."

The successes of the insurgents to kick the butt of the national soldiers created some optimism and hope among many of the people. There was a sizable number of the people who had otherwise remained cautious of the simmering declarations of the man in the bush. But as it is with the affairs of men, when the end comes for the one who has ruled with an iron hand, many are those who consider him a historical person. The war had become the archilles hill of the Doe regime, and as the insurgents continued to announce their successes, the spirit of the soldiers began to deflate.

In anger, the soldiers turned on the civilian population, and it is with shame that I write this and I hope, it is with shame, you may read it: Gios and Manos residing in the capital and other political opponents became sacrificial lambs for the vanguished national army. The hope that had been seen at the end of the tunnel was losing steam. For, it was not for long before the insurgents began to kill off all Liberians. They were not discriminating among those who had wished for the old regime to go. It was, by all accounts, the self-destruction of a nation that could not remember its heroes.

And those who understood the meaning of hope could not agree that the insurgents had anything better for the battered nation.

BEYOND SANITY

2007-05-14T19:29:00.000-07:00

In The Beginning
Chapter 1
IT WAS the beginning of a new adventure and I thought it could not come to this. For many years the war created conditions that I thought could end as quickily as it had begun. It just started as a rumor and then it proceeded to develop and became huge.

The last we checked, what we thought would just come and sweep over us, had come to stay. And since the day in December 1989, the dogs of war turned our lives upside down. And from there war, the real one became the daily dose of thousands of us.

The war created several monsters: they were called 'freedom fighters' and with their weapons of power, life itself lost its value. Young men and women were trained and given weapons that because of them they could command authority and respect from their elders, and seniors. Families were torn asunder as the young men and women in their new roles as defenders of our freedom dictated how we should live.

The soldiers, yes, those who had been trained for many years to defend the nation and protect the people could not do it. For majority, they were insterested in staying alive. But they were wrong. Their enemies did not forgive those who, for their personal reasons, decided to throw down their weapons. They were, many of them, marched on to their doom.

As the war progressed and the butchers from all the various factions learned the effective means of killing other Liberians, the game took a different turn. From the national army to the rebels, civilians were their primary targets. And the price for the war was devastating in its nature!

And even the house of God was no longer safe.
The local communities were where thousands had sought refuge were places waiting to be invaded and in many instances displaced Liberians were slaughtered in their bed.
From the Lutheran Church to the United Nations' Compound on to the Duport Road community--all in Monrovia--the dogs of war went in their furor, mowing their fellow human beings down.

It was a tragedy of a serious proportion, and many of the survivors often asked, but to no one in particular: What kind of war is this?