Whirlwind Of African Insanity 6s1b6j

Whirlwind Of African Insanity

LAWRENCE N. ZARKPAH

Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence N. Zarkpah.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916251 ISBN: Hardcover Softcover Ebook

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CONTENTS

LAMENTATION OF AN AFRICAN CHILD

DEDICATION

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE

AFRICA AND MY STRUGGLES

1 FAMILY BACKGROUND

2 BUCHANAN, GRAND BASSA COUNTY

3 DAVID AND MUNFORD

4 UNCLE BELH’S LOVE FOR READING

5 WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I GREW UP

6 ESCAPE FROM BUCHANAN

7 ESCAPE FROM MONROVIA

8 ECOMOG AND PRESIDENT SAMUEL K. DOE’S DEATH

9 LIFE AT LIBERIA AND SIERRA LEONE BORDER

10 MY LITTLE SISTER’S DEATH

11 CAUGHT IN AN ATTACK

12 WALK TO SAFETY

13 HOLD YOUR NOSE AND DRINK

14 RED CROSS RESCUE

15 ON THE ROAD AGAIN

16 WATERLOO REFUGEE CAMP

17 MILITIA AMONG US

18 KIDS TELL THEIR STORIES

19 REPATRIATION TO LIBERIA

20 REINTEGRATION

21 WILLIAM V. S. TUBMAN HIGH SCHOOL

22 CRISIS

23 WAITING FOR WAR

24 THE BOTTOM FELL OUT

25 THE BARCLAY TRAINING CENTER

26 THE STORY BEHIND THE APRIL 6, 1996 WAR

27 ATTACK ON BARCLAY TRAINING CENTER

28 FROM FOE TO FRIEND

29 MORE ON THE BTC

30 NO MAN’S LAND

31 CEASE-FIRE AGREEMENT

32 JOURNEY TO GREYSTONE COMPOUND

33 ESCAPE FROM LIBERIA

34 STORM AT SEA

35 BACK IN SIERRA LEONE

36 JUI REFUGEE CAMP

37 SCHOOL DEBATE

38 THE WORLD WE LIVE IN

39 SHATTERED HOPES, BROKEN DREAMS

40 ESCAPE TO GUINEA

41 MORE HARDSHIPS AND MORE POEMS

42 TERRORIZED IN GUINEA

43 ARRESTED BY GUINEAN SOLDIERS

44 FAILED MISSION TO GHANA

45 RETURN TO GUINEA

46 MOTHER VIVIAN REEVES AND THE KINGDOM PRAISE

MINISTRY

47 LOVE, OR WAS IT?

48 HOPE AT LAST

PART TWO

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

49 JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT AND ARIZONA

50 THE LAST STRAW

51 THE BREAK UP

52 JOB SEARCH

53 WORK AND SCHOOL

54 MY FIRST VEHICLE

55 EXTERNSHIP AND GRADUATION

56 MY WIFE AND KIDS

57 OUR DREAM

58 BAD NEWS

59 MY FEAR

PART THREE

HISTORY OF LIBERIA AND EVENTS THAT LED TO THE WAR

60 LIBERIA

61 SAMUEL KANYON DOE, LIBERIA’S TWENTIETH PRESIDENT

62 CHARLES M. G. TAYLOR AND THE LIBERIAN CIVIL WAR

PART FOUR

FACING THE FACTS ABOUT AFRICA’S PROBLEMS

63 AFRICA’S PROBLEMS

64 SELF-INFLICTED DESTRUCTION

65 DESTRUCTIONS CAUSED BY EXTERNAL FORCES

66 THE LAST WORDS

LAMENTATION OF AN AFRICAN CHILD

Can anybody hear me, anybody at all? Why was I ever born, in a place such as this? A place of pain, hunger, grief, and death All around me are guns and bombs Blowing up people, blowing up things A kid my age was shot today A bullet in the head took his life He fell down hard, right by my side His body rocked with volcanic convulsion Then he laid still and was gone.

Is anybody there, anybody who cares? Where did I go wrong, to live in troubles and woes? Always on the run, suffering in silence Tired but no rest; hungry, no food And though I look for answers, I get questions instead Leave me alone, death! Let me have some peace Within my little chest, my heart races

With every beat comes turmoil And every minute brings uncertainty If this is life, let me rest forever.

Is this all there is, life for me will ever be? What is it like, a kid in a peaceful nation? But I dare not dream of good things to happen For good things belong only to kids abroad In hell, I was born, and in hell, I’ll live Till death comes by famine, disease, bullet, or bomb And if heaven does exist, maybe then I shall finally rest But since that day is not yet come, I brace myself for more pain, no gain My hands shake, my feet refuse to go on.

Is there any, any place at all Where a kid can be nothing but a kid? To run, jump, laugh, and play? And friends like me will know no pain? Where mommy’s love and daddy’s smile light up the day? Is there a place where there’s no fear of death?

But no, I must not dream of good things to happen For good things belong only to kids abroad. I fear of what waits ahead Is there any, any help at all?

Lawrence N. Zarkpah

DEDICATION

In this fast-paced environment we live, it is easy to neglect the little things that impact us positively. We often forget to appreciate good people who weave in and out of our lives and who help us become better persons. This book is dedicated first to God whose protection is my banner, and to some of my heroes in life. Without them, this book would not be complete. I shall forever remain grateful for the light they continuously shine in my darkness.

THIS IS . . .

To my mother Esther Zarkpah; she puts her life on the line for me many times and has never stopped praying for my success. I love you, Mom.

To my beloved wife Sarah who has made me a better man. Thank you for believing in me no matter how stupid I sound. I am forever yours.

To my kids, Lawrence Jr. and Ethan that do not have to grow up in poor, out of control and flea-infested refugee camps. Thanks to the American Dream.

To my late uncle Belh S. Weay who planted in me the desire to dream big and the courage to stand up in every storm. It pays after all.

To Deborah Campbell whose strength and wisdom never cease to amaze. Thanks for being a mother to me. Without you this book would not have been published.

I am indebted to you.

To my little sister Mercy Mamie Zarkpah whose candle light was prematurely blown out because of the senseless Liberian civil war. You are not forgotten.

To all men and women in the United States military and law enforcement whose blood and sacrifices make it possible for me to now call this great nation my own. I salute you.

To all children of the world who cannot speak up for themselves against the injustices of wars and poverty forced upon them by leaders who put greed above the future of their countries and the generations that will come after them. Let me be your voice.

To children whose physical and emotional wounds were never seen and their cries never heard until they breathed their last breathe because of sicknesses, guns, bombs and other weapons of death. I hope you can look down from heaven and let this book bring smiles to your faces.

To children who struggle every day to keep their dreams alive in the midst of catastrophes. Let nothing extinguish the flames that keep you going. Dreams do come true.

For I too was one of such kids who dreamed when there was no reason to, and hoped in hopeless situations. It is only by grace that I am alive today. Thanks to the Almighty God who saved me.

* * *

INTRODUCTION

Life is a journey. Our places of birth and the families we are born into give us certain advantages or disadvantages on this journey. However, what we make of ourselves is what tells who we really are; how we endeavor to turn our trash into treasure, our test into testimony; and how we treat people along the paths of life. This is why I believe that the value of a man must not be measured by the abundance of his possessions, but by his moral fiber. After all, we will all be judged one day. And this judgment will not be based upon the size of our bank s, or on how big an empire we build for ourselves here on earth. We will be judged by our love for God and our fellow men. This love is reflected in our deeds and actions; the way we strengthen the weak, care for the sick, feed the hungry, or put a smile on somebody’s face. What you release is that which impacts lives, not what you store away. Each person has been gifted differently, and through the course of our lives, we acquire certain skills that help us grow and succeed in whatever we do. Yet beneath all that is a universal cause; to change an unacceptable circumstance into one that inspires, equips and makes our communities better. We must make an effort to leave those we encounter daily a little better than they were when we first met. By so doing, we can leave behind legacies that cannot be effaced. Heroes are not only those who stand on the frontline exchanging gunfire with enemy forces. They are also those who give up a little of what they have for the betterment of those who don’t. Real success is defined by the ways in which we positively affect those we encounter.

* * *

PART ONE

AFRICA AND MY STRUGGLES

1

FAMILY BACKGROUND

I was born into a polygamous family. Back then, polygamy was common in Africa. It became a tradition for men of influence to marry as many wives and have as many children as they could . I am the eighth of nine children. Not only did my dad marry two wives and each gave birth to four children, he also had a girlfriend who bore him a son, Samuel, the only child for his mother. Mom, dad’s first wife, gave birth to three girls and a boy: Dorothy, Ethel, Mercy, and me, Lawrence. The second wife had three boys and a girl; Paye, Tetee, Randall, and William. Like many Liberian families, our father decided to give us English names. However, Paye and Tetee were only given traditional names. Paye Zarkpah Sr., died when I was too young to know him. All I is a vague figure, the center of every action in our overcrowded home. Uncle Belh, his younger brother, showed me Dad’s picture once when I was a little bit older. That memory too faded long ago, and the album that contained his pictures was lost in the Liberian civil war. The limited knowledge I have about my father is mostly what I have been told. He was a traditional African who believed that a man is measured by the size of his family, his entourage, and how well he takes care of them. If he ever was a philosopher, I believe Dad’s philosophy would be, always help as many as you can while you can and take care of today because tomorrow will take care of itself. His idea of a family was far beyond the usual nuclear family where there is a father, a mother and their child or children. To him, family included greatgrandparents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, first, second, and third cousins, friends, neighbors, and only God knows who else. Not all uncles and aunts in our family were necessarily true uncles and aunts, but anyone old enough to be. It was considered disrespectful to call an elderly person by his or her name without adding some sort of title. The titles I am referring to are not Mr., Mrs., or Ms either. Elderly men were called grandpas and elderly women,

grandmas. A kid could get away by calling the elderly “Papay” for men and “Oldma,” for women. Yet in that too, careful consideration was needed since not all old people wanted to be reminded their age, even though it was common for many Liberians to increase their ages by at least five years. Being older demanded respect. Folks in the forties fell under the uncle and aunt titles. Nephews, nieces, cousins, and even friends of older siblings were called big brothers and big sisters. Kids were simply called by their first names. There was no favoritism in our house. A stranger, without being told would never tell the difference between dad’s kids and the other children. Those in the same age group ate from one pan. We lived in Monrovia, the capital of Liberia. Many of our Krahn tribesmen and women who lived in the countryside but wanted to relocate to the city knew just where to begin—Paye Zarkpah’s house. They were always welcomed. If there was no vacant room left, everyone slept on mats on the living room floor. Catering to peoples’ needs came natural for Dad. He was cheerful and a party lover. In fact, he organized the parties, paid tribal musicians to come to the city and play. In such cases, they stayed up all night dancing and drinking. He gave generously to any good cause and did not wait to be asked for help if there was a need. He considered it his responsibility and believed that no good deed is ever wasted. His job as a building contractor allowed him to put people to work, one of the main reasons those searching for jobs came to see him. He was not a high school graduate, but he was great at his trade. Before dad married his second wife, they lived in a rented house even though he built homes for people. Mom persuaded him to purchase a piece of land to build but dad procrastinated. Saving up some of the money she received from her husband, mom secretly bought a plot of land and later took him to see it. He then married a second wife and expanded the project. Both of his wives are illiterate. Born during the times when freed slaves and their descendants (AmericoLiberians) in Liberia lived like royal families while the natives remained oppressed, education was a luxury native families could not afford. Many native families even abandoned the idea of going to school. Only a handful of them managed to send a child, usually a boy to school. They were burdened with providing for their poor families. Many tribal kids that went to school dropped out as soon as they learned to read and write. Girls stayed close to their mothers

and other elderly women who taught them how to care for their homes. This sad reality is something my mother experienced and one that prevented Dad from going beyond elementary education. Schools were segregated in Liberia then. This is by no means the times dinosaurs roamed the earth but even in the 1940s. My parents lived under a tradition that encouraged hard work, allowed polygamy and gave women limited rights. Thank God things are now changed greatly when compared to present days. Yet, there is still work to be done. Polygamy still exists in many African villages and women’s rights are still limited in other ways. With all those challenges she faced, Mom remains one of the wisest women I have ever known. The wisdom with which she inspires and conducts her affairs confounds many who have achieved college and university degrees. She made me realized many years ago that wisdom is not predicated on knowledge. While book knowledge is a good thing that everyone should aspire, wisdom and understanding must not be left out.

Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: And with all thy getting get understanding. Proverbs 4:7

I’ve never heard my mother utter a curse word. She always speaks blessings in our lives and prays for us to succeed in all our endeavors. One of my greatest wishes is to possess half the strength and courage she has. Dad came from work tired one day. He took a siesta and never woke up again. Almost everyone who knew Paye Zarkpah, Sr. came from far and near for his funeral. I was told Dad’s burial was not a quiet one. Everyone agreed that it was just what he would have wanted. Yes there was crying and mourning, but there also was singing and dancing, and oh lest I forget to mention, and drinking too. Dozens of men danced around with swords. They threw the long sharp blades high up in the air, circled under them and without looking up caught the swords within seconds of being pierced, or before the blades struck the ground. Then they juggled the swords and threw them to each other. The shining tip flipped

through the air blade first, slicing the atmosphere as it flew from one person to another. With the slightest twist of their bodies, the men dodged the blades that by then were only inches away from their faces and bellies. They caught the handles before the swords flew past. I was about two years old when he died. Yet for some reason I a vague image of the man in our house who seemed to be everywhere at once. Perhaps listening to family tell stories about dad so many times when I was growing up left an impression in my mind that makes me think I my father. During the funeral festivities, I realized that someone was missing from the activities. I also could not comprehend why the women never stopped crying and the men never stopped singing, dancing and drinking. At a particular time, everyone formed a line and walked by the coffin. They stopped to look in the box and the women cried hysterically. Even the toughest looking men shared tears. Somebody picked me up and ed the line. I stretched my tiny neck to see what was amiss. And behold, the man lay asleep in the colorfully and beautiful box. I thought that he looked very comfortable too. Who will not be when he/she has that kind of a bed? Too bad, we moved along to give others an opportunity to view the interior. Then the coffin was lifted and brought out of the house. It was placed in a vehicle. Mom started to cry again. Her friend ed in. Without understand why, I cried too. The rest of the burial I do not , except that I never forgot to ask my mother for what had become my newest fantasy—I wanted to have the same beautiful coffin for a bed. That, as you may already have deduced, caused my mother to cry some more. Needless to say that Dad’s death had a huge impact on the family. He was the sole wage earner; that one that held the family together. It became clear that some, if not all my older siblings would drop out of school. Dad’s younger brother named Belh stepped in to help. He lived in another part of the country and occasionally visited the family. Our uncle took some of my brothers to live with him in Buchanan. However, his rigorous lifestyle and ease to use the whip caused my brothers to run away. They returned to Monrovia. After living under nonchalant atmosphere of festivities with dad, staying with his brother was a 180-degree turn no one welcomed. Uncle Belh came back for them but let’s just say it did not work out so he decided to take me, a five-year-old kid instead. Mom had to choose between letting me struggle with her, a decision that would prevent me from getting the education I needed, and sending me away to have

the opportunity to learn. She heavy-heartedly chose the latter. When growing up, I found it difficult to believe that my father did not saved up for us. Many African men with multiple wives secretly stored away a little extra for rainy days. Perhaps Dad did but his sudden death left him no time to tell anyone. I am proud he helped many people, but I wished he had paid a little more attention to our future. However, he built two little homes we lived in and undertook the project of building a huge house that was left unfinished when he died. The two little homes were not among the best in the community but they provided roof over our heads. Paye Zarkpah, our eldest brother who bears Dad’s full name learned the same trade after his father—building construction. Paye is now a contractor. Elders from our village still talk about my father’s good deeds. Being a Zarkpah almost demands generosity, a role that Big Brother Paye embraces wholeheartedly in imitation of his father. He donates to good causes whenever he can and occasionally brags about his last name. “Paye Zarkpah is not dead yet.” My brother once said in a tribal gathering and drew standing ovation from the elders who knew Paye Zarkpah Sr.

* * *

2

BUCHANAN, GRAND BASSA COUNTY

So it was that at the age of five, I went to live with Uncle Belh in Buchanan, Grand Bassa County. While his brother was an extrovert, Uncle was an introvert. Where dad helped family acquire jobs, his brother sponsored those who wanted education, but nothing more. Uncle considered parties a waste of time and money. He recognized no birthday or holiday but Christmas. Even with that, Santa never existed. We lived in a house that was built with zinc, but for the foundation and floor. We rented a studio out of the four studios apartment building. The other three rooms were occupied by one large family—an elderly couple, their four adult children, and several grandchildren. Uncle gave me my first pep talk on the very day we arrived in Buchanan. He lectured me then like he would an adult. “Some people say that at this young age, I should not have taken you away from your mother,” he said. “They think that my being single discredits me even more from taking care of you. They are wrong. However, we have a problem.” He continued. “I do not have enough money to take care of us both in the way I should. So let’s make a deal. I can feed you twice or three times a day and clothe you. But in that case you will not go to school. The alternative is the opposite. I can pay for your education, but we will eat one meal per day, if we can afford it. He asked me, “So what is it going to be? Will it be nourishment or education? What do you think?” I did not respond, perhaps because I did not understand. “It will be school,” he decided. “I would rather you have an empty stomach but a full head than a full stomach and an empty head. It will be tough, that I can assure you. You may not understand my decision now but when you grow up, you will thank me for it.” He walked away.

I was enrolled at the same school the other kids in the house we lived in attended. In that way, they watched over me to and from school. There was no school bus system. We walked approximately nine miles every day. When older kids in the community bullied me, my uncle did nothing to stop them. “Learn how to stand up to them, or get use to it.” He said. “There are lots of bullies out there. If you run from one now, you will continue to run from all of them for the rest of your life.” After work, Uncle Belh cooked for us and saved some for the next day. Study was just before bedtime. That was our routine until my third grade school year when he brought more boys to stay with us. Our next-door neighbors had downsized to two bedrooms and Uncle rented the extra room. Rancy and Samson, two cousins of mine came first. Then Edwin and my brother Samuel ed us. I was the youngest. The more people he brought, the sterner his rules and the more he whipped us. He ruled our lives with austerity measures and we feared him. We were enrolled in St. Peter’s Claver High School, a private Catholic school that was one of the best in the area. School became our only chance to get out of the house and away from his constant glare and denigrations. At the beginning of the first school year at St. Peter’s, Uncle bought for each of us two sets of uniform, a pair of shoes, a raincoat, and some of the required books. He always paid our tuitions on time, but left the rest for us to manage on our own. We wore the same uniforms for many years till they were worn out. Rips in the uniforms were sewn so many times the different colors of threads showed from twenty feet away. We borrowed some of the books we needed from other kids whose parents could afford to buy them. Although Uncle owned a car and drove practically by our school on his way to work, he let us walk the many miles to and from school under rain and shine. “Walking is a good exercise,” he always said. The Catholic School was farther away from home than my previous school so we woke up early. Breakfast and lunch were not provided and just like he said in my first pep talk, we ate one meal every day, usually around 3:00 p.m., when we came home from school. Whatever we met on a table in our room was the meal

of the day. It was not yet prepared so we cooked the food (usually rice) ourselves. Healthy meal was the least of our worries. We preferred quantity over quality because quantity meant less worry about hunger. And when we came home and met nothing on the table, we starved for that day. On our way from school one day, we saw a woman who was trying to pick breadfruits from the tree behind her house. Breadfruit tree is a mulberry kind flowering tree abundant in Southeast Asia and other parts of Africa. It grows up to eighty feet. The fruit got its name from the texture and flavor similar to freshly baked bread. We helped the woman and she gave us some of the fruits in return. Fearing punishment from our uncle or accusation about begging for food, we hid our reward from him. We enjoyed the next couple of days feasting on the newfound meal for breakfast, lunch, and sometimes dinner. Breadfruit can be prepared in different ways. Some people make fries or chips out of them. Others prefer to make fufu, (or foofoo, foufou, foutou) variant of names and spellings used. It is a staple meal in West and Central Africa. The thick paste is prepared usually by boiling starchy root vegetables or breadfruit in water and pounding with a mortar and pestle until the desired consistency is reached. Fufu is eaten with different kinds of stew. How ever, we could could not afford the stew or the oil to make fries and chips so we cut our breadfruits into small pieces, boiled them with salt and ate them just like that. Besides, making stew or fries would leave the scent lingering and we could get busted. When our supply of the fruit went low, we ed by the woman’s house many times hoping for another opportunity to earn more. Our efforts were futile. It was great to have another meal that Uncle Belh knew nothing about so we found a way to earn our hidden supply. One of the older boys proposed dumpster diving for items that could be cleaned and re-sold. That brought about fetching empty bottles and cardboard boxes. We hurried through neighborhood dumpsters on our way from school everyday to find the desired items. Then we hid them in an old unfinished building close to home. When our uncle was out, we cleaned the bottles and sew the torn boxes back together and sold them in market places. Our little expedition was profitable until a neighbor saw us and exposed our secret to Uncle Belh. We were punished for deception. With Uncle, there was no flexibility; no room for error, no flaw went unnoticed and unpunished. His four forms of punishment were a long talk, a cane,

