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!

Trial by Ordeal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The End

BEYOND INSANITY

Epilogue

Now Is the Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

The Rescue

Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

Waiting to Die

Chapter 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the door, creaked open.

BEYOND INSANITY

In The Face Of Death

Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

Going Behind the Lines
Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

Self Examination

Chapter 11

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

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

But why was he doing it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, why should it be now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

The Good Samaritan
Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was then that he heard footsteps behind him.

BEYOND INSANITY

Are You Ready to Confess?

Chapter 9

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

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

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

“You ready to confess?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

When They Came For Him

Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

Moment of Anxiety

Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blamed Liberia for letting his people down.

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

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

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

Betrayal

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

"You mean me?"

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

"You cannot deny it, can you?"

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

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

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

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

"Me?"

"Can you help the Speaker?"

"Me help, who?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Williams?"

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

"You saw the picture?"

"What picture?"

"The three-some."

"The what?"

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

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

He stood there, his legs dancing under him.

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

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

BEYOND INSANITY

The Agony Deepens

Chapter 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHEN THE MAN DIED

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

She had then walked towards him, embracing him.

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

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

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

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

She could remember those days like yesterday.

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

The situation was challenging and frantic then.

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

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

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

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

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

And to enjoy him.

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

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

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

But in the end, the unexpected happened.

---------

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

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

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

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

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

_____________________________________________________________________________________

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