The Lonely Bones

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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