starvation, and grounding. They were istered in no particular order and we wished for none since each bore about the same weight as the others. One form of punishment usually transcended to the other anyway. With a Long Talk punishment, we stood before our uncle for what felt like eternity as he thundered and we feared lightning strikes from his eyes. If words were visible and tangible, I am sure his were fireballs. In punishment with a Cane, we were sprawled on our stomachs and given twenty-five lashes on our bare buttocks. I received the cane so many times I lost count but still not being able to sit for days because my rear end was blistered. Starvation added to our woes. If we had ed the last forty-eight hours without food because there was none, and then got the starvation punishment in addition to the two days, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Grounding meant being locked up with books and being assigned chapters that sometimes had nothing to do with schoolwork. Those assigned chapters were never taken for granted because Uncle tested us. A wrong answer automatically resulted into extended grounding, a lengthy discussion, or/and a cane. When Uncle left the house, we were elated. We owned no watch, clock, radio or television. To tell what time of the day it was, we learned by observing shadows on the ground. We borrowed a watch one time and drove nails into the ground at one-hour intervals where the eave of our roof fell. A shadow directly in between two nails represented thirty minutes. We could even tell if it was fifteen minutes or five. Uncle was usually home from work around 4:00 p.m. By then we had settled down and pretended to be well-behaved. Still it became a bit of a challenge on cloudy days, when it rained or when we were away from the house. Our uncle came home early one day. Rancy was not home. He got the Starvation. We devised another way to beat Uncle Belh’s iron grip. We stayed in the neighborhood to play with our friends but posted sentries to watch for the car. Every hour, we changed guards. That plot was also discovered after a while and we switched to another strategy—a keen sense of hearing plus calculation. We learned to tell the difference between the sounds of other vehicles and that of our uncle. Sitting in our room, we could tell if an approaching car was his and we

knew that it took him twelve strides from the time we heard him come up the short stairs to his door and another five strides from his door to ours. That made it a total of seventeen strides. His heavy footsteps and the dangling bundle of keys he carried hanging from his side gave him away too easily. We mastered to make the most of seventeen strides just before our room door flew open. I felt so guilty every time that happened. Other times we knew that Uncle wasn’t buying our suddenly all behaved appearances but we stuck with it because that was all we had. One day Uncle busted into our room prepared to punish someone. We did not hear his car in the drive way or the dangling keys. Before we knew it, he was about to reach our closed door. We scurried for something important to do and were caught before settling down. Samson was the fastest and had just opened a book when the door flew open. “What are you reading?” Uncle asked immediately. None of us anticipated the question. In his hurry, Samson had only grabbed whatever book was closest. So when uncle asked him for the title of the book, my cousin had no answer. He first received the Long Talk for pretending. Then the other three forms of punishment followed. Everyone got the Cane. Uncle had left his car parked in a distance, removed the bundle of keys from his side and walked home with every intention to catch us doing something wrong. That incident was the beginning of our new predicament. For a long time, Uncle Belh woke everyone up in the middle of the night to study. Our door would crash in many nights, and we would jump from sleep in a wild frenzy. With icy cold water in a cup ready to pour it on anyone who did not wake up, he ordered everyone to take their books and read. He stopped doing that when he decided that was enough to teach us a lesson. Still we readjusted and came up with another way to defeat the new threat. We planned beforehand the best-case scenario so as not to fall into the same trap. We discussed and agreed what each of us would say or do to defeat such unannounced arrival. We left trash piled up so that one person would pretend to be putting it away. Another person would fold some clothes and leave it on the bed. Someone would open a chapter in a book that they had already read, etc. In that way, it seemed as if we were busy long before he came, and when asked what we were doing, each knew what to say.

In Africa, at least in the society I grew up in, discipline—which almost is equated to whipping—is not only carried out by parents. Older folks, even family friends and neighbors can discipline someone else’s child in the absence of a parent. That child hurried home to report the incidence to avoid another round of whipping from his/her parents lest the neighbor did so first. Uncle gave us no money. He said that doing so encourages stealing. One day a neighbor gave me a quarter. I did not ask or work for it. It was just a gift but Uncle saw the money and believed that I begged for it. Not only did he scold me, he followed me to the neighbor’s house to return the quarter. Even when the man told him it was a gift, my uncle did not believe him. I got the Grounding, the Long Talk and the Cane. Our desperate attempts to survive the austerity measures we lived under pushed us to becoming hypocrites. We were good kids, the best in the neighborhood by most standards and we scored good grades in school. Yet everything we did fell short of Uncle’s approval. If any one of us scored a 100% in a test, he thought the person cheated. If we scored a 99%, he asked why we did not score 100%. If we scored a 90% in our first test and an 89% in the second, he said that the one point drop was sign of failure. Our best was not good enough for him and our flaws were immediately punished. Therefore we lived in fear and pretense. In all this I believed and still do, that Uncle wanted us to be the best and to achieve the highest level possible. However, his method pushed us away from him. He said that I was his child. That did not come with special privileges, but with higher expectations and harsher chastisement. By the time the older boys had spent three years in Buchanan, some of them were ready to return to their parents. Edwin and Samuel went for vacation at the end of a school year and never returned. Uncle said he would bring me back if I ever ran so I did not. Besides, staying with him provided education. The way I saw it, if a life of temporary difficulties was the price for learning, then so be it. After all, the benefit was mine, not his. Mom said that when I was about eight months old, I crawled behind my siblings when they left the house one morning on their way to school. Dad held me back but I kicked and screamed to break free so he put me back down. Then he took a leaf and a twig and put them in my hands. “Here,” he said. “Those are you pen and paper. But if you want to go to school,

you have to first get up and walk.” I stood up, took a couple of steps and fell. Those were my first steps. When I was learning how to speak, Dad wanted to send a message to some people in our village. There was no telephone services in those parts of the country then, and the people in the village could not read or write. So dad recorded the message on a tape. He had just finished recording his message when he realized that I was by his side. “Do you want to say something,” he asked playfully. I nodded. “All right then, you can say what you want,” he told me while the tape was still recording. My message was simple, “I am a big boy now, and I want to go to school.” Uncle Belh kept the copy of the tape and played it for me to hear when I was older. Illiteracy was an epidemic in Liberia. It wasn’t until in recent years that the pursuit for education became an objective for many. Liberia’s then former minister of education, Evelyn Kandakai, reported that out of the 2.7 million people who lived in the country in 2003, only 35 percent were literate. The literacy rate was at 7.2 percent in 1962 for the nation that is Africa’s oldest republic and had seated nineteen presidents. That 7.2 percent literacy rate was ed for mostly by free slaves and their descendants, (the AmericoLiberians) who then controlled the educational, social, and economic wealth of Liberia.

* * *

3

DAVID AND MUNFORD

I found the sixth grade class overwhelming at St. Peter’s. It might have been so because Rancy and Samson were now enrolled in a different school and I walked to and from school alone. It rained after school one day and I had no umbrella or raincoat to get under the rain. I waited for a long time for the rain to stop. Almost everyone else had left. If I got under the rain and destroyed my books, Uncle would come down hard on me. More than an hour ed and it still rained. Two boys wrestled at one end of the corridor. They were the only other students left. I knew them from my class but had not spoken to any one of them before. Their names were David and Munford. At first, I thought they were brothers because they did everything in common. They came to and left school together. Time ed and it continued to pour. Then I watched as they changed into street clothing and put their uniforms, books and shoe in plastic bags. “What are you doing?” I asked, realizing that when they left, I would be alone on campus. David simply replied, “Going home.” “Our books and clothes will not get wet.” Munford added. “You will get sick if you walk under this rain.” I said. “No we won’t. We do this all the time.” It was Munford again. Then they ran off in the rain and went out of sight. The rain finally stopped after another long wait. I went to school the next day expecting the two friends to be absent because of pneumonia or some other cold-related illness. They looked healthy and as active as ever.

Some days later it rained in the morning. Like David and Munford, I put my uniform, books and shoe in plastic bags and was ready to run under the rain when Uncle stopped me. “Get in the car,” he said. I was very excited but had to maintain my equanimity lest he kicked me out. That happened to us one day after church. We had started walking home when Uncle came from behind, stopped the car and told us to get in. Giggling with exhilaration we jumped in. About half a mile down the road we still laughed at what we perceived as our we perceived as our lucky day. Uncle pulled over to the sidewalk and commanded us to get out. We did. Then he sped away at left us staring after the car. We still had several miles to walk. I got in the car that morning. Half way to school, the car broke down. Uncle tried in vain to get it re-started but it won’t. For some reason I knew that I wasn’t that lucky to get a ride. Then I saw David and Munford coming. They strolled in the rain like it was nothing, with their valuables in plastic bags like always in such weather. I got out of the car. “What are you doing?” Uncle asked. “I am going to school,” I answered and ed the boys, but not until I recognized the smile on his face. “Are you not going to get sick?” Munford teased when he saw me. I shrugged and they laughed. The sky seemed angrier. Heaven opened its floodgates and spewed out big drops like hail. “See, it is getting even worse,” Munford shouted. We walked on. That was the beginning of our friendship. We got promoted to the seventh grade when the school year came to an end. Junior high was a little different. The things that easily ed in elementary school hit brick walls of inspections. I could never understand why it was so important that every student wore black or white shoes and socks when that in no way contributed to our education. The school principal chose random days to inspect uniforms; a pair of long khaki pants, a clean white shirt with the school’s

logo printed on the pocket, black or white sneakers or dress shoes and a pair of black or white socks. Any deviation from those colors led to corporal punishment or being kicked out of school. As punishment, sometimes students were required to remain on campus after their classes to cut the school’s lawn. You may have noticed that I said cut, not mow the lawn. There was no lawnmower. We used long machetes with curved end. Swinging the arms back and forth repeatedly while holding the machete very low to the ground cut the grass. My uniform was old, but I kept it clean, since Uncle Belh whipped us for wearing dirty shirts. Socks were my great downfall. I couldn’t seem to know where they were. To begin with, I had only a pair. There were holes in them too but I could not afford to buy a new one. Since I did not have to remove my shoes during inspection, but only raised my pants to show what I had on, it was okay. I misplaced my socks one day and stood the risk of meeting the school’s principal, also known as the Devil. My friends did not have an extra pair to lend me so we devised a plan. Until I found my socks or got another pair, three of us would use two pairs of socks. Relying on the probability that under normal circumstance no one will put a sock on one foot and leave the other without, David and I wore his only pair of socks on the first day. All we had to do was what foot it was on. The Devil stood in the doorway to our class and made us form a line. Each boy was required to raise his pants and show what color of socks he wore. Munford was in front. As we approached the door, he faked a fall to distract the principal. “Move along!” The Devil barked. I lifted the right leg of my pant, exposed the sock and entered. David did likewise and ed the inspection. Munford and I repeated the same process on the second day and went through successfully. However, our teacher realized something was wrong. When the principal left, he asked the three of us to follow him outside. “What were you hiding?” He asked. I told him the story. He laughed so hard his eyes watered. He bought me a new pair of black socks during lunch break and from then on called us “Wiser than the Devil.”

Our little trick spread among the students but the principal soon realized it when he caught two students wearing one sock each and punished them. So was the end of our one-sock campaign.

* * *

4

UNCLE BELH’S LOVE FOR READING

Uncle decided to teach me some poems when he realized how much I loved to read. The thought of him teaching me was enough to make me want to quit. I believed he would give me a never-ending list of materials to study and expect me to memorize them all in the shortest possible time. Contrary to my expectation, Uncle read the poems himself and never left me the copies, at least not until I was twelve. My first poem to memorize was titled, “A Nation’s Strength,” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Emerson explains that a nation’s strength is built by honorable and hard-working men, not by gold or any other form of riches. Uncle dissected the entire poem, line by line and took time to explain it. For the first time, I saw his eyes widen with excitement and ion. He even surprised me further when I saw him wipe tears from the corner of his eyes. Then he said gently, “Be a nation builder,” and walked away. That was not his usual command, but a supplication that struck my young core. As simple as those words were, they were very profound. I decided to be a nation builder from that day on and promised in my young heart to help people—although I did not yet know how. Reading became our best pastime. It provided me the opportunity to see into Uncle’s world. Judging from the literature he read, I can conclude that Uncle Belh was obsessed with principle, perfection, and dignity. He reasoned that these things only derive from surviving difficulties, so he made our lives as difficult as he could. “In order for gold to be refined, it must first through fire,” he said on several occasions.

* * *

5

WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I GREW UP

David, Munford, and I rested on St. Peter’s soccer field one evening. As we lay there, a strange silence came upon us. We’d known each other for more than three years. Our friendship had reached such a peak that we completed each other’s sentences and sometimes knew what the other was thinking. That day, we thought about our pitiful childhoods. For a long time no one said a word. The tranquility of the environment contrasted greatly with our inner turmoil. Like many African kids, we were forced to grow up fast, no daddy or mommy around, not enough food, no birthday gifts, no Disneyland experience, etc. We fabricated our own toys. A car was made by stringing an empty sardine can and pulling it along. If we wanted to build trains, we used as many cans as we could find in neighborhood waste deposal sites and stringed them together. Other times we rolled old car tires along and chased after them. Our soccer balls were made by filling empty socks with soft materials until they became big round objects. Then we tied the ends and kicked them around. With rare luck, we played rubber balls made of latex from the rubber trees plantation owned by the Firestone Company in Liberia. It took real skills and calculation to play a thick glue-like rubber ball that never ended up in the direction it was kicked. The thing bounced around like crazy, almost in the way a rubber balloon flies when you slowly let the air out and release it. When we kicked the ball, we stood still and waited to see where it would end up before running to it. Colliding with one another became part of the fun. Any kid on the block who owned an official soccer ball or some toys fabricated abroad was the coolest. If his toys used batteries and made sounds, that kid was almost worshipped by his friends. Starvation is a common occurrence for children in many African families. We ate to be sustained, not to be filled. All those thoughts plus many more washed over us that day. We wished for better days when we would not have to worry if we would have our once a day’s

meal. We wished for superheroes or anyone at all to appear out of nowhere and saved us. It was one of those countless times we wished to be adopted into families that could provide those basic necessities. We wanted to grow up normal, like the American kids we sometimes saw on TV and in books. We wanted to share the luxuries we would never have. As the silence engulfed us, my eyes watered. I turned to my left just in time to see tears rolled down Munford’s cheek. To my right, David tried frantically to hide his tears. He pretended to wipe dirt from his eyes. I let mine flow freely and shamelessly. My pretending friend quit trying when he saw me cry. David reached out and took my hand. I stretched my free hand and grabbed Munford’s. Flat on our backs looking toward the sky we wept till we were spent. Contrary to what many people think, tears are not always sign of weakness. They can be, only if we allow them. I believe that in the same way laughter is medicine to the soul, so also are tears. The way we perceive a given situation mostly dictates how we react to it. The tears my friends and I shared became a motivating force that made us even more determined and hungry for success. It also glued us together like nothing before. Our feelings had just run their full course when a plane high up in the sky disrupted the silence. We gazed at it. “I want to be a pilot when I grow up,” David said. Then silence followed. Munford’s voice cracked as he told us his dream and why. “I want to be a lawyer. I want to make things right. I want to bring justice to those who cannot defend themselves.” I asked David why he wanted to be a pilot. There was no hesitation when he declared, “I just want to fly like a bird. Forget all the worries down here and just soar away.” He closed his eyes to shut out obscurities and lock in the future he wanted. No one said anything for a while as we allowed our thoughts and imaginations to run for a little bit. “For a moment,” I said quietly.

“What?” Both boys asked together. I repeated. “You want to soar away but that will be only for a moment.” David looked at me questioningly so I explained further. “No matter how high or long your flight, you still have to land and face the realities down here. Even birds have to perch on the ground and tree branches; planes have to land so that they are refueled and their engines checked. But you are right about one thing, there sure is going to be soaring times.” He nodded in agreement, and then asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I did not know what to say. I wanted to be a doctor, a soldier, a writer, an actor. I wanted to fly fighter jets and destroy enemies. I wanted to be a professional soccer player and to have so much money to provide scholarship opportunities for people that cannot afford it, to build homes for the homeless and feed the hungry. I wanted so much that I could not come out with the right answer. If having big dreams was money, then I was a very wealthy man. Munford pressed on. “Come on. Tell us what you want to be.” “I want to be a millionaire,” I said softly. It was as though I said something wrong. Perhaps they did not hear me, I thought, and repeated my answer a little louder. “I want to be a millionaire.” Suddenly, both guys busted out loud, laughing their hearts out. “Oh, so you heard me,” I said. They laughed so hard their stomachs ached. Wanting to be a millionaire even sounded absurd to me, but I thought it was still possible. I waited for them to finish. David used the back of his hand and felt my cheek. I asked what he was doing. “I am making sure you are not having a fever and hallucinating,” he replied.

“I am perfectly well.” “No, you are not,” Munford said. “How are you ever going to be a millionaire? Besides, that is way too much money for one person and too much money can make anybody miserable.” I told my friends I would rather live as a miserable rich man than a miserable poor man. “Are you going to steal the money?” Munford asked again. “No,” I said. “You do not have to steal to become a millionaire. You can work for it.” They were not convinced. In Africa, many high government officials get their wealth by means of corruption. The boys reminded me of that. “Our presidents and others forget about the people and take all for themselves,” David said. “Oh, I think I know what you want to be when you grow up. You want to be a president.” I told them I had no thought of being a president. “To be a millionaire is just a dream that will not happen,” Munford added. “My uncle told me that if you believe in yourself, you can be whatever you want. He said that you have to first dream it. Then you have to work like a mad man to make that dream happen. I have already dreamed it and I have no problem with working hard.” David was quick to let me know that there are many people who work like crazy but still do not obtain what they wish to achieve. I would not let them discourage me. I would not let anyone stand in the way of my dream, not even my friends. I told him that some people do achieve their dreams. I believed if there was only one exception; It had to be me. “What are you going to do with all that money if you were to be a millionaire?” Munford asked, making sure to stress on the word, if. I asked him instead what he was going to do with a thousand bucks and did not

miss the excitement in his eyes and voice. He named what he would do with a thousand dollars: buy food, clothes, books, etc. David sat up. “Talking about food, I am hungry,” he said. Munford and I were still lying on the grass. David saw the hole in the soles of my shoe. “Hey, millionaire, there is a big hole in your shoe.” With that, I got up and chased him around the field.

