Willie’s Tragedy

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

He didn’t have to die

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Silence of the Bishop

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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