Justice Without Fail

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have you been in the US long?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Amen,” Tom said.

Mob Justice

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lost consciousness then, and died thereafter.

Sando’s Camera

By Omari Jackson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why is he embarrassing the country?”

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

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

Time to end It

By Omari Jackson

Tony felt sick after he learned he was the target of the attack. The assault was led by Sam, an assassin, which snuffed out the life of his younger sister, Janet. It was like a stab in his heart. How could they have done that? Didn’t they know she was just an innocent kid?

His eyes misted, and tears rolled down his tear-drenched eyes. His face was like someone suffering from one of those diseases that had been credited to Apollo and the days when the Americans were shuttling to and from the moon. He could feel the dusty itch tearing his eyes, and he wondered how long he could continue like that.

He stood at his Lawrenceville ramshackle house, and he could hear the sounds of cars passing by. He could also smell the arcane scent of leaves and felt the cold weather on his face.

The thought of his niece’s death scorched his heart. They killed an innocent child, and he could not accept the reality of it and he blamed himself, somehow. Now he was meeting Sam, and making up his case against him. Jane was a child of his older sister, who died when she was three. The last time they were together, the young woman had called him, “Uncle Tony.” What would his sister thought of him? A failure? A disappointment? He was full of venom from here on.

“You killed her and destroyed my life,” he told him with a sniff, “You will have to pay for it.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replied, “Be ready to follow her to hell.”
“Why did you kill her?”
“I was looking for you,” Sam said, “And when she would not reveal your hideout, I decided to teach her a lesson.”
“You killed an innocent child,” he told him, with anger building up in him, “Isn’t life for life?”
“Then come get it.” The other said, and he positioned himself for the eventual combat.

Tony launched preemptive strike against the man who held his peace at the corner of the room. First it was his right leg, like a Chinese in a Kun Fu movie. Then his left leg followed in rapid succession, and he could hear the man’s groan. It was like he was suffering from a heavy banter to his head.

Tony did not really care any more. He felt enough pain and was now prepared to deliver the ultimate blow to his adversaries. He was not, to be fair, a violent man, but the days had changed and things were now different. Lawlessness had been in an open display, and he could not be counted out.

If for that reason someone would describe him as a violent man, then so be it. At a time when young boys and girls had been armed by politicians to kill off their brothers, uncles and parents, there was no wonder that Tony had become a Jackie-Chan-type of character.

The Chinese might not have deliberately chosen to make physical combat their national pastime. It might have been a strong reason for that.
Now Tony was kicking butt, and who dared to interfere? By now the enemy had crumbled before him, blood oozing out from his head. Despite the poor visibility, Tony could see very well the damage he had caused the murderer.

With a thud, Tony’s victim had earlier lost his balance and had fallen heavily on the ground. In the process, something had slipped out of his fingers. A closer looked and Tony could tell it was what he correctly thought, a gun. For whatever the situation was, Sam could not bring himself to use the weapon, and died not able to use it.

One down, and Tony was up and running to the next rendezvous. It was like an appointment with death itself!



Tony was risking death to escape from John. It had happened before, and he only survived by applying some of his wits. That day, three months ago, he had been caught napping, and John was in control. John was one of them, a man who was the second in command of a murderous gang. They had been terrorizing, and robbing the people off their wealth.

The battle that day was tough.

He had Tony’s head between his legs, and his large thighs held his head, and John’s massive right hand banged on his head from time to time.
“Say you are my master,” he ordered the vanquished Tony to say, “I will always serve you.”

It was too much for him and when he decided to lift his head in a swoop, John, who by then had relaxed his hold on his head, vaulted backwards, sending himself into the deep gutter behind him. Now free, Tony took the turn and as he paid John in his own, he had wept like a child.

And so now they were meeting again.

From the beginning, Tony pretended he was down and out. John thought it was an opportunity and he went for it. His right hand was outstretched and he was moving to hold Tony by the neck when the other reacted. His swift reaction threw John off balance, and he went down.

Tony was standing over him, as the vanquished John crawled away from him. Tony had moved swiftly and had crushed his head into a pulp.

It had happened suddenly!

With John dead things were turning out to be different and Tony did not think the enemy could be ahead of things no matter what happened next. He had disposed of Sam, one of the toughest guys in the Useful Gang and now John was also gone. The gang was responsible for rapes and assaults on women in the Lawrenceville area, and since the law was slow in reacting, the former army sergeant Anthony (Tony) Roscoe, was doing it his own way.



Wesley Dollar tried to force Tony to join his group and when he refused, he decided to act tough on him. They were standing apart from each other and Tony sensed Wesley’s uneasiness. It was barely three hours after Tony’s encounter with John Penny.

Tony apparently was enjoying the spectacle. He had vanquished the two men who had been sent to kill him. Their master was now before him and he was having fun.
What might have confused Wesley was apparently due to Tony’s presence. This man was supposed to be dead, but then what had happened? Wesley was the big boss, who had sent a couple of friends, assassins to complete his mission.

The report said the eighteen year-old girl, raped and killed by the gang members was Roscoe’s sister. Now he could see the event carefully.

In fact Wesley had not expected to meet Tony here, for he had been told the job of killing him was a simple one. But those who thought Tony’s murder could be simple could not be found. He had not believed that Tony could have the strength to eliminate two tough guys.

But why did he forget Tony’s strength? Did Tony not participate in Operation Iraqi Freedom? Did he not survive several attempts on his life, and when he returned to the United States, did he not earn the “Purple Heart” from G. W. Bush? But if Tony Roscoe was too tough a guy, where was he when his native Liberia was in flames?

But everything being equal he would have to deal with Roscoe, and how well that would translate into action was anyone’s guess.

One thing, he was without a weapon, and with Tony’s right hand behind his back, what was he holding on to? Had he called on the police to come get him? Rumors indicated Tony was working for the law, was that true?

“It’s the end, Wes” he heard it, and it was loud and clear. His voice never lost it vitality, and now he was urging him to end it.

“What happens,” Wesley said, “if I don’t?”
“You don’t want to die, right?” The question had come with a strong powerful voice. That was what scared him now.

Then he heard the siren blaring towards them.
“So you did it?” Wes said, “You called the cops?” He was moving backwards, and Tony wished he could order him to stop.

“You don’t need to kill yourself,” he urged him, “Be a man to face the law.” But it was too late as Wesley Dollar allowed his body to fall behind and with a whooping sound disappeared. When Tony looked keenly to see if he was still there, there as an empty space.

“He has put the end to it all,” he said, and took the device from his pocket, and shut it off. “He thought the cops were coming.”

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.