* * *

6

ESCAPE FROM BUCHANAN

Uncle Belh bought a piece of land and built a four bedrooms house. We moved into the spacious new home. More cousins and uncles moved in with us in Buchanan: Mack, Augustine, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Weay, Sr., and their son, Jerry Gbatu etc. Some of them stayed longer, others left after a short while. Most of them were adults. Their stay brought relief in many ways. Uncle’s asceticism loosened up quite a bit. We continued to live on one meal a day. However, Charles’s stay home wife did the cooking while we were at school. Food was usually ready by the time we got home. That alone was great blessing. The biggest break of them all came when Oliver Robert, another uncle who worked as a custom officer moved from Monrovia to Buchanan. He came with his wife and two kids, Agatha and Eric. They rented a building next to ours. Food never ran out in Uncle Robert’s house and we were welcome to it. At first, we thought Uncle Belh would stop us but he didn’t. Many things that once drew immediate and severe disciplinary actions no longer did. Uncle even said we could play soccer with our friends in the neighborhood though there was always a catch. We first had to make sure homework was done, all our clothes were washed, house and yard swept and things put in their proper places. We also had to study and know every lesson in our books. A list of other hindrances prevented us from leaving the house. Still, the mere idea of having a probable play time was priceless. An even bigger surprise came when Uncle Belh bought each of us a Christmas gift one year. There was no doubt Uncle Robert made him do it. Yet to allow someone else influence his decision was something none of us thought was possible. Before then, he did whatever he wanted when he wanted and nobody was able to talk him out of it. If a neighbor tried to persuade him to stop beating us, he beat us even more. We therefore preferred no one came to our aid. If Uncle Belh deemed forty-eight hours starvation our punishment and caught any one of us holding any food, even a peanut in the forty-seventh hour, the

punishment began anew. The man would buy a thousand-pound fish, clean it and distribute the entire thing to everyone in the community and leave us the fins and inner organs. “You must learn to share, even if it hurts and cost you everything,” he would say. So anyone can imagine why we hesitated when he gave us our first presents in eight years. We waited for a catch that never came and finally found the courage to open the gifts two days after Christmas. Truly, our conditions improved with Uncle Robert around. Things looked promising at last. At least that was what it seemed to be until the political unrest in Liberia worsened. Oppositions to President Samuel Kanyon Doe formed and grew rapidly. Tension between the government and those that wanted Doe out increased. African politics is such that leaders pay no attention to people’s frustration. Doe found no way to calm the situation. The problem continued. President Doe was a member of the Krahn tribe. Before taking power, he was a Master Sergeant in the Armed Forces of Liberia. Doe was unknown to many until April 12, 1980, when together with seventeen other low-ranking military officers, they stormed the Executive Mansion and overthrew President William R. Tolbert to end 133 years of suppressive rule of Americo-Liberians over the natives. The coup plot was a bloody one. Tolbert’s cabinet were arrested and executed. As the highest ranking officer among those who plotted the coup, Doe was selected by his friend to rule as president of Liberia but with time, division within his government surfaced and he made more enemies than friends. Even some that executed the overthrow broke away. Liberia’s politics and more of events that led to the war are better discussed in Part 3 of this book under “Brief History of Liberia and Events that Led to the Civil War.” Power struggle continued within Doe’s istration. The President responded with crackdowns. The most organized and ferocious opposition group was the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL) under the leadership of Charles McArthur Gankay Taylor. Before being a rebel leader, Taylor served in Doe’s government as the chief procurement officer of the Liberian General Service Agency (GSA). He now led a band of rebels trained in Libya under the watchful eye of Muammar Gaddafi. They entered Liberia through the Ivory Coast and

launched a military attack on December 24, 1989. Many young and old people ed NPFL in the thousands. Soldiers from the Arm Forces of Liberia (AFL), all of other tribes, disbanded the army and ed the rebels. They did not want to fight or die for a Krahn president. Many young Krahn boys enlisted. Pres. Samuel Doe’s tribesmen surrounded him and the war escalated. News reports and footage of towns where the fight between the Arm Forces of Liberia (AFL) and NPFL had taken place showed devastating destructions and death that sent chills down our spines. Dead bodies littered in the streets; homes and businesses leveled. We received rumor that some of Charles Taylor’s fighters were already among us in Buchanan and were preparing for a major attack. NPFL was known for sending spies before attacking. We feared for our lives. Augustine decided to the Arm Forces. Uncle disapproved but he would not listen to reasoning. He left the house and began his military training. Uncle located what camp Augustine was sent to. He went to make a final appeal but the young man insisted on being a soldier. He was rushed through training and sent to war. Samson came home one day and suddenly lost his mind. He started fighting everyone and destroying anything in his path. It took several men to restrain him. When they finally did and tied his hands and feet together in such a way nobody thought he could free himself, Samson broke the ropes and fled. Police found him terrorizing people in the streets two days later. He was taken to a mental rehabilitation hospital and never recovered. I woke up one morning and got ready for school. For some reason it did not feel like an ordinary day. When I arrived on campus, less than half the usual population of students was present. David and Munford were there. The school bell rang for assembly long before its usual seven thirty time. We gathered nervously and listened to our principal’s short and very emotional speech. He told us to go home. “Rebels are advancing rapidly and schools are closing down,” he said. “Listen to the news. When it is safe again, we shall announce the reopening date. Stay close to home, stay close to family and pray for your country. By God’s grace, we will all see each other again soon. Please go straight home.”

My friends and I left school together. It was toward the end of our eighth grade school year. We were basically waiting for our papers. We walked in silence realizing that we might not see each other anytime soon. Then we went our different ways. I never heard from them again. That same night Uncle Belh told us to remain indoors and be ready to leave Buchanan any time. Uncle Robert and his family had returned to Monrovia. Mack, one of the older relatives who still lived with us wanted to go nowhere. The date for his graduation from high school was a little over two weeks away. Moreover, Mack was a promising soccer star. Soccer is the biggest sport in Liberia and any African countries. He was a well known striker on his school’s team. Recruiters had asked him to the county’s team after his graduation. Like many, Mack thought the war would be over as quickly as it began. He counted on his many friends to keep him safe. Uncle Belh rushed home late the next evening. It was clear he had some very important information that required us to leave immediately. He ran into the house and shouted, “Grab your bags and get into the car! Hurry, Hurry!” We scrambled for our bags. “Where is Mack?” Our uncle asked. Mack had left quietly that morning with an extra key that he could use to enter the house in case we were gone by the time he got back. None of us knew where he was and how to get hold of him. Neighbors gathered around and watched. Some mocked as we scrambled into the vehicle. Someone among the onlookers shouted as we drove away. “Make way! Krahn people are on the run.” They laughed. Our predicament was their amusement. When our neighbors had the audacity to ridicule us publicly, all of us knew that Mack was in serious trouble. We made a brief stop to fill the gas tank. Night came quickly. A white overloaded minibus sped past and disappeared before us. A little while later, we got to a steep curve between two hills. A bright light glowed over one of the

hills. It appeared to be from a bonfire. As we came out of the bend, Uncle slammed on the brake. We fell forward. Just a few feet ahead of us, off to one side of the road were two vehicles ragged with bullets. One of them was the white minibus that ed us earlier. It was in flames. The driver remained strapped in his seat even as his head blazed. The other vehicle had slammed head on into a nearby tree and was compacted into one ball of iron. Blood seeping out of the car through whatever cracks it could find only meant that people were crushed in there. There was no sign of life anywhere. Luggage scattered everywhere on the ground. Bags and valises had all been rummaged through. Some bodies lay in a gutter by the road. We sat there for just a few seconds but it felt forever as we took in the scene and waited for order from someone or bullets. Uncle’s hands remained welded to the steering wheel. No order came, so he floored the accelerator. We fell back into our seats and sped ahead and away from the scene. We still flew through another curve later and almost crashed into approaching military trucks. Drivers veered out of the road to avoid collisions and struggled to bring their machines under control. Screeching tires on the tarred road in the middle of nowhere, plus shouts of fear carried into the night sounding like a horror movie. We bounced around on rocks and into gutters before finally coming to a stop. Soldiers ran toward our car. Some shouted angrily while others asked if we were okay. We looked at each other to see if anyone was hurt. Thank God everyone was safe. When the soldiers heard why Uncle drove like a mad man, they let us go. We continued the rest of the way praying silently to not be victims of any ambush that may be ahead. With every second we waited for bullets and bombs to come flying at us. We arrived in Monrovia safely and went separate ways. Mom was happy I was home again. That concluded my life in Buchanan. In considering the time spent with my uncle, two questions come to mind. Did I like it? The definite answer is no. It was very stressful. Nobody likes living under such conditions. I did not like it at all. The next question is, was it worth it? I believe the answer to the second question depends on individual assessment. Some of the other boys will disagree with my answer; some of my readers may think the same. However, I believe that my stay with Uncle Belh did not only provide the education I needed, it helped me develop the mental toughness that got me through the difficulties of war and life in refugee camps. Therefore I can say that my time in Buchanan was not in vain. “You must learn how to stand in a storm,” he said to me when I was growing up.

More to the point, Uncle did not have to take me in. He could have let me stay with my mom and allowed her to struggle. Mom would have gone above and beyond to educate me. “Nobody owes you anything—so stop blaming people for what you do not have.” That was my uncle again, always militant. He was right. I wish that his method of training up a child was easier and that my relationship with him was built on understanding rather than on fear. It was not the case, thus many who lived with Uncle Belh did not get to know him. They only knew about him. Rebels attacked and captured parts of Buchanan two days after we left. They killed Mack. We received report that the friends he depended on were the very ones that gave him away to the rebels. His crime was simple—he was a member of the Krahn tribe. That was the kind of madness that consumed my country, my people. And it wasn’t just rebels killing Krahn people. It was not just the Gio and Mano tribes killing of the Krahn and Mandingo tribes, but also Krahn and Mandingo killing of the Gio and Mano tribes. Ethnic cleansing became the evil that killed thousands. Somehow the rebels discovered that Uncle Belh took some of his possessions to his church pastor for safekeeping. Who could have told the rebels but church ? They threatened to kill the pastor and set the church on fire. Augustine was shot and killed in battle. Samson died some time later. The war had only begun but was already picking us apart.

* * *

7

ESCAPE FROM MONROVIA

Charles Taylor and his men could not be stopped. With the of many Liberians, financing from Libyan President Muammar Gadhafi and another foreign power, NPFL had all the necessary logistic readily available, AFL now comprised of Krahn soldiers had no chance. Still President Samuel Doe refused to step down. Soon Charles Taylor’s men were closing in on Monrovia. They threatened to capture all the entries and exits to and from the city and seal everybody in. News of rebel spies being already in the capital circulated and Uncle Belh decided it was time to leave. He thought it was wise to find a place close to the Sierra Leone border. In that way, we could cross into Sierra Leone easily if necessary. Some of our closest relatives decided to come along. The only vehicle we had was too small to hold everyone so Uncle Belh assumed the risk of driving back and forth until everyone was safely near the border. Mom, Ethel, Mercy and I were among the first group of people that left the city. Crammed into the vehicle, we drove all day and night and finally reached our destination. It wasn’t difficult to find a little three-bedroom house to rent in a small village called Bonbohun, just on the bank of the Mano River that ran between Liberia and Sierra Leone. It was the perfect location for our purpose. Canoes from the village went back and forth, carrying villagers from one country to the other. One could even swim across in no more than five minutes. People talking across the river could be heard in the other country. I thought that was very fascinating. I had no idea then what the border would look like. For some reason, I imagined a wall dividing the countries, or a vast unoccupied land that was patrolled by countless heavily armed soldiers. It was quite the opposite. No more than five Sierra Leonean soldiers sat on their side of the border; not even one Liberia soldier was present on the Liberian side. The Sierra Leone soldiers played a game of checker and paid no attention to canoes

that brought people into their country. I was fourteen but knew something was very wrong with that. Yet that presented us the opportunity to cross easily if we had to. Uncle went back for some more people. Each journey became more dangerous than the previous one. He narrowly escaped an attack that closed the road and prevented people from leaving the city freely. Another few minutes of delay could have left Uncle Belh dead or stuck somewhere along the highway. By then NPFL had already attacked and captured parts of the city. Our group now consisted of the Zarkpah, Boway, Yance, and Gbomina families, at least twenty-five people all in a three-bedroom house. Comfort was the least of our worries. The men spent most of their time huddled around radios, listening for developing news in the city and other parts of the country. There was no comforting report. Then there was a split within Charles Taylor’s NPFL. Prince Johnson, once an integral part of Doe’s inner circle that assassinated the late President Tolbert, but not was a vehement enemy of Doe broke away from Charles Taylor’s National Patriotic Front of Liberian (NPFL) to form his own Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia, (INPFL). Those who stayed in the city told stories of how much better it was in those times to live among Charles Taylor’s fighters than to be in Prince Johnson’s controlled territory. Johnson carried with him a gun and a guitar. He would enter homes, even churches where crowds of displaced civilians gathered. The man would select how many people he wanted to kill. Then he carried out the execution and sang to the fear stricken onlookers who wept because they feared they were next in line. Prince Johnson’s favorite song, “A Great Change” was composed by a Nigerian contemporary gospel musician, Sonny Okosun. The lyrics say, “There is a great change since I met God. All the bad things I used to do, I do them no more.” When he was satisfied with the killings, the man walked away but first made sure to promise he was coming back the next day. Nobody knew exactly how long we would be in Bonbohun, but everybody anticipated a month or two. One month went by and the war worsened. Rebels now advanced toward us. The large, well-armed checkpoint between Monrovia and us, the Bomi Hills, was attacked and overrun by Charles Taylor’s men. This meant the rebels had free age to the border. The soldiers who retreated from Bomi Hills ed those at the border to make a last stand. Within no time, rebels were upon them and us as well. We woke the next morning to the explosions of

heavy artilleries at Bo Waterside, the main border crossing area where a long bridge over the Mano River connects Liberia to Sierra Leone. Waterside was five miles from where we stayed. The Sierra Leonean soldiers already knew who we were. They allowed us to cross; our new lives as refugees began. Few hours later, Bo Waterside and other towns along the Sierra Leonean border were taken. We stood across the river and watched jubilant rebels fire rounds in the air and dance about in celebration. Our hopes of returning home soon were quashed. It was only the start of nearly fourteen years of war and we had yet to experience what it meant to be refugees. I was surprised to learn later that the Sierra Leone village we now lived in was also called Bonbohun, like the one on the Liberian side of the border. Even more surprising, opposite Liberia’s Bo Waterside was Sierra Leone’s Bo Genema, and other towns along the border shared names. That part of Sierra Leone was once Liberian territory, but was taken by the British colony in Sierra Leone at the river, thus dividing towns and villages that were considered one. The names were never changed.

* * *

8

ECOMOG AND PRESIDENT SAMUEL K. DOE’S DEATH

In 1975, fifteen West African countries came together as a regional group and established the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). The mission of the new organization was to promote economic integration in “all fields of economic activity, particularly industry, transport, telecommunications, energy, agriculture, natural resources, commerce, monetary and financial questions, social and cultural matters,” according to its mission. When the war in Liberia escalated, ECOWAS established a Standing Mediation Committee (SMC) to encourage diplomatic solutions to end the war. Diplomatic efforts failed, and it became clear that some form of overpowering neutral force was necessary to overwhelm the warring factions. No international community wanted to get involved in the country’s conflict. ECOWAS established a military monitoring group in 1990, the Economic Community of West Africa Monitoring Group (ECOMOG), to serve as multilateral allied forces and mediate in the Liberian crisis. ECOMOG was made up of military from different West African countries but it was spearheaded by Nigeria. Its purpose was to help the SMC carry on the mission to overcome the warring factions, block the entry of weapons into the country, implement a cease-fire agreement, disarm the rebels, and bridge the divide between the opposing groups. The organization stipulated that its operation would be completed within six months. The first group of three thousand West African troops was deployed in Monrovia late August 1990. Ghana’s general Arnold Quainoo became ECOMOG’s first commanding general. On September 9, 1990, about two weeks after ECOMOG’s first deployment, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) reported that Pres. Samuel Kanyon Doe of Liberia was captured. We thought Charles Taylor got him finally. It was Prince Johnson and his INPFL forces instead. They tortured President Doe, cut off an ear and later killed him. In the video that went viral, Prince Johnson is

seen behind a desk with a can of Budweiser. Many Liberians believe that had Charles Taylor captured the president, Doe might still be alive today. Taylor would have turned Doe over to some international body. Event that led to the president’s death were such. Samuel Doe was in with Prince Johnson through a mediator, Guinean deputy force commander Lamin Mangasouba. Both President Doe and Prince Johnson had agreed to work together and fight Taylor’s rebel faction. Since both men were tribal, they thought it would be in their interest to cooperate and disallow another AmericoLiberian rule. A meeting was arranged for August 18, 1990 at the Barclay Training Center, now the Krahn tribe’s stronghold. Johnson was escorted by a handful of his men to the meeting. They could have been easily overpowered and killed, but Doe wanted an ally and thought this newfound friendship would be strong enough to consolidate the two forces. Brig. Gen. David Nimely, an Executive Mansion guard and some men, planned to kill Prince Johnson while he was inside the barrack. President Doe threatened to execute anyone who did so therefore Johnson and his men left Doe’s stronghold unharmed, because of the president’s protection. Since the arrival of the ECOMOG forces in Liberia, Commanding General Arnold Quainoo made no attempt to meet with the Liberian president. Doe was not happy about that. Although the nation was at war, he still expected to be treated with respect. General Quainoo was stationed at ECOMOG’s headquarters in the Freeport of Monrovia, the nation’s main seaport. Unknown to the president, the Commanding General and Prince Johnson had become friends. The rebel leader and his entourage frequented the ECOMOG headquarters to visit. When an emissary told the president that an urgent meeting was arranged for both the president and Prince Johnson to see Gen. Arnold Quainoo and discuss peace process, Doe was eager to talk peace, but he also wanted to scold General Quainoo for not attempting to meet earlier. Doe ordered his guards to take him to the meeting but they refused. Brig. Gen. David Q. Nimely, head of the presidential guard, was not present. Those present at the time Doe left the barracks told of the commotion that morning. Elders in The barrack advised Doe not to go but to send a delegation instead for fear the meeting was a trap. The president did not listen. They report a solemn scene, in which Doe turned to his security and asked them, one at a

time, if they would go with him. All of them tried to talk him out of it. “Well then,” he said, “I guess I have to go alone.” The president ordered his driver to go. As they reached the barrack gates, security forces jumped into other vehicles and followed amid the concerned onlookers. The meeting was a snare, just as people in BTC thought. The Freeport of Monrovia was the ideal location to stage the meeting since it was considered neutral ground, fortified with peace keeping troops, war tanks, and heavy artilleries that could repel any rebel group and of Doe’s army. The entourage from BTC arrived at the port. ECOMOG soldiers at the gate asked them to disarm. They disagreed. Confident that ECOMOG was neutral, Doe ordered his men to do as told. He was ushered into General Quainoo’s office. Moments later, gunfight erupted outside. The president’s men were overpowered by Prince Johnson’s INPFL fighters, who had lain wait all the time. INPFL fighters entered the building, quickly killed the other guards and found Doe alone in the ECOMOG general’s office. Doe was shot in the leg and taken away. General Quainoo later emerged from an ECOMOG ship. He called an emergency meeting with his high command in Monrovia right after Doe’s death and told them that he was leaving to see the ECOWAS commander Dawda Jawara of Gambia to advise that ECOMOG pull out of Liberia immediately. Quainoo knew that an all-out war was coming after Doe’s death. Quainoo left and never returned to Liberia. Doe’s death was welcomed by many who thought it would expedite the end of the Liberian war. According to a proverbial phrase, when the head of a beast is cut off; the rest of the body crumbles and dies. The phrase was not true in this case. It became more the story of a beast that grew multiple heads in place of the one cut off. The war intensified. Charles Taylor and Prince Johnson’s fighters converged on the barracks to finally annihilate the Krahn stronghold in the midst of mourning the loss of their leader. Doe’s angry loyalists, his tribesmen, went on a rampage, burning down and destroying anything that stood in the way. Monrovia was covered in plumes of black smoke rising from the destruction. No one was safe anywhere in the city anymore. It wasn’t even safe to be neutral:

people were compelled to take sides, either with Krahn fighters or with Charles Taylor and Prince Johnson’s men. It was better to live among one group of fighters than to be caught in the heat of their crossfire. President Doe was a friend of the Nigerian president, Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida. Babangida also came to power by means of a coup. It was a bloodless one. When report of President Doe’s death reached the Nigerian president, he was furious. Babangida dispatched one of his own generals, a towering figure, Maj. Gen. Joshua Nimyel Dogonyaro, who had been part of the Nigerian coup that brought Babangida to power. Major General Dogonyaro arrived in Liberia and took command of the ECOMOG’s operation. He straightaway gave an ultimatum that all rebel groups pull out of Monrovia. NPFL tried to intimidate the Nigerian commander, as they had intimidated Quainoo. Taylor’s men were camped out at the University of Liberia’s compound just opposite the Executive Mansion. They thought they could overrun Doe’s loyalists who still controlled the mansion. The date of the ultimatum expired, and the Nigerian blasted Charles Taylor’s position with heavy artilleries and jet fighters. The rebels retreated from the Liberian University, taking as hostage civilians as they fled miles away from the city. Dogonyaro was recalled sometime later and other commanders took charge. The war continued, and the ECOMOG presence became a major setback for the country when they began selling arms to different fighting groups and looting. Liberians gave “ECOMOG” a new meaning: “Every Car on Moving Objects Gone” as shiploads of cars and other valuables were exported from the country by ECOMOG soldiers. Nigerian Major General Cyril Iweze, who served as the chief of staff and reported directly to General Quainoo, was interviewed after his retirement from the Nigerian Army. He was present when Doe was captured and taken away by Prince Johnson and his men. His complete about what transpired at ECOMOG’s headquarter is available on the internet. Here is portion of the testimony by Gen. Iweze “Johnson formed the habit of visiting the head quarters regularly, pretending to be friendly. I didn’t like the way he was frequenting the headquarters and I summoned him one day and warned against his coming to the head quarters with his men fully armed to the teeth. I insisted that he must leave his arms at

the HQ’s main gate before attempting to gain entrance into the premises. However, he pretended to have heard me and then climbed upstairs to see the Force Commander in his office. As soon as he left, I climbed upstairs too to brief the Commander of what transpired between me and Prince Johnson. But rather than seeing reasons with me, the Commander disappointedly told me how Johnson did not like the way I was blunt to him. I replied by saying ‘of course, I didn’t expect him to like it but for our safety, he must comply with my order.’ To my surprise again, the Commander told me that he had countered the order. I felt very bitter and disappointed as I made him understand that he was making us vulnerable. Hardly had we finished discussing when we heard a siren advancing towards the headquarters . . . What happened? One of the security guys asked to the hearing of Prince Johnson’s troops, “What are these rebels doing here?” In response, one of Prince Johnson’s men challenged him and before we knew what was happening, he opened fire on them, killing all the security operatives. That was the fire that led to the capturing and killing of Samuel Doe. So, while the firing was going on, I commanded Johnson to leave the headquarters immediately. But the firing was worsened. In the midst of the confusion, I went upstairs to see the Commander. But lo, he was nowhere to be found. He had escaped to the ship . . . Doe was left alone in his office. At that point, I told Doe, “Look, discretion is a better part of valor. Let me take you to the ship so that you remain there until this raging fire is quenched.” But he turned down my appeal and rather demanded that I should give him some troops to escort him back to the executive mansion. But already, I was aware that an ambush had been laid for him. So if I had yielded to his request, they would have killed both Doe and the troops. While the commotion was going on, the Commandant had disappeared into thin air. I looked for him to persuade Sgt Doe to listen to the voice of reason but he was nowhere to be found, and Doe wouldn’t listen. As I returned to the office to lock up the door, one of Prince Johnson’s boys called Rambo traced me to the Commandant’s office where he spotted Sgt. Doe and shouted “He’s inside the office. He’s inside the office.” The shout attracted Prince Johnson who returned to the Commandant’s office. But I couldn’t let him gain access to the office as I quickly shut the door and stood behind it and ordered Prince Johnson’s boy Rambo to leave the place. There and then, he opened fire around me to scare me away but I stood my ground as I continued to command both Johnson and his boys to leave the place. At a point, something occurred to me. I started asking myself who I was protecting,

whether it was Sgt. Doe who had shed a lot of blood and who in the early hours of that fateful day, slaughtered many Liberians? Whether he was worth dying for? That was how I left him at the mercy of Prince Johnson and his men. Johnson went into the office and fired at his two legs. He advanced to the Deputy Commandant’s office and also killed all the of Doe’s cabinet who came with him to the headquarters. Later, he dragged wounded Doe outside the place and began to jubilate that he had captured the President. After the incident, there were dead bodies on the ground and the Chief of Logistics then who was a Nigerian, Major-Gen. Rufai, insisted that we must go and rescue the President from the stronghold of the rebels. But in an operation of this nature, where troops were contributed by different countries, the Force Commander remained the only officer who could issue instructions to deploy troops. But I couldn’t find him. And I was left with no option than to find out the whereabouts of the Commander in order to brief him and consequently obtain order from him to deploy troops to go and rescue Sgt. Doe from the hands of his captors. Disappointedly, when I finally found him, he was coming out from the Ghanaian ship where he went to take cover. I saluted him and followed him to his office where I briefed him on what happened and asked for his permission to deploy troops to go and rescue Sgt. Doe. I told him it would be scandalous on our part to have allowed such massive killings to happen within the ECOMOG territory. But he was not interested in my opinion or listening to what I had to say. On reflection, one wondered how Prince Johnson got to know that Sgt. Doe was coming to the ECOMOG headquarters that fateful day. Immediately after he had seen and discussed with the Commander, General Quanioo, a deal must have been struck between them . . . And again, with Johnson’s visit to General Quanioo on that same day, I strongly believe that a deal must have been struck between the Force Commander and the rebel because later on, we discovered that two container loads of items were in the Ghanaian ship to be moved to Ghana. And that created another problem for us in Liberia.

