Willie’s Tragedy

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

He didn’t have to die

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Silence of the Bishop

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I Don’t Forget Thee, Oh Monrovia…

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe things had changed as it had been reported.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugly Side of War

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I saw it coming!

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

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

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

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

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

I knew then that I was a loser.

My dear reader, love is pain, indeed!

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

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

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

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

‘Women have their talents,” indeed!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in Peace, Mamie.

A Refugee’s Plan to Return Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I quirked a faint smile and nodded in agreement.

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

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

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

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

“Then you’ve a problem.”

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

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

“Heh, Sam, you going too?”

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

“Yes, I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PROMISE

(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!