Storybase.net - writing prompts for fiction writers

Storybase.net - writing prompts for fiction writers

Looting Game in Liberia

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lonely Bones

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLEANING HOUSE

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Read this,” she told Angelina”

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

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

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

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

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

Justice Without Fail

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you been in the US long?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amen,” Tom said.

Mob Justice

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lost consciousness then, and died thereafter.

Sando’s Camera

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is he embarrassing the country?”

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

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