Prince Johnson’s INPFL fighters in a street, Monrovia

* * *

9

LIFE AT LIBERIA AND SIERRA LEONE BORDER

The Sierra Leonean government quickly deployed more troops along the border. We stayed in Bonbohun for another month but were told to move at least ten miles inland, probably for our own good. Uncle led a delegation to a town called Malima to ask the chief if we could stay in his town. Unfortunately, the place was already overcrowded. An earlier influx of Liberian refugees occupied whatever homes were available. Others slept under moonlight. Our team of negotiators went about ten miles farther and came to a little village with five homes and not more than twelve people. It was called Malima Junction because it was built at a junction of two unpaved roads, one of them leading to Malima. The villagers accepted us wholeheartedly. We spent the first night out under clear skies. Light showered in the middle of the second night reminded us there was no time to rest. When morning came, all the men went into the bushes with machetes and cut sticks to begin building on the land allotted us. Machete was the most important tool we had in those parts of the country. The older guys cut the sticks all day and we carried them on our heads and shoulders. Each stick was carefully selected for a particular purpose before it was chopped down. Building projects began. Everybody focused on completing a home for one family, and then moved to the next home. We first marked out the house plans with ropes gathered from tree bark and crawling plants. Next we dug holes for the main pillars and dropped in the bigger sticks. We filled the spaces between the big sticks with smaller ones, also driven into the ground, to form the walls. More thin sticks alternated by split bamboo plants ran horizontally and were tied to the bigger ones in the ground to form little squares along the walls. Roofs went up. Closely woven bamboo thatches tied to the roofs provided shade and prevented leaks. Next, we dug red earth and gathered straws. By adding water to these two elements and mixing them thoroughly, we formed mortar and filled in the little squares. The walls

became dry over a short period of time. We used another layer of mortar to plaster the sun-baked drywalls to complete our new homes.

Liberian Refugees in Sierra Leone Build a Mud Hut—Photo Taken by: Munty Teahn

We slept on mats spread out on the cold hard floors. I woke up every morning with serious body pain. It felt like I was hit by a car. So some of us gathered more straws and slept on them like cattle. Self-made kerosene lanterns provided light at night. Only we made sure to turn it off to prevent fire. There was no interior plumbing. If we wanted to use the restroom in the middle of the night, we went outside. The toilet was a hole in the ground surrounded with palm thatches. Cooking was done outside in pots placed over three big rocks that were arranged to form a triangle. Firewood was abundant during the dry season. Even though we lived at a junction of two roads, not many cars came our way. If we saw three vehicles drive by within twenty four hours, that meant busy traffic that day. Whatever little money any of the families brought from Liberia had long ran out. To feed ourselves, we worked on villagers’ farms, tended gardens and set traps for small animals. The only clinic in the area was located in Malima and was too small to serve the population in and around the small town. The only drugs it carried were for treating malaria, minor pain, fever and common cold. Even those were in short supply. Thank God we lived close to different kinds of vegetations and elders among us knew several herbs that can be used for food and medicine to treat our common illnesses. However, drinking or eating all those stuffs was a risky practice. A refugee woman once picked some mushrooms that she thought was good for food. She gave some to her friends to cook. Now, it was not the first time we ate and enjoyed wild mushroom soup. Even though what she picked that day looked identical to what we had eaten before, those ones were poisonous. The woman happened to be the first to cook the fungi for her family. They ate the meal. In no time at all, every member of the family got sick. They were so helpless by the second day that it appeared they would die. One of the elders gathered some roots, tree barks and, only God knows what else. He put them all in one pot, added water and boiled them. The sick family drank the dirty-looking water. They recovered and regained their strength slowly. Another two days went by before they became their usual selves. It was a common joke from then on to ask

one person in a family to eat first just in case the food was poisoned. Looking back at how often we drank different kinds of leaves, roots and tree barks for medicine, it amazes me that nobody was killed by those things. With no standard of measure for dosage and concentration, the old people simply threw the stuffs separately or together in one pot and added water. When they were boiled and the liquid turned to whatever color it ended up being, we poured the concoction and drank how much we wanted. We drank from container of different sizes—a cup, calabash, jar, bowl, bottle, whatever. The result could have been fatal but the medicine always worked.

* * *

10

MY LITTLE SISTER’S DEATH

The farmers paid us in cash or kind whenever we worked for them. When paid in cash, the refugee women made trips to distant villages and bought in bulk whatever they could sell at retail prices and made moderate profits. They always walked to their destinations and returned on foot; unless they bought a lot more goods. Sometimes the women were gone for a couple of days. Mom and her friends planned for one of such trips. They wanted to buy bags of oranges that time. My mother woke up that morning at abut 3:00 a.m. to her friends already waiting outside. A very early start was necessary in order to cover a long distance before sunrise. For some reason, she changed her mind and cancelled. Her friends tried to persuade her but Mom said that she didn’t feel like going anymore. One of my cousins, also called Lawrence, was going along with his mom. The women thought it would be nice if I went too to help pick the oranges. In that way, I could represent my mother and she could have her share of the fruits. We walked till noon and rested in the shade of some big trees along the unpaved road. Then we continued till nightfall until we reached the village where an orange farm was planted. The village chief who owned the farm offered us a room for the night. We set out to the farm the next morning. It stretched as far as we could see in every direction. The trees were very tall, and their branches almost intertwined even though they were planted far apart from each other. My cousin and I climbed the trees and began harvesting oranges. All was bagged and ready by midnight. By noon the following day, we found a driver of a pickup truck, willing to take us back to our settlement. We reached Malima Junction late in the evening. An arriving party was always met by family and happy children. But that day no one came to meet us. Even the little ones were quiet. They stood from afar and watched us like we were aliens. It was a very strange feeling.

“What’s going on here?” My cousin asked A huge tarpaulin that wasn’t there when we left, hung in front our house. Some elders sat in the shade it provided. One of the men got up and walked toward me. I hesitated but he took my hands. “Your mom will want to see you now,” he said. It was clear somebody was either dead or was dying, but who was it? Many questions came to mind as I tried to figure out what had happened. Uncle came out of the house when he heard that we had arrived from the trip. I checked him off mentally. I wasn’t quite sure Mom was okay. Her wanting to see me may mean she was dying. I thought about my two sisters, Mercy and Ethel. Uncle led me into the house. “It is your little sister Mercy,” he said. “She is dead.” It was a bit dark inside. My eyes adjusted to Mom’s dim room. She sat on the floor and was surrounded by the other women that did not go on the orange picking trip. Mom was uncontrollable. She had lost her voice and all her energy, crying. My knees buckled. I almost sank to the floor, but my uncle’s strong arms held me up. The world began o spin. My ears locked, and the only sound I heard was my heart, throbbing real fast. Never had I seen Mom so fragile, so spent, so wounded. Ethel sat on the floor by her and looked no better. Tears rolled down my face as mom embraced me. We wept. I will never forget that day. Life is indeed very unpredictable. One moment, Mercy was present, full of life and hope; the next moment, she was no more. They had already buried her by the time we got back. I never had the opportunity to see the body. With no funeral home or medical facility to do autopsies, bodies were buried as soon as possible. Mercy died the same day we left the settlement. If mom had gone on that trip, she would have returned to a dead and buried child. The place we lived had no telephone service and thus no way to anybody. Mercy’s appendix ruptured. No real hospital, emergency service or transportation added to the predicament. They tried to get her to the little clinic in Malima but had to walk. My sister died on the way. All that Mom could do was to embrace her dying thirteen-year-old daughter and cry. Nobody could take her dead child from her.

I blamed the death on the senseless war that made us stayed in that remote village and I cursed everything that wasn’t right that day. My mother was watched because everyone feared she might harm herself.

* * *

11

CAUGHT IN AN ATTACK

Sierra Leone’s border with Liberia was officially closed, but that did not prevent some rebels from crossing into Sierra Leone. Liberian rebels sold stolen items like cars, televisions, computers, building materials, machineries, and appliances to Sierra Leonean soldiers at prices way below market value. The soldiers became more involved in self-profiteering and less concerned about protecting their border. They transported the goods to Freetown and enriched themselves from the sales. Although Liberian refugees in the area cautioned, the soldiers did not listen. “We, the Sierra Leone Army are well trained, unlike your soldiers back home. We will destroy anyone who tries to fight us in no time. One of us is equivalent to ten of your soldiers,” they mocked. That was yet to be tested. As “pride goes before a fall,” so does greed before destruction. The frequency of rebels crossing into Sierra Leone increased and so did espionage. Rebels discovered the soldiers’ strongholds and vulnerabilities and studied their soon-to-be prey’s habits. Sierra Leone soldiers thought friendship with the rebels would prevent any kind of fighting. Nobody knew then that the country’s rebel leader, Foday Sankor, was trained in Libya during the same time Liberia’s Charles Taylor was. Friendship between both notorious men became a huge negatively impact on their countries. Sankor’s Revolutionary United Front (RUF) rebels gathered on the Liberian side of the border in preparation to invade and unseat President Joseph Momo, who was then president of Sierra Leone. It was agreed that Charles Taylor’s more experienced fighters would lead the invasion, captured and secured many territories until RUF soldiers became comfortable and ready to take charge of the fight.

On March 23, 1991, about a month after Mercy’s death, I was at the border when the attack happened. I had gone with Ethel to sell oranges. Every Saturday, folks from far and near brought their produce and other items to sell at the weekly event. We arrived the night before and stayed at a friend’s place. It was still a bit dark outside, probably about 5:00 a.m., but the open-air market was already buzzing with activity. Old, dusty vehicles brought more people and goods. You wouldn’t believe some of those vehicles actually moved. If you were a pedestrian and saw an old rumbling machine they called car coming downhill, it was best to step into the bushes until the smoke and dust cleared. Many vehicles in the area had no brakes and I doubted drivers had licenses to operate their rusty and out-of-control beasts. They drove like blind men. Some vendors had already placed their goods on the stalls; others were hauling their goods from a big storage building in wheelbarrows and carts. Others simply flung bags of produce over their shoulders, on their backs and heads, and hurried along. An Imam’s voice cried out for prayer in a distance. Many Muslims lived in the community. I always loved going to the market. It was a change of scenery from the same old boring and routine lifestyle in the refugee community. I volunteered to walk the many miles every time. “The market is a place to feed your eyes,” an old man always said. As I pushed a wheelbarrow full of ripe yellow fruits, Ethel followed closely. Her neck shrunk under the weight of the bag she carried on her head. “Be careful, or you might get lost,” she said. I slowed down. The wheelbarrow tilted to the side and I struggled to keep it straight. Strong hands reached out and prevented it from falling. I looked up into the smiling face of a Sierra Leonean soldier. “That is too heavy for you,” he said, and was lost in the crowd before I could thank him. Then it began. The sky lit up and what looked like ball of fire flew overhead. It struck a hut where the soldiers usually gathered. The explosion echoed in the early dawn. Time froze as I tried to take in the situation. But that was not enough for my mind to process what was happening around me. More rockets came, pushing away darkness and creating an inferno. Bright red explosions continued. Buildings collapsed. Particles flew everywhere. Vehicles burned. Bombs fell into

the crowds of market goers, leaving them dead or critically wounded. Confused town folks ran from their houses naked or in pajamas. It was a scene of total anarchy. Sierra Leone soldiers at the border tried to quickly organize but any gathering dispersed immediately as rockets were targeted at groups. Military vehicles went up in flames. We scrambled for cover. Then almost as suddenly as it started, the heavens stopped raining down fireballs. Dead bodies lay on the ground. Those of us still alive were either flat on the ground or hid behind whatever structures remained standing. The only sound came from people weeping or shouting in fear or pain. “The worse has ed,” I thought. “It is over now.” But that was only the beginning. Revving engine on the Mano River Bridge that connects Liberia to Sierra Leone caught my attention. A jeep with a heavy machine gun mounted on top approached. More rebels ran alongside. They opened fire. Bullets flew in every direction. We jumped up and ran. Rebels who had used canoes to cross the river came out of the bushes. They fired at anything moving: soldiers and civilians, men, women, and children. Fusillade of bullets ricocheted around us. Gunshots sounded like a bowl of pop corn in a microwave. We ran like crazy away from the rebels and the border. It was the only way to escape the onslaught. Men strategically placed on hilltops overlooking the escape route fired bullets that crisscrossed through the dawn. Ethel still held my hand and pulled me along. Somewhere along the way she lost her grip and we drifted apart in the crowd. I just ran with the other people since everyone was going in the same direction. Some tall bushes not far ahead and on the outskirts of town could provide cover. Nevertheless, getting there was very dangerous. We had to first get over a hill and exposed ourselves to more shooters. I stepped on a loose stone halfway up and fell. Gravity dragged me back downhill. A man who ran beside me took the bullets that supposed to have been mine. He fell, slid back down and stopped against my half-raised body. I tried getting up but remained rooted in fear. Still on my hands and knees, I watched the man struggle for breath. There was a hole in his head and what looked like brains came out where the shot may have exited. Blood oozed from his head and gushed from his neck. In a futile attempt and with fearful wide eyes, he grabbed

his neck with both hands to stop the bleeding. Then he gave one violent jerk before he lay still. I found the strength to finally get up and ran while expecting to be hit at any time. No bullet touched me. I shouted Ethel’s name but she was nowhere close. We came out of the bushes and got onto to the dusty car road leading to Malima Junction. Disconnected family called out as loud as they could in case the others were closed by. The crowd of several hundred people would suddenly begin to run because somebody did. On the way, I saw my mom and Ethel. No one could have ed them without noticing since they were the only two going in the opposite direction, toward the fight. Mom was wearing that same look of despair I first saw when Mercy died, and I could not have missed the sound of her crying like a wounded animal left alone to die. Mom found Ethel the same way she had found me. When she heard how we got separated, she grabbed Ethel by the hand and pulled her along. Some people may think I was lucky to cheat death that day. I believe that luck had nothing to do with it. It was a miracle.

* * *

12

WALK TO SAFETY

We went back to the refugee community at the junction. Everyone else was gone, but Uncle Belh stood by the road waiting in case we went back home. They too had woken up that morning to distant sounds of gunshots and bombs and knew it was time to move on. We ed the never-ending crowd of people weighed down with bags and bundles of whatever possession they managed to grab from their homes. We walked all day and rested in a little town at night. Two trucks filled with Sierra Leonean soldiers ready for combat headed toward the border. The crowd cheered them on. “Do not worry, you will be returning to your homes by tomorrow!” One of the soldiers shouted and drew even louder applause. Some became confident in the soldiers’ abilities. They decided it was unnecessary to go farther and wanted to stay in that town until it was safe to return to their homes. We knew better. To us Liberians, expecting a quick end to rebel war was tried and proven to be wrong. Unlike in coup plots when presidents are directly targeted and the fights are contained within a specific location e.g. an executive building (a presidential mansion), rebel wars are scattered all over the country and far from the targeted person’s location. Rebel wars affect common people more than they do a government. We had been refugees for over a year already and situations back home had worsened dramatically. We knew that everybody needed to keep walking, but did not know how to tell the crowd of citizens that already blamed Liberians for the war in Sierra Leone. Anything we said could easily be misconstrued and our lives endangered even more. We took our bags and moved on. Hours down the road, sound of gun battle erupted anew. There was no doubt the rebels were getting closer. Those that stayed behind discovered that their decision was prematurely made. It

wasn’t long before the same military trucks once filled with confident soldiers returned from the frontline with only a handful of wounded and pale-faced men. The trucks sped ed like they were being pursued. All of us started to run again. Late evening of the second day on the road, we came to the Moa River and got in line to get on the ferry that was used to cross to the other side. The boat operator stopped people from entering after I got on. The ferry was already overloaded. Mom and the others waited the boat’s return. When we got across, I waited in the shade of a tree. A man who had his head bowed sat few paces away from me. Many people rested along the bank of the river. The ferry returned later with Mom and the others, but also with a group of soldiers who appeared to be looking for someone in the crowd. They headed toward the tree I sat under. I wanted to get up and leave but that was considered very unwise during the times of our senseless wars. Many rebels and soldiers equated fear to guilt. The soldiers surrounded and questioned the man whose head until then remained bowed. “Get up! Get up!” A soldier shouted at the man as he aimed his rifle and fired. The explosion echoed and the man fell. That became the second time somebody was killed next to me and both deaths came as the results of shots to the head. For many days, I had nightmares of gunmen chasing after me, or that of a man with frighten wide eyes and bloody face grabbing his neck and struggling for breath.

* * *

13

HOLD YOUR NOSE AND DRINK

We left the Moa River in a hurry, and walked for more days. Every time we tried to rest, another round of fighting woke us up. The rebels met no major resistance and so they kept advancing. Our only option was to keep walking until we got to Freetown. Food was the least of our worries; clean drinking water was everything. When we got to a deserted village and saw a well, everybody literally ran to get a drink. The one who reached it first dropped a bucket made from the inner tube of a tire into the pit. She pulled it up using the rope attached to the handle and came out with nothing. “It is dry,” She said and walked away. The crowd slowly dispersed. With my lips bruised, tongue stuck to the upper palate and a lump in my throat, I did not want to walk away without trying for myself. I wasn’t alone on that thought. A man picked up the tube bucket and dropped it back down the well. He twirled the rope many times to let the bucket move around and waited a little while before pulling the container out. Then he looked in, hesitated and frowned. I stretched my neck to see what the problem was. There were worms in the few ounces of muddy red water collected in the bucket. The guy emptied his treasure in another container and repeated the process at least half a dozen times in an effort to get enough water. Then he removed his shirt, stretched it out over an empty pan and poured the dirty water on it. The end product looked better, but still very dangerous. Tiny earthworms slithered in red mud on the shirt. Onlookers sighed. He flapped his shirt in the air a couple times to let worms and mud fall off. Then he put it back on, picked up the pan of poison, smelled it and wiggled his nose to show how disgusting it smelled. He held his nose and gulped down the water as if it was the sweetest thing on the planet. When pan and lips separated, not a single drop of water was left. The guy looked around at the many eyes that stared at him. He belched loudly and shouted, “Hold your nose and drink” before walking way.

The once solemn and edgy onlookers laughed their hearts out. An old man couldn’t stop laughing. In our debilitating circumstance, somebody found a reason to joke. Cynical or not, the joke was warranted and provided relief from our bondage of fear. Laughter calmed us, like releasing steam out from a pressure cooker. In that short moment, death seemed diminutive and irrelevant after all. Well, I still needed water and the options could not be any clearer. Drink the poison and face the consequence of sickness sometime later, or move on in hope of a miracle ahead. Choosing the lesser of two evils had become our everyday experience. Sickness some time later seemed the better choice therefore I collected some muddy water and filtered it like the guy before me. And yes, I held my nose and drank.

* * *

14

RED CROSS RESCUE

We came to a place called Bumpe. Hundreds of displaced citizens and Liberian refugees rested on the ground. A team from the Sierra Leone Red Cross Society arrived in pickup trucks and distributed among us bottles of water, loaves of bread, and sardines. No food had ever tasted better especially since we staved for a week. Better still, the team decided to transport women and kids to the next big town ahead where a school campus was used as a center for displaced people. Mom and Ethel got on the truck. I did not for a child but was determined to get on and avoid walking the next twenty-plus miles to the town. The trucks filled up quickly. Unaware to the aid workers, I climbed in after mom and squeezed in a corner. She covered me with a sheet and we drove away. We received some more food when we got to the displaced center. Uncle Belh ed us later. I must pause here and thank everyone that donates to any humanitarian organization. Do not underestimate whatever you give to charity. It helps a lot in ways you cannot imagine and your donation saves lives too. Please do not stop giving. If you must, let it be because you can no longer afford it. I also want to encourage everyone who has not yet considered ing reputable charity organizations to do so. You do not have to give a whole lot. Whatever you can spare is a lot to those who do not have. Your donation does not have to be sent to organizations overseas. You can start with your neighborhood food bank, a homeless person sitting under a bridge, anyone in need. What we can not afford is to live on without finding a way to positively affect someone’s life. Now, let’s get back to my journey. Through the journey thus far, we had no specific destination in mind. All we wanted was get as far away from the fight as possible. The more rebels advanced, the longer we walked. We spent three days on that school campus and

could have stayed even longer. However, a new kind of threat began. Truckloads of Sierra Leone soldiers arrived one morning and asked everyone out of the building. They first separated the men from the women, then the Liberian men from among their citizens. Any one of us that was old enough to carry a gun was thoroughly searched. Being old enough did not mean much since teenaged Liberian boys fell into that category. The soldiers ordered that we take off our shirts, and for those who wore long pants, to take them off as well. They checked our bodies for scars, tattoos and any other kind of marks. Indentations along the forehead, shoulder and below the knee were interpreted as marks left by constant use of military gear; combat hats, gun strap and boots. Those with scars that looked like they were caused by sharp blades or bullets and anyone with tattoo were considered to be rebels. Some among the first band of Charles Taylor’s rebels that invaded Liberia had tattoos of scorpions and cobras. In those days, tattoo was not common and was associated with rebellion or thugs. Gbaa, a Liberian man in his late forties or early fifties was interrogated for a scar on his upper arm. That was caused by a hunting accident in our village at least ten years before the Liberian war. The soldiers did not believe his explanation and wanted to take him away. Mom and Uncle Belh took the risk and pleaded for the man’s release. Uncle Belh almost got shot for that. After many threats from the soldiers, they released Gbaa but carried the others, many of whom were wrongly accused. A suspect or anyone accused of being a rebel was treated as such. He had and was given no legal representation, or there never was a trial in any court of law. It was simply the suspect’s word against the soldier’s. Punishment for rebels was immediate death. The mere fact that Gbaa was let go or that the soldiers listened to mom and my uncle was a miracle that could not be repeated. We fled the school that night for fear the soldiers would return, and continued our walk to nowhere in particular. News reached us later that some of the men arrested were killed and others locked away in prisons. We also received information along the way that a refugee camp was established near Freetown, the capital city that was at least all day and all night drive away. It was named Waterloo Refugee Camp. Getting there became our goal.

* * *

15

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

We came to some military vehicles parked by a roadside. A small crowd of refugees and citizens gathered and listened to a high-ranking military officer dressed in full combat gear. Sierra Leonean army officers beckoned more ersby to the crowd. We stopped to see what it was all about. The speaker wore Sierra Leone military uniform but spoke with a Liberian accent. Standing beside him was a boy who although too young to carry a gun, had an automatic rifle hanging from his shoulder. The weapon almost reached the ground. The kid had a striking resemblance to the speaker. Clearly, the kid was his son. The soldiers’ mission was simple. They wanted people to enlist in the Sierra Leone Army or a newly established militia group, United Liberation Movement of Liberia for Democracy, (ULIMO). ULIMO was formed by Liberian soldiers who had been driven out of the country and now found themselves refugees in Sierra Leone. The organization comprised mostly of from the Krahn and Mandingo tribes that still remained loyal to the late Pres. Samuel K. Doe of Liberia. Sierra Leone government was desperate and could use whatever help it could find. One man stepped up. “I am tired of running away from rebels,” he said. “It is time to meet those bastards face to face.” Soldiers cheered, gave the man a one hundred dollar bill and promised him more money later. The newly enlisted man asked if the soldiers could take his wife and child to the refugee camp. The man gave his wife the money. Other volunteers lined up; some just for the money. Our walk took us through other towns: Matotoka, Maboroka, and Makeni. At least fifty of us, all refugees slept in the Makeni Police Station’s parking garage for two weeks. The police and residents in the community treated us nicely.

Some offered us food, water and sleeping blankets. War had not reached that part of the country. They had only seen the destructions on TV. When news of our stay reached the Catholic Church, its brought us cooked meal every day. We rested and regained our strengths. Makeni Police ed United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) and told the commissioner about our plight. UN trucks arrived and carried us to Waterloo Refugee Camp; home to several thousand Liberians.

* * *

16

WATERLOO REFUGEE CAMP

We arrived on the Waterloo Refugee Camp late July of 1991 and stopped by the supply center to officially with UNHCR. UNHCR gave us blankets, two pots, two buckets, few plastic plates and spoons, an oil lamp, some beans, few cups of rice, a gallon of vegetable oil, and cans of sardines. Like dozens of other new arrivals who had no place of their own, we slept under open skies for several days until a piece of land was allotted us to build a shelter. Waterloo Camp was built on an old airstrip in the Kissi Town area, about twenty miles away from Freetown. It was common rumor that the airstrip was used during the Second World War when about 375,000 men and women from several African countries served in the Allied Forces. The runway divided the Camp in two halves with each half further divided into sections. Originally, there were twenty-six sections; lettering from A to Z. More land was added later because of growing population. Double letters became necessary; for example, AA, BB and CC. Blue tarpaulins with UNHCR logo boldly printed on them covered rows of sleeping tents and little mud huts that were arranged and built in military formation. Huge water tanks were strategically placed around the camp. Trucks filled them once a day. A refugee clinic treated our common illnesses free of charge. People with serious health issues were transferred to bigger hospitals in the city. We ventured into nearby bushes in search of sticks, palm thatches, ropes and other necessary items needed to build the same kind of mud home left behind at Malima Junction. UNHCR provided monthly food supply to every refugee family in the last week of each month. Although food usually ran out before the next distribution, we managed to make it last for as long as possible. Any help was greatly appreciated. Our other gratitude was based on the fact that the camp provided some amount of security unlike everywhere else we had stayed in Sierra Leone.

Considering the struggles I had endured, even back home in Liberia, any one may think camp life should have been no big deal for me. It was. It was a huge setback and that agitated me a lot. I felt worthless and like a parasite. Time flew by. I fear that my life’s goals would never be fulfilled. Almost two years had gone by without learning. I was fed up with life in general. Frustration drove me toward insanity. I felt imprisoned; more so because everything we did involved standing in never-ending lines. Sometimes people got so frustrated they got into fistfight over very minor issues. Mom realized how troubled I was and tried to console me. Uncle Belh had few words for me. “Better control your feelings like a man before it becomes too late to do so!” He warned. So I tried to do what Uncle said—control my emotions, but failed miserably. I resulted to enduring the trauma of broken hopes and smashed dreams in silence and pretended to be just fine when around people. I was convinced that if physical death did not come sooner, we would forever remain in the hellish conditions we lived under. From whatever perspective I looked, we were doomed. Daytime tortured me with surrounding realities: we all looked at least twice their age, malnourished children, kids that should have been in kindergarten but instead carried bundles of firewood on their heads to help their struggling parents, young boys and girls lived out of control mostly because there was nothing productive to preoccupied their minds, elderly people that should have been enjoying retirement still slaved in bushes and dirt to provide for their families that would get nowhere, etc. Nighttime provided no consolation either: dark huts and tents crawled with mosquitoes, caterpillars and sometimes snakes, huts on fire because weary owners fell asleep in the middle of doing something and did not turn off homemade kerosene lamps, storms blew away tarpaulins and left families soaked in the middle of the night and there was nothing to do but wait to repair their roofs later during the day. My frustration worsened when on April 29, 1992, Capt. Valentine Strasser of the Sierra Leone Army and other officers launched a coup d’état and took control of the country. Pres. Joseph Momo fled and sought refuge in Guinea, a neighboring country. The soldiers believed that a military government would be more

aggressive and focused on defeating Sierra Leonean rebels. They named their istration the National Provisional Ruling Council, (NPRC). Freetown and its surroundings, including Waterloo, were on the edge. NPRC managed to calm the people and promised to repel RUF rebels, but the ruling council was unable to fulfill its promise. RUF responded with more attacks and advanced toward the city. I took long walks away from the camp, went into quiet bushes and listened to nature. Nature had a way of calming my nerves. During one of such occasions, I broke into tears and wept till I was spent and finally decided to let go and let God take control of my life. I took solace in attending church. If anybody could help me, it had to be God. Not only did I become a member of a refugee church called Waterloo Interdenominational Fellow, I became actively involved with the youth ministry. There, many youth became friends. I loved music even as a kid but lacked any kind of musical talent, vocal or instrumental. That however did not stop me from ing the choir just to have something else to do. Then I ed an all-boys singing group, the Gospel Chariot. My first practices were painstakingly awful even to myself but no one seemed to mind so I stuck with it. Mom was surprised when she first saw me with an acoustic guitar I borrowed from the church. “What are you doing, son?” she asked. Mom laughed when I told her my intention to sing and play the guitar. “Now, that’s the best joke I’ve heard from you in a long time,” she teased but knew and was glad that I had found a way to overcome my hurt. A next door neighbor raised chicken. She gave me a hen to keep. In a short time I built a pen of my own and added ducks to my birds. Occasionally we would take one for food. One of them got sick and before long the sickness spread and I lost everything. Mom bought and sold palm nuts and other food items in a little market some refugee women started. Ethel, my sister got married to our church pastor, Joseph Bedah and moved out. I got another hen and started over. Every morning, one of the first set of eggs it laid went missing. We realized that a big black cobra made its home in our makeshift kitchen build outside the house where I now kept the hen. Neighbors helped us kill the snake. There were lots of cashew nut trees in Waterloo Camp. The fruit came in handy

many times when we became hungry. The entire camp was also surrounded by red palm plantation. We did not have permission to harvest the ripe palm. Some refugees did anyway; the temptation was just too much for hungry people. Palm Butter, as Liberians called red palm soup became our favorite, especially since my mother sold it. In order to prepare palm butter, one has to boil ripe palm nuts until it becomes easy to remove the skins from around their kernel. Then the nuts are pounded in a mortar and with a pestle. Add a little bit of water, mix thoroughly and use a sifter to separate nuts and chaffs from the now reddish or yellowish juice. The juice is further cooked. Add meat or fish, pepper onion, salt and other seasoning you desire and wait till the soup become thick. Voilà, palm butter soup is served with rice, fufu or farina. C’est délicieux. Bon appétit. A woman happened to discover certain part of a swarm land where there were lots of snails. Soon, snails became common meat for refugees. They were dried, broiled, boiled, roasted, baked, and in any other possible way to cook something. The question was no longer what’s for food today, but how is it prepared? With time, I learned how to carry a tone and was appointed to lead some songs in the all-boys singing group. Those who never knew me before thought I was a very talented vocalist all my life. Even the guys were surprise but happy for me. One of them, Anthony became one of my closest friends. We visited each other regularly. I sold bundles of sticks especially to anyone willing to pay in cash. I would leave camp early in the morning; walk many miles in order to find the right kinds and sizes necessary. Then I cut them down, tied them in bundles and carried the sticks on my head and shoulders, waddling through swamps and sometimes crossing rivers. It was usually late evening when I got back to the camp. I did that for many months but quitted because the price was not worth the sacrifice. The civil war in Liberia raged on. Mud huts and tents needed constant repairs; building materials became very scarce. Many transitioned into building with dirt bricks. I thought that molding bricks would be easier since there was no need to leave camp for that. A carpenter made me three molding frames. The first frame was designed to make single bricks. The other, double bricks and the third frame produced three bricks at a time. I dug up piles of red earth, collected straws and water and mixed them together to form the mortar. Then with the frames, I made as many bricks as I possibly could and left them to dry in the sun. Straws prevented the mortar from

falling apart. Yet the money was never worth it. What I got was excruciating pain in my back and shoulders from all the lifting and digging. Each day brought its own set of challenges and disappointments but I now had friends, church and a bible to give me courage. Life has a way of throwing all kinds of stuffs at people. Sometimes they hit so hard our situation becomes unbearable. I have come to realize that what really count are not the stuffs we face, but rather how well we handle the situations. So I promised myself to not give up. Yes I was beaten, battled, broken, and bruised. I was knocked down many times and occasionally knocked out but I changed my mental approach and decided to look for something good in every given situation, even if infinitesimal and capitalize on it. Every setback now became an opportunity for a comeback. You see, the battles of life are not over until you breathe your last breath. Since I had more than one breath left, that made me a candidate for success. The only positive thing I realized was a newly established refugee school that offered classes up to six grade level. We left Buchanan toward the end of my eight grade school year and it was now four years since we fled Liberia. Still, I enrolled in the primary school and repeated six grade. As crazy as it was, I just wanted a sense of purpose. After receiving new exercise books, pens, and some study materials, I contemplated dropping out but did not. Refugee Primary School occupied an area that was no larger than five thousand square feet. Three rectangular shaped buildings constructed like our homes completed the school. Except blackboards placed on stands like drawing canvases, everything else was built by students. Even our benches were made by driving larger sticks into the ground and tiring smaller ones across. They were so uncomfortable we sat on our books or brought cardboards from home. The floor was dirt. Once again UNHCR blue tarpaulins covered the buildings. Tarps kept rain out but absorbed so much sun ray our classrooms felt like ovens. Most teachers did not receive proper training. Many were not even high school graduates. The lessons were below my standard; therefore I scored excellent grades and won the respect of many teachers and students. Whenever there was an occasion or when visitors from humanitarian agencies came, Principal David Gotomo and his teaching staff selected me to give a speech on behave of the students. School year drew to an end and so did my platform. At the end-of-year celebration,

delegations from the United Nations came to visit. I raised my hand at an opportune time to ask the delegates. “What becomes of us after we graduate sixth grade? Do we go back to doing nothing? Is there a way United Nations can help us continue our education in Sierra Leone schools?” Camp leaders also pleaded for higher study opportunities. Sierra Leone government agreed to accept us in its schools and UNHCR provided the sponsorship. Many of us attended Peninsula Secondary School, several miles away from the camp. Books and uniforms were provided. I was finally settled. We walked to and from school everyday but despite fatigue, it was exciting. I scored good grades and remained at the top of my class every year. Life was worth living again.

* * *

17

MILITIA AMONG US

Sierra Leone’s Revolutionary United Front (RUF) rebels now operated without the help of Charles Taylor’s men. They captured many diamond fields and spread throughout the country. Although their progress toward the city was met with heavy resistance from the Liberian militia (ULIMO), the Sierra Leone Army and other tribal militia groups in Sierra Leone like the Kamajo, RUF remained a serious threat. ULIMO, formed in June 1991 had grown into an unstoppable force. Its leader then was Raleigh Seekie, previous deputy minister of finance in the late Pres. Samuel Doe’s istration. The Movement cleared and secured the main road leading to the Liberian border by September 1991, just three months after it was established. Then its men entered Liberia and fought their way to Monrovia. With ULIMO fighters being refugees who were tired of living in exile, the camp was not free of militia. Many of them had families on camp and occasionally came by to visit. Sometimes they arrived on camp in military vehicles and with weapons on special recruiting missions. However, the United Liberation Movement of Liberia for Democracy was not so united. It became plagued with internal division. In 1994, of the Mandingo tribe broke away and formed their own branch called ULIMO K. K for its new leader, Alhaji G. V. Kromah. The other branch, now completely Krahn-based became known as ULIMO J. The letter J represented its leader’s name, Roosevelt Johnson. Raleigh Seekie was no longer head of the Movement. It was not a healthy breakup. from both sides fought and killed each other in a gun battle. The separation affected the relative peace we enjoyed in the camp since families from both sides that lived there lost love ones. of both tribes almost started another war in the refugee camp. By some miracle we narrowly avoided the tragedy it could have led to but

men from both ULIMO groups clashed every time they met.

* * *

18

KIDS TELL THEIR STORIES

On my way to visit Anthony, I saw a group of people gathered under a large cashew nut tree on camp. A church elder sat before the group. He presided over an open counseling session. Refugees usually told stories about painful experiences in the war. It helped them alleviate the trauma. However, I had never seen one that involved kids. After prayer and a short encouragement, the elderly man gave an opportunity for people to tell their stories. Below are the ones that moved me the most. My hope is that I have managed to portray a token of how those kids felt. The first speaker was a boy. He had his head bowed the whole time he spoke. This is his story:

It was night. We had just gone to bed when suddenly, the front door crashed in. I heard voices of men shouting from the hallway, and peeped through my slightly opened door just in time to see them banging on my parents’ door. The man in front of the group covered his face with a mask. Mom and dad refused to open their door so they broke in. I crawled under my bed. Mom and Dad shouted for help and begged to be left alone. One of the men asked. “Where is your son?” His voice sounded familiar, but I could not quite tell who it was. “I told you he went to his grandmother’s house,” my father said. Then feet steps came toward my room and pushed the door open. They entered. Still under my bed, I could see them moving around. The men left when they did not find me but took my parents away. I have never seen mom and dad since. It has been two years now.

The kid cried and the elder put a hand around his shoulder. It was quiet. A little

while later, the second boy spoke:

I was twelve years old when it happened. We were playing outside in the village late one evening. We heard and saw a truck speeding toward us. Armed men on the truck started shooting. Gunshots flew everywhere, and we ran. They pursued us. One of the men grabbed my shirt and pulled me down. I fought to be free, but he dragged me to a truck, tied my hands behind and my feet together. The guy threw me in the back of a truck where other boys my age, tied in the same way waited. The armed men took us away. We drove all night and finally came to a small town where they had a training camp for small soldiers. They threatened to kill anyone who tried to run or who refused to do as commanded. One kid ran and they shot him. I was scared. Two days later, they brought me a man to kill. His hands and feet were tied. He cried and begged. They gave me a gun and told me to shoot the man but I refused. The commander tied a piece of cloth on my face so I could not see anything. Then he ordered again and slapped me several times. He threatened to kill me if I did not obey him. The gun was too heavy. The commander helped me lift the weapon and pointed it in the direction of the crying man. It fired and the man stopped crying. The commander and his men clapped. He said that I was a real man now, but my hands and feet could not stop shaking. Someone removed the cloth from my face. I saw the man on the ground; his shirt soaked in his own blood. They took me inside and gave me some food. I stayed with them for a long time and did what I was told. Then they stopped watching me. I ran away, walked all day until I came to a river where a fisherman helped me cross.

A girl spoke next.

My father left us when I was still a baby; therefore I grew up with my mother alone. One night, two men with guns came to our house. They put me in a corner, said that if I moved they would kill me and grabbed my mother. She screamed and fought the men as they ripped her clothes off. Since mama would not stop screaming, one of the men hit her on the head with his gun.

She fell down and fainted. The men looked at each other. Then they knocked me down and tore my clothes. One man held me down as the other climbed over me.

The girl sobbed. There was not one person with a dry eye. The elder tried stopping her but she continued.

Then they raped me and when they were done, went away. I crawled to my mom, tried to wake her up but she never moved. Mom was dead.

I had had enough and started to leave when the next kid started.

Rebels attacked and captured our village. They took me with them and made me wash their clothes and run errands. Three months later, another group attacked and took over the place. When the new group heard my story, they took me to a church where many people sought refuge. The family I live with now took me in and brought me to Sierra Leone. I do not know where my parents are.

At the end of each narration, the elder comforted the speaker however best way he could. Every person was different and the elder struggled not only to find the right thing to say, but to hold back his tears. An older guy, probably about eighteen years old, raised his hand to speak. He shook with emotions. “Take your time,” the elder coaxed. After a little while the boy still found it difficult to speak. “Maybe next time,” the elder said. “You do not have to say anything today and know that I am always here whenever you are ready.”

“I am ready,” the boy said quietly:

Our parents died a long time ago. I took care of my little brother all by myself for five years. I spent all day in the market transporting heavy loads in a wheelbarrow to provide for us. Many times we slept under tables in the market. When the fight reached Monrovia, my brother and I got arrested by some fighters. For no reason they decided to kill one of us and let the other go. No amount of pleading could change their minds. “Decide who between you two will die” one man said. When we did not, he decided for us by using a coin. He said I was the head and my brother the tail. “The person whose side faces up will live.” He said with no emotion.

The kid paused for a long time before he continued.

The man flipped the coin and let it fall to the ground. Head was up so he told me to go. I could not leave my brother. He clung unto me. “It is time to see blood,” the man said and fired.

He stuttered the rest of the way.

My brother’s blood was all over me as I held his body. The rebels said it was my lucky day. They told me never to forget my brother because he was my sacrifice. Then they drove away.

Even the elder let his tears come freely. He put an arm over the boy’s shoulder and like the other times looked for the right words. At last, he managed to say, “God will heal your broken heart, son.”

With that the boy jumped up and shouted. “No he will not! He will not!” Then he continued:

Where was God when I needed Him? Why did He not stop the rebels from killing my brother? What was He doing when our mother died, and our father too? Did He let them die so that in the end, He can heal my broken heart?

He walked away crying. Like statues we found ourselves unable to move. Finally the elder ran after the kid and threw his arms around him. At first the boy fought to break but could not get out of the older man’s embrace. Then he succumbed, buried his face in the elder’s neck. They clutched to each other and wept shamelessly. I walked away, angrier then I’ve ever been. Time will never efface that scene from my memory. Sometimes, even the right words become inadequate to touch peoples’ hearts. When that happens, a show of genuine comion and the power of touch will prevail. Don’t just say how sorry you are; show how sorry you are. I still cannot stop thinking what became of those kids. Did they overcome their hurts, or did the hurts overcome them? Only God knows. Stories of such brutalities are common to many Liberian children. Some even had it worse, the reason for which they took arms and fought the war they did not understand.

* * *

19

REPATRIATION TO LIBERIA

In early 1995, Sierra Leonean rebels captured towns that were only ninety-one miles away from the capital. The Sierra Leone Army could not stop RUF renewed progression so the NPRC government hired mercenaries from a South African-based group called the Executive Outcome. That effort failed. The government also contracted a small group of fighters from ULIMO to help but that was not enough to quell RUF operations. Situation back home had improved. A Liberian National Transitional Government (LNTG) made up of of the different warring factions in the country, but headed by a civilian was put in place. Many thought that would bridge the divide and ensure an end to the civil war. We thought so too and decided that after five years of living in exile and with RUF rebels that close to the camp, it was time to return to Liberia. UNHCR announced voluntary repatriation. Hundreds rushed to take advantage of the opportunity before it was too late to do so. Uncle Belh ed the family and we prepared to leave Sierra Leone. Ethel and her husband decided it was in their best interest if she went with us to assess living conditions. As a church pastor, he did not want to leave when other of his congregation stayed. On April 3, 1995, we boarded buses that came to take us to the seaport where a ship named REMVI waited. Friends and neighbors not yet decided to leave Sierra Leone or still awaiting their departure date escorted us to the port. As we drove out of Waterloo Camp, I tried to for the length of my stayed in Sierra Leone. All I got was a plastic bag of clothes, half of which was Peninsular Secondary School uniform. The most important thing I had was the school transcript that may or may not be accepted in Liberia.

There were other reasons to be discouraged. Beside my little sister’s death in Sierra Leone, two more had died in Liberia. Dorothy, Mom’s first child who did not leave the country died during childbirth. Tetee, another sister got sick and ed. We had no information about Randall and William. Nobody knew if they were dead or alive. Paye was alive and well. He even went to see us in the refugee camp but returned to Liberia. We heard that he still lived in Gardnersville and occupied one of the two little houses Dad built. The other house was set on fire and burned by people who hated us for simply being from the Krahn tribe. When we sailed away from the dock hours later, I wasn’t so sure anymore that our decision to return home was a wise one. There was no guarantee the relative peace in Liberia would last. of all the major fighting groups had converged in Monrovia and they still clung to their guns.

* * *

20

REINTEGRATION

Our ship reached Monrovia on the third day. We gathered on deck, watched heavy-heartedly and braced ourselves for the unexpected as we got closer to shore. Even from sea we could tell how different the country was. Structures of damaged buildings that once stood tall and brightly painted now silhouetted against the early morning skyline. Entire homes were brought down. The once busiest West African port resembled ships’ graveyard. Nigerian ECOMOG gunboats met and escorted us to dock. The peacekeeping soldiers looked unfriendly. Aid workers, pickup trucks and buses belonging to Liberian Red Cross Society waited to assist us. When we disembarked REMVI, those among us who had nowhere to live were transported to camps for displaced Liberians. The rest of us who had specific destinations boarded the other vehicles. Uncle Belh decided to Paye in Gardnersville. Mom wanted to stay in the heart of the city. One of her closest relative offered to let us stay in their little apartment until we found a place of our own. We drove out of the port. What we saw was no surprise, yet shocking. Signs of war showed everywhere. Burnt-down buildings, countless bullet holes in walls, empty cartridges in the streets, pieces of cloth hung from windows of ruined government and private buildings, homeless men, women, and children lined the roads and begged for money to buy food, bushes grew along the roadside, trash everywhere, bad roads and bridges, etc. Generators right outside nearby shops could only mean there was no electricity and a long line of people at one nearby water well was a sign that plumbing was not in service. The physical destructions I recognized in ten minutes of observation thus far were unbearable. How much more was the unseen devastation? I shut my eyes briefly and let the scenes sink into my heart and mind. Whatever the case, I was back in my country and had to accept the reality of what we had become. That was something I must get use to.

My eyes were still close when our bus slowed and stopped in a traffic jam. Vendors swarmed the vehicle in no time with cold water and food items in coolers, pans, and buckets they carried on their heads. After what seemed like eternity staying at one spot, we started to move slowly. Somebody across the road caught my attention. A kid who appeared to be no more than fifteen, possibly with post-traumatic stress disorder shouted at nobody in particular. Our eyes met. He reached into his shirt with one hand, pulled it out and formed a pistol-like hand. He pointed it at me, shut an eye and mouthed the sound of a gun being fired twice; making sure to yank his hand back with each sound as if caused by the impact. Then he smiled broadly. I did not find that funny. We drove on bad roads, ed more destructions and finally arrived at our destination, a one-bedroom apartment with a tiny living room, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Belh Moore. The man shared the same first name with my uncle. His family also lived in the refugee camp in Sierra Leone but returned to Liberia a couple of years earlier. We slept on the living room floor with their four kids. The apartment was built right outside the Barclay Training Center (BTC), a military barrack that became a stronghold for my tribe. Many Krahn people preferred living close by during those times. They found safety in the abilities of their own that even though only remnants of the Arm Forces of Liberia, still occupied the place. BTC was never captured in all the wars despite of being surrounded and attacked numerous times by Charles Taylor and Prince Johnson’s combined forces. Whenever there was a new round of fighting, people in the area, predominantly Krahn took refuge within the walls of the barrack. After staying with the Moore family for a month, my mother and my sister rented a one-bedroom apartment in an overcrowded old one-story concrete house. A narrow hallway connected by a door at the ends ran through the middle of the ten bedrooms home. Each side mirrored the other and there was no living room. It was stepping directly from a bedroom into the hall. The owner intended to build another story on top, so the roof was solid concrete. There was no kitchen, plumbing or AC unit. In fact it lacked electricity. It got so hot in the clustered little home that occupants preferred sleeping on the roof under open sky. Barely anyone stayed inside at night. The building was constructed on swamp land. With a little rainfall, one had to wade in muddy puddle. Heavy downpour almost called for a canoe ride. Mosquitoes and croaking frogs made it difficult to sleep. Yet it was better to be under a roof, if I must call it so, than to have no place at all.

I moved in with my older brother Samuel and four other guys. They rented a studio on the lower floor of a huge building on Capitol Hill. That too was close to the military barrack and a short distance away from the Executive Mansion, home to Liberian presidents. The house we lived in used to be one of the best in the city. It was built in a high profile government residential neighborhood and was an oceanfront property too. However, there was nothing fancy about the house anymore that the war had messed everything up. Electricity was rationed in the area perhaps because it was in the vicinity of the Executive Mansion. We receive power supply once or twice a week. At least the structure was available and we made great use of the opportunity. Homeowners refused to renovate their properties for one of two reasons; they had no money to repair their homes (especially since inflation quadrupled in those times), or they feared the war was not yet over. Under such conditions, any expenditure would be wasted. We were students, had no job and were no strangers to several days of hunger.

* * *

21

WILLIAM V. S. TUBMAN HIGH SCHOOL

Paye helped pay the fees for me to take the William V. S. Tubman High School entrance examination. T High, as the school is commonly called was the most prestigious government institution known for producing excellent students. That too was something of the past. I was at first very nervous in the full-to-capacity testing hall. It took me about an hour to complete the test and was glad that it wasn’t as difficult as my brother said it would be. Two weeks later, test result was posted. Those whose names were not on the list failed. My name was at the top of the list. I scored the highest mark in both Mathematics and English tests. Paye was glad to hear that. Enrollment process was quick and simple and I started school sooner than expected. I still did not have the necessary books and uniform: a white shirt, long maroon tros, and a pair of black shoes. However, nobody was required to wear the uniform the first week. On day one we gathered in the assembly hall for a welcome address from Principal Henry Momo Fahnbulleh. As I stood there in the midst of several thousand students and staff , I noticed that more than half of the students came dressed to impress. You could not miss the scent of new clothing and shiny shoes. Perhaps my stay in a refugee camp caused me to forget that many Liberians preferred to look good even if they starved. Or maybe I was too conscious of my condition that everybody else appeared better than me. My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden hush in the hall. The principal had arrived. I expected to see an old man perhaps leaning on a cane. It was such a big school that I thought a young man could not handle. On the contrary, Principal Fahnbulleh might have been in his early forties. He let his gaze fall on one corner of the hall, and then swept it to the other end as if taking in the responsibility of leading so many people for the first time. He was no rookie.

“Don’t just sit there!” He said vigorously. The hall of thousands responded at the same time, “Do something, positive!” That is T High’s slogan. Then the principal said, “To the new students, this is Tubman High, a place where brave men fight and die, and only the strong survive.” It sounded all-too military to me but that was the best way to get a message across in a war-torn country. The rest of his speech had the same tough message. In the end, he asked new students to line up according to our classes and put old students in charge of writing our names and giving us a thirty minute campus tour. We were to go to our respective classrooms after the tour. Dee, an eleven grade student whose real name I decide not to use like I have done with others where necessary was our escort. He was boisterous and enjoyed attention. The guy even had a band of followers everywhere he went. He wore the latest fashions in town, tailor-made from the finest and most expensive material available on the market. His shoes reflected the sun. In short, his clothes were more expensive than everything I owned put together. Dee handed us a sheet of paper “Here, write you names on it. Make sure it is legible,” he said egotistically. He watched me write my name. “Lawrence?” He asked as though he figured it out for himself. I nodded. “Good, now I have another slave.” He said. I was more shocked than angry. Perhaps I did not understand him well so I asked what he said. “I said, now I have another slave.” He repeated. His followers laughed. The other new students just looked around unbelievingly.

“Well, that is something we will soon find out.” I said. For the rest of that day, I consciously tried to dismiss the incident as nonessential. The last thing I wanted to do was get in a fight with somebody who may very well be a rebel and armed with a gun. Sometimes ignoring a person is all it takes to get him/her off your back. Some bullies however just won’t go away until you hit back. I did not know which one he was. Other classmates were not as unwelcoming as Dee. Yet it was quite obvious that he was the most outspoken in the class. The guy always initiated every conversation and gave the last words. He smiled contemptibly every time our eyes meet as if to say, “I am the boss here.” Throughout that week, he wore something new. I had on the same clothes. In the second week students without the proper uniform like me were asked to go home. I hid from the principal who was the main enforcer every time. He caught me on campus one day and sent me home. Dee, dressed in a brand new uniform, and his entourage were right there. He muttered the word “slave.” I had never wanted so badly to give someone a broken nose but that would get me permanently kicked out of school. I ed my uncle’s words; “There are lots of bullies in this world. If you run from them now, you will continue to run for the rest of your life.” I had had enough of that. It was time to stand up to Dee but getting into an argument was not the right way to go. If I ever wanted to beat him in anything, clothing was out of the question too. It had to be something else, something intellectual and something on campus. Perhaps excellent scores in class would do. Only, I did not know how good he was but knew how good I had to be—the best—and promised to do so. Mom saw me come home from school way too early and knew something was wrong. She gave me $10 (Liberian dollars), all the money she had when I told her I was kicked out for not having uniform. My mother bought bags of charcoal and sold them in little piles to make a profit. Charcoal business was a tough market since many women and even men sold them. $10 was not enough to buy a pair of maroon pants. All the ones I saw cost at least three times the money. I decided to use the uniform shirt I brought from Sierra Leone. It was white but Peninsula Secondary School badge was sewn on

the pocket and at the shoulder. I carefully removed them without tearing the shirt but anyone could tell what I did. Oh well. Then I dyed my very old brown pair of shoes, the only one I possessed. The dye was not enough. The end product was spotted like a leopard, only not so pretty. Again, anyone could tell it was my handiwork. And oh, the worn out heels gave me a bow-legged walk. But hey, I was not barefooted. Transportation was another thing but walking long distances was not an issue. Short cut to school was walking along the beach for nearly an hour. The following week, I went to school wearing a white shirt, brown and black spotted shoe and a blue pair of tros borrowed from my brother Samuel. My strategy for the week—get up early and be the first on campus just to avoid meeting the principal whose new habit was to stand at the gate and watch students enter. Then I hid in the bathroom to ditch assembly. Dee recognized my trick. “Hey everyone, look who’s ditching assembly,” he would say. I pretended not to hear. Saturday came around. So was my search for long maroon tros. I found one late evening of that day. It was a little short but that was my best opportunity. I was not prepared for another week of hiding. “How much does it cost?” I asked the seller. It cost $15. The guy refused to take my $10. After almost thirty minutes of begging, he reluctantly took the cash and handed me my priced item. I felt like a puppy with a bone and walked home with bounce in my steps. I washed the tro, hung it out on a line to dry sat nearby to keep watch. It wasn’t quite dry but I took it down to iron. Since there was no electricity we owned a pressing iron that used hot charcoal. When I touched the pants with the hot iron, the cloth shrunk immediately. It wasn’t completely burned but the triangular mark remained in the area on my right thigh. My brother came home later and said that the pant was sewn from a rubber-like material Liberians called Fire Burn Material.” Heat was an enemy to such material. I now understood why the seller priced it for $15 and agreed to take my $10. I wore the uniform and went to school. At least it was the right color and nobody could send me home because my uniform was old or cheap. In hot weather, the pant felt like plastic clenching to the skin and a little raindrop

penetrated the porous material but I wasn’t going to school to be a model. “Hey, fire burn,” Dee mocked when he saw me. Toward the end of my first month in Tubman High School, a classmate, also my tribesman invited me to attend a union meeting. When I asked what his union was about, he told me to come see for myself. “I know you will love it and will fit in perfectly,” he said. We went to an empty hall were it was scheduled to take place after school. A group of nearly twenty students cheered when we entered. It wasn’t long before I understood what he meant when he said that I would fit in perfectly. Everyone present was Krahn. Some even greeted me in my native tongue. Skeptical as I was, nothing political was discussed. All we talked about that day was ways to help one another succeed in school and outside the classroom. Still I thought that a union that incorporated of other tribes would be a nobler one. On my way out at the end of the meeting, the group’s leader said how glad he was to see me. “We will be glad to have you as a member of our union. But in as much as we will like to have all our tribesmen be part of this organization, we understand that not everybody want to be. In such times like ours today in Liberia, when there are enemies everywhere, even among so-called friends, it is good at least to know who’s got your back and where to go when you need help. This is not the only school with this kind of student union.” I did not go to the meeting again and no one asked me why. Even my classmate who invited me never talked about the group again. One major problem I had at Tubman High was books. The school’s library was looted and remained virtually empty. I borrowed books from some of my classmates and made handwritten and photo copies. Some of the guys called my “Photocopy.” It did not bother me since it was just a joke and they were as penniless as I was. Liberian school system is divided into six periods in each school year. By the end of first period, I had gained some respect from my fellow classmates because of good grades. After the second period examination results, Dee went cold. I already knew that he failed the previous year and was repeating the class.

One time a teacher asked me to return corrected test papers to my fellow classmates. I stood before the class and called each person to come get their test papers. Dee failed miserably, so I decided to pick on him while everybody was still attentive—time for payback. “Dee!” I screamed. He got up and walked to me slowly. I saw it coming. “45 percent score. You are going to repeat this class again if you do not study.” I said for everyone to hear. They laughed. I was not done yet. “The first time we met you called me a slave. Who’s the slave now?” I pushed it. I dropped his paper at my feet and watched him pick it up. The almighty Dee walked out of the classroom without saying a word as students tugged on his pant and shirt. Revenge felt really good, at least for a while. Then I realized the gravity of what I did. I had become a bully. This is not a role I wanted to play and hated myself for doing that. He was alone when I found him later, something unusual. The guy was near tears. “Sorry, man, I wasn’t supposed to do that. It was very wrong,” I apologized. He regained his posture and said, “I deserve that, a taste of my own medicine. Maybe I am just not cut out for school.” We remained quiet for a while until he changed the topic. Dee and I developed an unspoken respect for each other from then on. He was a money changer. Money changing in the streets of Monrovia became very popular during the war. Those involved in the business usually had connections with a bank manager or someone with higher authority. The manager basically took money from different s usually by illegal mean and handed the cash to someone trustworthy who converted the funds to different currencies. They manipulated the exchange rates and made huge profits. Broad Street, the major city street was lined with money changers whose offices were nothing more than sitting stools under umbrellas. The Liberian National Transitional Government (LNTG) was too divided to fix

anything. Its cared more about their own ambitions than anything else. Corruption continued to be the order of the time within the government and many organized institutions. Tubman High was no exemption. Not only were teachers poorly paid, their salaries were never given on time. With families to care for, teachers took bribes and found other ways to take money from students. They lectured less and gave what they called “research or homework exams.” Each student was forced to pay money when turning in his/her work for grading. Refusal to pay the stipulated price was an automatic failure even if the student answered all the questions correctly. Other teachers simply asked for the money and gave no assignments at all. Liberia’s Ministry of Education was barely functional. School principals and teachers stuck by each other in their evil enterprise and students feared that reporting a teacher would only get them in more troubles. My teachers knew that I could not afford their highly priced research exams. Most times they accepted my papers without the fees because I was a good student. However, our chemistry teacher did not care. He told me that other students had financial difficulties also but found ways to make the payments. The next time around, he gave everybody the option of taking the test in class. Everybody else preferred the research exam but me. I was the only student who agreed and sat the test in class. His test questions were drawn from topics he had ever lectured on. One of my friends bailed me out. She paid $150, twice the price everybody else paid.

* * *

22

CRISIS

I adjusted to life in a lawless war torn and probable postwar environment. I said probable because we still feared anything could set up another round of fighting but hoped that would not be the case. That hope was short-lived. Whatever relative peace we experienced deteriorated in the middle of the school year. The transitional government failed. A fight at the home of ULIMO J’s leader, Roosevelt Johnson left one man dead. Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah, leaders of NPFL and ULIMO K demanded Johnson to turn himself over to the Justice Department on murder charge. Johnson refused to do so, especially since the Justice Department at that time was controlled by Charles Taylor, his archenemy. The ULIMO J leader said that he would not surrender himself to people who had fought against him for many years and wanted him dead. He thought the Justice Department to be incapable of rendering any form of justice and claimed the episode at his home was a setup to get him killed. Johnson likened surrendering to Charles Taylor’s controlled Justice Department to the entrapment meeting that led to the late President Doe’s death at the Freeport of Monrovia. Taylor asked the West African Peace Keeping Force to bring Johnson in. When some ECOMOG soldiers from the Nigerian contingent went to arrest Johnson, ULIMO J’s men refused them entry and responded with threats. The deadlock continued for several days. Many Liberians, especially of the Krahn ethnic group, found ECOMOG hard to believe after the peacekeeping soldiers’ role in the formal president’s death. In addition to that, ECOMOG was involved in countless double standard deals that helped exacerbate Liberia’s conflict. Another round of fighting was imminent and no civilian could stop it. Tension built up fast among ers from all sides. People argued among themselves in market places, at street corners, job sites, internet cafés, schools etc. My class seemed to be in the midst of it all. The argument was so heated in class at one

time it almost ended in a fistfight. Our teacher arrived in time to prevent the fight. He asked if anyone wanted to share his or her opinion before the class pertaining to Roosevelt Johnson’s surrender and trail. Debate and public speaking are two of T. High’s strengths. You can count on its students to readily express their opinions about any given subject at any place or time. So when the teacher asked for opinions, hands went up instantly. Just like in every part of Liberia, there were two opinions right from the start—those for Charles Taylor and those against Charles Taylor. I sat back and listened to my classmates speak their minds. The Liberian society became one in which nobody cared to listen to his or her opponent or to find common grounds to solve problems. Our so-called leaders created extreme viewpoints and propagated them for their own political ambitions. People held onto those views that divided us more and destroyed the entire nation. So in my class that day, the most aggressive and most outspoken students from both groups spoke not to reason, but to prove the opponent’s ideology wrong. Substance was lacking in their argument and so was order. It became more of a shouting match. Even with the teacher present, they still interrupted each other. At last, one person was selected to speak for his group. I am asg different names to the speakers. Let’s say that Jim spoke for those in favor of Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah and Tom, the classmate who invited me to a student meeting when school first began, represented the group that ed Roosevelt Johnson. Below is my worded version, a summary if you will, of what I gathered from their argument.

CHARLES TAYLOR AND ALHAJI KROMAH ERS’ ARGUMENT

JIM: We now enjoy relative peace because of the agreement to have the Liberia National Transitional Government. These leaders have decided to work together to bring about peace and security. Each of the council’s representatives heads a particular branch of government for the good of the nation. If they cannot hold up the laws of the land and submit to each other, what then is the use of working

together? This is a new day, people. The Liberian law requires murderers to go to trial, and the constitution tells us that no one is above the law. Johnson is accused of murdering a man. He must be judged, period. There is no other way around this. He will be given the chance to prove himself innocent. If he refuses to surrender himself to justice, the others have the right to arrest him. This is the kind of stubbornness from Krahn people that causes us to fight every time. Well, that last sentence caused a new round of commotion that threatened to put an end to whatever civility the instructor tried to impose. More time was spent calming down everyone. Finally, the speaker of the second group presented his argument.

ROOSEVELT JOHNSON ERS’ ARGUMENT:

TOM: Let me establish this one thing first. A body found in front of Roosevelt Johnson’s house does not mean Johnson himself killed the person. So no one can charge him for that. Now, with that said we can proceed. This is clearly a setup to get Johnson killed. He will simply be walking to his grave if he acts stupidly and turns himself in to the so-called Justice Department. President Doe thought he was doing the right thing by attending a reconciliation meeting held under the auspices of the very ECOMOG forces that are trying to arrest Roosevelt Johnson today. We all know the story. ECOMOG made a deal for Prince Johnson to capture Doe. Instead of being a peacekeeping force, they are more of a one-sided deal striking force. Let us not be oblivious of the lessons of history. The Justice Department, now under the leadership of Charles Taylor, is incapable of rendering any form of justice, just like Johnson said. They are all Charles Taylor rebels so what does anyone expect them to do? Everybody can clearly see Charles Taylor’s objective here.

Then he hit a low blow:

Everybody, I mean unless of course you are a Charles Taylor fool. Charles Taylor’s ers shot back at the last comment, and the class was out of control again. They shouted insults at one another. I remained seated, not wanting to get involved in the commotion. The teacher asked for my opinion. I declined. He pressed on. “What difference will his opinion make?” Jim said out loud. “He’s just another Krahn man. We all know what he thinks.” I decided to speak after all. It was supposed to be brief. I thought about kids whose lives are influenced by the negative opinions their parents and older siblings hold against other people and how many African politicians promote that kind of division among their citizens. Then there was my classmate who strongly believed that he knew my thoughts because of my tribe. I thought about the many innocent lives that were destroyed and those about to die in the pending fight that no leader wanted to avoid. I also ed the kids from Waterloo Refugee Camp; the teenage girl that was raped, the boy who watched his little brother get shot and the sight of his brother’s blood all over him. Those thoughts and more welled up in me and overflowed with a mixture of anger and sorrow that I could not control. I felt the tears coming and fought to hold them back. The room became quiet and I told them my opinion.

MY OPINION

I believe the circumstances we face go way beyond the flimsy promises of peace and solidarity these warlords give us every time, while at the same time they do nothing but promote chaos and carnage. What I just cannot understand is how we always get caught up in their lies only intended to promote their selfish ambitions, and the extent to which we take their words and kill one another. Here we are right now seething venom and ready to tear at each other’s throat. We are ready to choke the very lives out of all those who

do not agree with our opinions. Our real enemies are rebel leaders we die to protect and ready to kill for. And I mean all of them. I once heard that war changes people. On the contrary, I believe that war only brings out an individual’s real character. Those characters can be the best or the worst. For us Liberians, our worst is shown; the barbarian nature that had until then lay dormant has arisen. I thought we were better than that. Clearly, I am dead wrong. On countless occasions in the past, the warlords had promised to cease fire and work in camaraderie to bring about an end to this long civil war. In every way, they have never kept their promises. Why do we think it would be different this time? Why do we keep sucking up to them? My opinion is that no warlord should have been part of this collective presidency. The moment they became involved is the moment it began to fail. All of them must face justice for the hundreds of thousands of innocent lives destroyed, even today. They must be judged for the lives of civilians killed in their crossfire, children whose parents were snatched away from them or who died because of the wars, for the unborn babies whose pregnant mothers were killed and the ones yet to be born whose futures remain unsure. They must be judged for putting our country decades backward. Monrovia is sitting on a time bomb. Roosevelt Johnson’s going or not going to trial has nothing to do with something that will happen, with or without him. And here you are arguing which warlord is right and who is wrong. You have become so blinded that you can no longer tell the difference between right and wrong, good and evil. What has gone wrong with us? When did we stoop that low? You wanted my opinion. That is my opinion. Some of my classmates thought I was speaking the truth; others merely dismissed it as babbling of a wise fool. But that was the end of the argument that day. The remaining hours in school ed quietly as we tried to get along. By the next day, everyone returned to the usual finger-pointing and threats. Any simple meaningless comment raised hell. Liberians were possessed with anger and controlled by some overwhelming evil beyond imagination. Words like forgiveness, mercy, and tolerance for one another did not exist. Shoot and kill became the new vocabularies.

* * *

23

WAITING FOR WAR

As Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah flexed their muscles and threatened to arrest Roosevelt Johnson by force, and Johnson’s men dared anyone to come and get their leader, we waited. Everybody knew that the fight would be devastating since fighters of all the different warring factions had migrated to Monrovia. Yet the leaders who had the power to prevent the fight possessed no will or intention to do so. An evil cloud hung over us. Tension heightened as the days went by and fear showed on the faces of people in the streets. It was one of those few times in my life that I was ashamed of my nationality, of what we were doing to ourselves and for what we had become. Trying to make sense of the situation by convincing myself that perhaps some underlying good would come out of the never-ending well of evil did not help. Maybe the lives of the key players responsible for Liberia’s destruction would be wiped out in that war, I said to myself. Maybe that was going to be the final boom, the last bloodbath that would end the old rule and usher in the new world for us. Somehow, I hoped for true revolution to begin. I wished for a national uprising in which every Liberian, young and old, male and female, from every tribal and social echelon would stage a peaceful march in the city against all warring factions saying, not anymore, settle your differences without blood. Yet I knew that was only wishful thinking. Even the devil has ardent followers that are ready to carry out mayhem at any time. We were too divided then to stand together. I stopped fooling myself by pretending some underlying good would come about. Radios, televisions, and other broadcast media around the world reported about Liberia, a small African country whose leaders kill their own just to become president. I hated to come from a country where savageness pushed us to an inescapable doom. We teetered at the brink of a colossal cataclysm, bringing upon ourselves an Armageddon long before the biblical Armageddon come to . “If this war

does not take away my life,” I said quietly, “no other war ever will,” and recited the prayer that had become my favorite scripture from the Bible.

The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou prepareth a table before me in the presence of my enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the lord forever. —PSALMS 23 (King James Version)

The following morning, newspaper headlines read “Monrovia Is Sitting on a Time Bomb.” Fewer students than usual attended school on April 5, 1996, the Friday before the fight began. Toward the end of the school day, just four of us remained in class: Tom, Jim,

Jim’s friend who made it a habit of visiting him even in class, and me. We waited for the bell to ring. Our instructor left already, probably to get food for his family. Tom walked up to Jim and asked why the latter was such a strong er of Charles Taylor. Jim’s answer was blunt. “I Taylor because I could no longer bear the bullshit that was going on. We needed freedom. Charles Taylor brought the freedom fighters,” he answered. “I can see that you have been enjoying the freedom Charles Taylor brought since the war began,” Tom said. Something was unusual about the timing of that conversation. It appeared that Tom was doing everything possible to engage Jim and keep him from getting out when the bell rang. “Not yet,” Jim replied, “but we will soon be. Wait till we dispose of all the Krahn people.” The bell finally rang and the students from other classes began to leave. With the way the conversation was going, there was no doubt it wouldn’t end up pretty. I gathered my things. “You know that it is impossible to dispose of all of us Krahn people, right?” It was Tom talking now Then Jim’s friend, spoke. “Don’t waste your time arguing with Krahn people. They make me sick!” he said. The two friends got up to leave. A group of boys entered the classroom. I recognized one of them from the student union meeting. They surrounded the two friends. One of the guys who came in spoke, “You are sick and stupid to stand in public and talk about wiping out an entire tribe when you very well know that some of us are in this classroom.” Pocket knives and pistols materialized. No one cared that I was present. The two boys had no way to escape since the door was closed. I did not want to see anyone get killed.

One of the new arrivals spoke, “We have followed you closely and have reliable information that you fight for Charles Taylor. We are also aware of your plan to attack Roosevelt Johnson’s residence with some of your fighter friends. Too bad you will not see that time.” With that, he sniffed the two boys whose mouths were now covered by the others. “I can smell on you the blood of my people you killed. Now I am going to kill you too.” Knives went to their jugular veins. “Wait!” I shouted. If I did nothing to stop the aggressors, both boys would be killed. But intervening meant putting my life on the line. Yet I was not prepared to live the rest of my life carrying guilt. “Please, let them go,” I said. “For God’s sake, they are our classmates and…” Tom interrupted. “They are enemies, Lawrence. If they get the chance to kill you, they will with no remorse.” The gang leader was harsh. “We know you more than you think, Lawrence. We even got information about you; your hometown and all that.” Then he spoke in my native tongue. “There is no neutral position in this war. You are either with us 100 percent or against us 100 percent. Before you say anything else, know whose side you want to be on. Some of you left us here and fled to other countries either because you were too scared or you did not want to fight. I don’t hold that against you, but stay out of our way. Let those of us that want to fight do the fighting. The reason why some of us are still alive today is because we kept our eyes open.” He signaled for his comrades to let the boys go and continued in the English language. “This time, I will let them go. I do not even know why I am listening to you. But don’t ever forget this. The next time you stand in my way, I’ll kill you myself.”

He snarled at me and walked out the door. The other guys followed, but not until they each give me the meanest look I had ever seen. I almost peed on myself. The two boys were even more terrified. I hurried away before the guys changed their minds and return for the three of us. Saying he would kill me if I got in his way again did not sound like a mere threat, it was a promise. I decided against taking the beach road home, my usual short cut. It was too deserted and I had a creepy feeling of someone watching me. Broad Street, Monrovia’s main street was crowded as usual. Rows of brightly colored umbrellas lined the street. Under them sat money changers and shoeshine boys with their kits. They blocked most of the sidewalk for us pedestrians. A black Toyota SUV with tinted windows pulled to a stop just along the road few feet in front of me. The window rolled down and a money changer ran toward the vehicle. A face appeared from the backseat and a brief discussion. The changer beckoned a friend who came with a backpack full of money. The guy punched buttons on his calculator. The car door opened and out came a bodybuilder wearing a stretched T-shirt that looked like it was about to rip from his body anytime now. He was the bodyguard for whoever was seated in the back. Rolls of U.S. dollars ed from one hand to another. The guard tapped the vehicle, and the trunk popped open. Going past the packed vehicle on the sidewalk, I saw a pile of automatic rifles in the trunk. The bodyguard threw the money bags on the pile of guns, entered the vehicle, and they drove away.

* * *

24

THE BOTTOM FELL OUT

On Saturday, April 6, 1996, we woke up to a report of Charles Taylor’s NPFL and Alhaji Kromah’s ULIMO K rebels’ preparation to attack Roosevelt Johnson’s residence. I wanted to get to my mother’s apartment. We had talked about staying together in case there was a fight. It took me about fifteen minutes to reach mom’s apartment by way of BTC barrack. That also was an opportunity to see if barrack folks were preparing for war. Roosevelt Johnson was considered an icon to Krahn people. His capture would deal a major blow to his tribesmen and its impact would be compared to the late president’s death. That would exacerbate the fight and prompt Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah to launch an attack on the poorly armed barracks in finally take control of Krahn’s stronghold. The barrack was largely disarmed by the peacekeeping ECOMOG forces after the release from prison of another Krahn strongman, Charles Julu. Since the disarmament, a small contingent of ECOMOG soldiers kept watch over the barrack and monitored the activities of the soldiers who released Julu. Surely BTC would come to Roosevelt Johnson’s aid. All those thoughts went through my mind on my way to see my mother. The BTC gate was open, so I went through. It was quieter than usual but there was no sign of war preparation. That surprised me. Mom and my sister were home when I got there. A couple of hours ed quietly and it seemed that the report we received was incorrect. Pranksters and thieves had the habit of circulating false reports in market places to scare vendors into running. I went back home, again using the route through the barracks. Nothing had changed so I wrongly dismissed the rumor of war but planned to return to Mom’s apartment to stay the night. The other guys were home when I got back. Two of my cousins, Eric Roberts Jr., the son of Uncle Oliver Roberts who lived in Buchanan, and Segba, always visited us. Both boys fought in the war at some point but had decided to rebuild their lives. When issues of arresting Roosevelt Johnson by force came about, we

urged them to stay away from the fight. They gave us every impression that their fighting days were over and we believed it. When they did not show up at our apartment that day, I feared that they may be at involved in the standoff. It wasn’t long after I returned home that a crowd of people with suitcases and bags rushed by and headed toward the barrack. Johnson’s residence was under attack and there was news that Taylor and Kromah’s rebels were en route to launch an attack on BTC. I took my backpack and hurried back to get to mom. More people came. Redemption Road, the street that runs behind the barracks was already overcrowded. I did not understand why anybody in his or her right mind would wish to seek refuge in the center of an military attack. One of the boys from my apartment told me that it was the safest place to be. My answer was, “Yeah right.” They were not home when I got there. In fact nobody was in the neighborhood. We had no cell phones to communicate so we discussed going to Greystone Compound earlier that morning. Like me, they both agreed that seeking refugee in BTC was insane. Although not part of the secured perimeter of the United States Embassy, Greystone Compound was about one hundred and fifty yards away, the approximate of five minutes walk from the secure area. However, it was used as the Embassy’s annex. Rebels feared that launching a full-fledged attack on the compound would involve the United States government, something they tried to stay away from. The compound became a place of refuge for nearly twenty thousand civilians who counted on the American soldiers to protect them. Still it was not free of occasional stray bullets and rocket-propelled grenades. I headed in the direction of the embassy and realized that no one else was in the street. Shortly afterwards, I heard sound of vehicles approach and took cover between nearby buildings. The cars stopped ahead and armed men got down and began setting up roadblocks. They were definitely not from the barrack thus presented serious danger to me. I found my way back to BTC.

* * *

25

THE BARCLAY TRAINING CENTER

Several thousand people had already entered and more still came. I was ushered in. The once calm atmosphere in the fence that morning had quickly changed into a tense community. Excited soldiers danced around and readied themselves for war like it was some sporting event. I prayed that some unexpected miracle would stop the madness. Those with friends or relatives in the barracks moved in with them or took refuge on their porches. Some of us that knew no one picked hideouts between buildings. The military church was already filled beyond capacity with civilians who prayed and hoped that God would protect them. War has a way of drawing some people closer to God. Benches in the church were moved outside to make more room. Almost every inch of space was occupied. The attack on the barrack had not started but Johnson’s residence was under gun fire. A little while later, a convoy of vehicles filled with armed men entered the Barclay Training Center. They honked and onlookers cheered. A completely naked man stood on top of one of the vehicles. His manhood dangled as they ed me. He carried a gun in one hand and in the other, somebody’s cut-off penis and scrotum. Cool sweat ran down my spine and I uttered under my breath. “Lord, have mercy!” A smiling old man stood next to me. I asked him who the naked man was. He turned, looked at me and asked instead. “Son, you don’t know who that man is?” “No, I don’t.” I replied. Still another question, “Where have you been?”

I did not answer his second question so he answered mine. “That man with no clothes on is called Gen. Butt Naked. He is one of the fiercest fighters out there. Rumor has it that when he fights naked, he becomes invisible to the enemies and bullets do him no harm. In that convoy is Roosevelt Johnson.” The elder tapped me on the back. “Brace yourself son. It’s going to be a ‘helluva’ fight.” Then he walked away. Gen. Butt Naked’s real name is Joshua Milton Blahyi. He is a member of the Sarpo tribe and loyal to Roosevelt Johnson’s ULIMO J. Blahyi was a fierce fighter who killed many people. The guy said that he became a tribal priest at age eleven and participated in human sacrifice at that young age. He claimed to have met Satan. Blahyi said,

before leading my troops into battle, we would get drunk and drugged up, sacrifice a local teenager, drink the blood, then strip down to our shoes and go into battle wearing colorful wigs and carrying imaginary purses we’d looted from civilians. We’d slaughter anyone we saw, chop their heads off and use them as soccer balls. We were nude, fearless, drunk, yet strategic. We killed hundreds of people—so many I lost count.

Testifying before Liberia’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission in 2008, Blahyi confessed to killing, along with his men, more than twenty thousand people from 1980 to 1996. He now professes to be a pastor and is the President of End Time Train Evangelist Ministries Inc. in Liberia. According to him, Jesus Christ appeared as a blinding light and told him to repent of his sins or die if he refused. His documentary, “True Stories: The Redemption of General Butt Naked,” was produced by the Sundance Institute in 2010. A vehicle in the convoy that brought ULIMO J leader broke away and headed to the Soko Sackor Memorial Clinic in the barracks. Wounded men from his residence were rushed in to get treated. Another convoy of fighters entered BTC sometime later. This time, it was Liberian Peace Council (LPC) fighters. LPC, another rebel group founded in 1993 was led by George Boley, and was a surrogate force to the Armed Forces of Liberia. The group fought in the

southeastern part of Liberia against Charles Taylor’s NPFL to control commercial operations in rubber and timber. Again, this group was dominated by of the Krahn tribe. However, it compressed of people from other tribes that suffered losses by Charles Taylor’s men occupying their lands. LPC drew from both the Armed Forces of Liberia and Roosevelt Johnson’s ULIMO J. LPC fighters stood ready to help Johnson when it became clear the arrest would not be avoided. Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah did not seem to have taken into the possibility of LPC’s involvement especially since Boley’s men had their base far from the city. BTC was overcrowded with militias and civilians by late evening. Foreign businessmen and their families whose stores were located near the barrack also sought refugee among us. Some of them made deals with fighters from the barrack to protect their commodities from loot. I saw a woman who rented a room next to my mother’s. She confirmed that they went to Greystone. Civilians and militia looted unprotected stores and hauled bags of rice and other food items within the fence. During the Liberian 1990 war, the military barrack almost fell to Charles Taylor because food ran out and people starved. Stories of death and survival were told and retold by those who lived in the place then. Their coccyx bones jutted out like tails. One soldier told the story of how his family of four lived on a gallon of red palm oil for several days. His wife would pour the oil in a bowl for them to drink. The oil ran out and he took his bayonet, cut the empty gallon in four pieces and one to each member of his family to lick. Another guy had boxes of looted tooth paste. His family fed on that for a long time. Pets were long eaten—dogs and cats. So when the April 1996 war started, many families looted only food. Nobody knew how long the fight would last.

Starving child, 1990

I saw Segba, one of my two cousins that promised to stay out of the fight. He was armed with an automatic rifle. Unlike other fighters that danced about and chanted battle cries, the looked very distraught. The guy would not even talk to me when I stopped him. He walked away with tears in his eyes and I knew something bad had happened. “Did you see Eric?” I called after him. He stopped, turned around and between sobs said quietly. “Eric is dead.” Both boys were at Roosevelt Johnson’s house when it was attacked. Eric was shot in the fight but was helped into an escaping vehicle which came straight to the BTC. Segba, the driver of that vehicle did not know the seriously wounded fighter attended to in the back seat was his cousin Eric. He only realized it when he stopped the car in front Soko Sackor clinic and got out to help. By then, Eric was dead.

* * *

26

THE STORY BEHIND THE APRIL 6, 1996 WAR

April 6, 1996 war can be traced back to a December 28, 1995 clash between ECOMOG’s Nigerian Contingent and Roosevelt Johnson’s ULIMO J fighters in Tubmanburg, Bomi County. Each group has a different of the fight and none of them can be trusted. According to Johnson’s men, ECOMOG trucks went through their checkpoint and to ULIMO K’s controlled territory. One of the trucks filled with weapons returned empty. Johnson’s men asked to search and validate or invalidate their suspicion. Simple as the request was, that was something totally unheard of in the country. ECOMOG soldiers were never searched for anything and could go where ever they wanted with no restriction. So they refused to let the truck be checked. The argument then ensured into a gun battle and some peacekeeping soldiers got killed. News about the fight reached ECOMOG’s headquarter and reinforcement was immediately dispatched to overrun ULIMO J’s position. However, Johnson’s men had calculated that move. They set ambush several miles down the road before reaching their checkpoint. The reinforcement unit fell into the trap and lost more men and weapons, among which was a particular powerful machine gun normally used in nation-to-nation warfare. One desperate attempt after another to recapture the weapon left more ECOMOG soldiers dead. Anita Dolleh and Jusu Sirleaf, two people who saw the aftermath of Tubmanburg fight told reporters that more than sixty ECOMOG soldiers’ bodies were left in the streets. Sirleaf helped bury some of the bodies but ECOMOG insisted only seven of the men were killed. ECOMOG denied any accusation of supplying arms to Alhaji Kromah’s men, but acknowledged arresting some of Johnson’s fighters. The peacekeeping force said the arrest was executed because Johnson’s men harassed innocent civilians

on a regular basis and stole their goods. ECOMOG had lost credibility with many Liberians because the organization was engaged in many profiteering activities. Some of the activities included sales of weapons to different rebel groups, the very thing the Nigerians were accused of doing. It was also true that some rebels constantly harassed civilians and stole their goods. Both parties decided however to iron out their differences and Johnson agreed to return the prized weapon. Only, he did not do so and the Nigerian commander faced criticism and was pressured to retrieve the heavy weapon lest Roosevelt Johnson decided to use it. According to rumors in the barrack, Charles Taylor wanted the gun for himself. He tried tricking Roosevelt Johnson into selling the gun. Being the mastermind of rebellion and intimidation, Taylor thought the Nigerians would be afraid to engage him in battle if he told them that he now possessed it. That should make the Nigerians leave Johnson alone. Roosevelt Johnson needed cash badly so he agreed to the proposal. He accepted part payment but refused to give the weapon to an enemy who might use it against him. Taylor became infuriated and sought revenge. In February 1996, some ULIMO J military and executive officials decided to replace Roosevelt Johnson with a new leader. The resolution to replace Johnson was issued to the Liberian National Transitional Government in March. Some people alleged that Charles Taylor orchestrated the idea of leadership change and fueled that flame of division. Roosevelt Johnson’s loyalists and those in favor of the new proposed leader clashed at Johnson’s house, leaving one man dead. Charles Taylor jumped on the opportunity to get even with the man who doublecrossed him. As the head of the nation’s Justice Department at that time, he charged Roosevelt Johnson with murder and called for an arrest. However, Johnson realized the call to surrender had less to do with murder and more to do with revenge. He refused to give himself up. Taylor drew ECOMOG into his plan when he asked the peace keepers to do the dirty work of carrying out the arrest. He promised to acquire and return the most sought after weapon to the Nigerians once Johnson was arrested and under his controlled justice. Nigerian ECOMOG dispatched men to Johnson’s house but withdrew when Johnson’s loyalists threatened to kill anyone who tried to arrest their leader. Getting into another gun battles with ULIMO J. after loosing many men in Tubmanburg was the last thing the Nigerians wanted. ULIMO K sided

with the NPFL leader. They requested three days to arrest Johnson so ECOMOG stepped aside to let Liberians handle the situation the way they knew best. Roosevelt Johnson was no island of his own. He called upon his tribesmen for help; George Boley’s LPC slowly and quietly made its way to the city. BTC barrack stood ready to receive both ULIMO J and LPC. On April 6, 1996 when the fight was suppose to begin, the ECOMOG commander ordered his men that were stationed in BTC since Charles Julu’s prison break to pull out quietly because the place would be attacked. ECOMOG’s leader in charge of operations in BTC had been stationed in the barrack for many years and became a friend to BTC’s top commanders. He found it very difficult to walk away, especially since he knew that soldiers in the barrack had no weapons to defend themselves. If the barrack fell to Charles Taylor, a massacre could not be prevented. The ECOMOG leader leaked the information to his friends. When he was ready to pull out of BTC later that day, soldiers there surrounded one of ECOMOG’s ammo tanks and pretended to cease it. With that, the ECOMOG leader in BTC was compelled by protocol to stay with his selected men and weapons. That tank was used to scare attackers and it even fired a round in my presence.

* * *

27

ATTACK ON BARCLAY TRAINING CENTER

There was heavy rainfall on my first night in BTC. Thunder bolted and lightning flashed. For the superstitious among us, it was a sign of death. Every porch in the BTC was overcrowded with civilians. The church was so full there was no way to lie down. People stood should to shoulder. Those of us left without shelter found places to stand under the eaves of the buildings with our backs against the walls. Although we stood on the benches outside, we still got soaked. Flashes of lightning revealed guards silhouetted against the unpainted walls surrounding the barracks. They were positioned in case people from outside tried to jump the fence. A group of fighters danced and sang in the rain as they prepared to fight even though they were aware some may not live to see the next day. Their excitement contradicted fearful civilians who hovered around radios in hope of good news that would never come. A truckload of fighters in ill-fitting uniforms and ordinary clothes entered the gate and sped toward the fighters on the field. Armed men jumped out of the truck before it stopped. The door opened and out stepped a pair of military boots. The commander whose name I do not know got out and straightened himself to his full height. He must have been over six feet tall. His men hovered around to hear what he had to say. There were so many commanders in the BTC that I almost believed the title was given to everyone. Someone on the field, probably the commander shouted, “Move it!” The men on the field shouted at the top of their lungs, “Move it!” What happened next took me by surprise. People on the porches, beside the buildings and anywhere at all that heard that call shouted back the same words. Move it! It seemed like the entire barrack quaked at the sound. Fighters and civilians who had not long ago trembled with fear, men and women, old and

young, all cried out, “Move it! Move it!” Rounds of gunshot were fired in the air; pans, buckets, anything that could make sound, were crashed together. Noise from the barracks mixed with the sounds of thunder echoing in the rain. It sounded like hundreds of thousands of a wellarmed mighty army. The commander ripped his shirt off. He was fired up and his men were too. “I am going to die in here,” I said, and shook terribly from cold and fear. Then a Bible verse came to mind,

Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof. —PROVERBS 18:21

I supposed that it was necessary to erase the negativity I just spoke upon myself. “No, I am not going to die in here. I will live through this and tell the story or even write about it.” “What?” Someone asked me. I looked down to where the voice came from. A man sat on the wet ground and directly under the edge of the roof. He was terrified. Like a waterfall, the rain collected on the corrugated roof poured directly onto his head. “Are you talking to me?” he asked. I was talking to myself, a habit I picked up during the war. For some reason, speaking encouragement to myself kept me sane. I had spoken a little too loudly that time. However, the guy looked like he needed those very words more than I did. “Yes, I am talking to you,” I replied. “We will not die in here. We will live and tell the story or even write about it.”

He nodded vehemently in agreement. The “Move it” cry came again and the people in the barracks responded even more loudly than before. There was something familiar about it. I once read a story in which an army gave a mighty shout and crashed things together. Yet I could not how I came upon the story. Too many thoughts were at war in my mind; thoughts like, Where is Mom right now? Is she crying because she does not know where I am or that I am okay? She must be crying the way she did when my little sister died. Why in the world did I not stay at her house? Am I really going to die in here and just in denial right now? Why did we leave Sierra Leone? Then my mind brought me back to the story. Aha, I ed. Of course it was from the Bible, the wall of Jericho in Joshua 6:1—27. The Israelites marched around Jericho’s walls once every day for six days. On the seventh day, they marched again and Joshua ordered the musicians to blow their trumpets, and the soldiers to shout and crash things all at the same time. The walls of the city collapsed and Israel won the battle. There was a big difference between the story and the reality I lived in. For one, fighters in the barrack were no Israelites, and BTC was no Jericho. Besides, it was BTC fighter that shouted and they did not want the walls down. So the story did not really apply to the situation. There was no foreign enemy either—just Liberians preparing to kill other Liberians. However, I was told that soldiers in the barrack used that same shout many times before and successfully frightened their attackers into believing there were thousands of well-armed Krahn fighters in the barrack. In the April 6 war, the main fighters were nowhere near a thousand and they were poorly armed. Many walked around with machetes, sticks, and stones, but they did not seem to care. The attack began. Suddenly, rounds of rocket-propelled grenades flew toward us. NPFL and ULIMO K fighters pounded us with rockets, then bullets, and then both at the same time. Many flew over us, others fell short, but some landed in our mist. From my hideout, I could see much of the action. The first rocket fell on the field where some of Prince Johnson’s men were gathered. They scattered and took cover. Another exploded close to a building and sent particles everywhere. People were wounded and killed.

“All lights off! All lights off!” Someone on the field shouted. The order was quickly ed around by anyone who heard it, fighters and civilians. One by one, the lights went off. Civilians and armed men battled flames sparked by fallen rockets. Soon, we were in darkness. More rockets flew over us now, as it became difficult for attackers to target a particular area or gathering. They were at a disadvantage; streetlights revealed their hideouts. Militia from the BTC crept out of the fence to meet their foes. Heavy shooting continued in the streets and BTC faced less gunfire than earlier. After nearly four hours of tense battle, the chaos subsided into sporadic gunfire. The rain stopped just about the time things calmed—it had brought the enemies with it and left with them. Jubilant shouts chorused around me. Round one of fighting was over and in general, the BTC survived and I with it. The wounded and the dead were carried to the barrack’s small Soko Sackor Clinic, already overcrowded with injured and dead bodies. More of the BTC fighters left to set up posts in strategic places. The commanders walked within the fence and studied the most affected areas to address the weaknesses and prevent damage in the next attack. The first round of fighting had tested their strength and revealed their vulnerabilities. In battles, especially ones in which a person is encomed by enemies and walls, the person cannot afford many vulnerabilities. They prepared for round two. Only God knew how much the attackers had learned and what their strategy would be. I was glad there was still breath in me and that I did not suffer any wound or scratch. But I had no way to tell if my miracle would continue. With nowhere to run, I was a sitting duck. Sporadic shooting continued throughout the night. No one slept.

Fighter Jumps over Body

By 5:00 a.m., a new barrage of gunfire rained on us. That too was repelled. So was day two. By the third day, more people were wounded and more died. With every attack, the synchronized shout of “Move it!” resounded again and again, and the attackers feared their imaginary hundreds of thousands of well-armed Krahn fighters within the walls of the Barclay Training Center. Mankind has great capability to adjust to surrounding conditions over a period of time. After being subjected to falling skies, explosions, fireworks, and seeing dead and wounded, death became a not-so-dreadful end. My mentality was, after all, everyone has to bite the dust someday, whether by gun, bomb, sickness, or natural cause. There was nothing I could do if the BTC was the place I was meant to leave this world. Therefore, I became like many others who treated death like a pal. The more I thought that way, the less worried I became. The fear that once threatened to rip my heart out of my chest and blow my mind into tiny pieces was gone. If I was to die, it was going to be for some noble reason, not because of fear. I first helped some women take their wounded family member to the clinic. It felt good. Perhaps that was the reason for my being there.

* * *

28

FROM FOE TO FRIEND

Undisciplined rebels all over the country took advantage of civilians. The barrack was no exception to that. I stood in line to get water from one of the wells one afternoon. It came time for an elderly woman to fill her bucket. As she began, one fighter approached like he owned the world. An automatic rifle was slung across his bare chest, smoke came out of his mouth and nostrils from the opium he smoked, and he dangled an empty bucket in one hand. He stared at us briefly with bloodshot eyes, walked right up to the well, and brushed the woman aside. The guy knocked her bucket out of the way and began filling his. Nobody said a word. He looked a little older than me. I probably would have let it go like everyone else but the woman cried and it bothered me. I walked up to the well and just like he did to the woman, brushed the fighter aside and knocked his bucket over. He was so surprised he just stood there and did nothing at first. I took the woman’s bucket and started filling it. Everyone held their breath and waited for me to get shot. I kept an eye on the fighter in case he went for his gun. “Do you know who I am?” he shouted. “Do you know who I am?” I returned his question calmly. He was deep in thought trying to if we’d met before or to what rebel group I belonged. With so much diversity in their groups, high rankings were given to whoever killed the most people. His hesitation gave me time to finish filling the woman’s bucket. I hoped he would walk away but that was not in his nature. “You don’t know who you are messing with,” he pressed on. It was too late for me to back off now. That would only excite him to do something aggressive so everyone around could know that he was the man. That was a common occurrence amongst rebels. Once I started by playing it tough, it

had to go down that path until the end. “I know exactly who you are,” I replied. “You are just an egotistical man who has no respect for an elder.” He went for his gun. I stepped right up close to give no room for him to take the AK-47 from around his neck. I had the advantage of choking him with the weapon if he insisted on reaching for it. He dropped his hand to his side and stepped back. I closed in again. That was something I learned the previous afternoon when I nearly got shot. It had been a hot afternoon and I sat under a tree. A group of fighters in a heated argument came by. They stopped a few feet before me and continued the quarrel. In an argument of such magnitude, it was common for rebels to get into a fistfight or occasional gun battle. I got up to leave the area but was barely on my feet when all of a sudden guns were drawn and pointed at me. At least that was what I thought at first until I realized a fighter standing before me and facing his friends. The guy in front me had stepped away from the group. The other guys immediately drew their weapons in an almost synchronized manner and aimed at the one who stepped away. If his friends had fired, we both would have been killed. The guy reed the group quickly and the guns were pointed away. I left in a hurry. A BTC soldier explained to me later what all the quick movement was about. When rebels argued in Liberia, they remained in the position they were when the fuss started or they came together. Stepping away from a group gave an individual the opportunity to keep everyone else within view. That action also accorded the individual an advantage to shoot everyone with one sweep of his gun. Therefore anyone who tried to step away from the others when they argued posed a threat. That person can be shot down immediately by the others. In a nutshell, stepping up very close to somebody with a rifle eliminates the threat of getting shot and stepping away creates the needed distance to use the gun. The only time stepping away is advised is when an individual has enough time to escape. That knowledge came in handy when the fighter tried to reach for his gun and I had no time to leave. That may have convinced him in believing that I too was a rebel fighter or a soldier in the Arm Forces. So we stood nose to nose and stared each other down. The crowd backed away fearfully. Nobody came to my aid,

probably because they too thought I was associated with one of the fighting groups. Trying to do a good thing got me in trouble. It was becoming awkward. However, I could not back down since I had everything to lose, and he didn’t. The smirk on his face spoke volumes. His gun was my major concern. I needed to get it out of the equation. For one, I had never shot a gun before, or even held one in my hand. Thank God he did not know that. The guy was a proud man, so I thought messing with his ego would work. I used the only weapon I had— words. “The only thing you depend on and hide behind is your gun,” I said out loud for everyone to hear. The smirk vanished and was replaced with a flinch. That was it; that was my way out. “Without the gun, you are nothing. You are not man enough to fight in a hand-tohand combat.” I hit the punch line. “Yeah, put away the gun and fight like a man,” someone shouted from the crowd. More people taunted him. Cold sweat of relief ran down my spine. The guy didn’t look tough anymore. He smiled, put up both hands in resignation, and took his bucket to leave. At least that was what I thought. When I took my eyes off him, he came from behind and hit me with his gun. I went down hard. The place spun. He tossed the gun on the ground and beckoned me to get up and fight. I knew it was better to stay down at least until the cobwebs disappeared. Blood spilled from my head. When my vision cleared, my opponent still towered over me. I got up, grabbed an empty bucket that was close by and threw it as fast as I could. It hit him square in the face and he fell back. We both scrambled to get up. My being a little faster accorded me a slight advantage over my opponent. I threw my weight against his half-raised body and knocked him back down but the guy was not a pushover. He grabbed my feet and pulled them from under me. I grabbed onto him and we both went down. We wrestled fiercely. An even larger crowd had gathered. Militia and civilians cheered us on to keep fighting. During the war, it was almost taboo to break up a good fight. Anybody who did so stood the risk of being beaten up by the crowd. Until one person was fully subdued or that both parties gave it up, the crowd cheered on. They even clapped

and sang a song that says, “They’re equal, no parting.” We fought for a while. The guy went for his gun. I pulled him back down, and we wrestled some more. Somehow, he ended up standing behind me with his hand clasped around my waist. I fought in vain to break free. Then I threw my head back and caught him in the face. Still, he refused to let go. He threw me from one side to the other in an attempt to knock me down. Agility helped me from being completely dominated. I always came down feet first. I was tripped on my side finally. The next thing I knew, he was on top of me, raining down punches at my face. I managed to block them but not until one landed on my cheek and drew blood from my mouth. My slippers had left my feet sometime in the fight so I dug my foot in the sand and threw him to the side. Then I got on top of him and landed elbows at his face. By the time we struggled to our feet, we both had cuts and bruises. I gave him a black eye. He went for his gun again. Big boots stepped on the weapon just as his hands reached it. He looked up into the face of his commander. “No guns,” the commander said. “This is hand-to-hand combat.” However, that was it. Neither of us wanted to continue the fight. We stood watching each other and catching our breath. The commander turned to the crowd. “All right people, party is over. Come back another day,” he said. The crowd slowly disbursed. We might have fought ten minutes but it felt like hours. Somebody offered to fill not just the elderly woman’s bucket but mine as well. The woman thanked me and left. The fighter stood back, realizing that no one was going to help him now. If he needed water that badly, he had to go all the way to the end of the line. He turned to leave but I stopped him and emptied my water in his bucket as a gesture of peace. After all, no matter how I viewed it, he was directly or indirectly protecting my life. Besides, who knew where we would meet next. “What’s your name?” He asked. “Lawrence,” I replied. “And yours?” “Bone,” he answered.

Bone is an unusual name, but I did not ask further. Many fighters gave themselves or acquired names according to what they are known for. Some were called Skull because they carried human skulls with them everywhere. Others, Automatic because once they started shooting, they never stopped until they ran out of bullets and many, dead. Then there were names like Rambo, Commando, Chuck Norris, War, and so forth after American movies and actors. I figured that Bone got his name from breaking peoples’ necks, arms, legs, or whatever it may be. “Who do you fight for?” He asked. I carefully considered how to answer that question. He had come to the conclusion that I was associated with one of the rebel groups in the barracks, or a soldier from what remained of the Liberian military. I told him the truth. “I am a civilian,” I said. He looked shocked. “Okay,” he said. “What group did you fight for in the past?” “I have never fought for anybody, never held a gun.” I smiled. For a while he refused to believe me. As we talked more it dawned on him that I was saying the truth. “I could have sworn you were a fighter,” he said. He tried to convince me to his group and help defend the barracks. I told him that I was not a fighter and was not interested in ing any group. “You are a fighter,” he said. “I just saw you demonstrate it. In fact, every man is a fighter if he is pushed enough.” I had to agree with him so that he would leave me alone. “You are right, but everyone has a way of carrying his fight.” “How is that?” he asked. I told him that some people choose guns and knives, and others choose pens and papers.

“A philosopher,” he mused. “I didn’t know there was one in this barrack.” Bone tried to make me understand that pens and papers don’t always solve problems. I reminded him that guns and knives most times made things worse. “At least with guns and knives, you can always get a quick revenge,” he said. I reminded him that it was because of revenge that Liberia is destroyed. In the end he said, “Well, maybe you are right. Maybe we can all continue what each of us does the best.” Then he kissed his gun and added, “Me with my gun, and you with your diplomacy.” The guy turned to leave but stopped to give me advice. “As long as you are in this barrack, consider yourself a reserve soldier. Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah’s men will not choose who the fighters are from among us. When they succeed in overrunning this barrack, they will massacre us all, fighters and civilians, men, women, and children included because they consider everyone in here as enemies. And believe me when I tell you this. You will not just stand there and let them kill you. You will fight back. Perhaps only then you will know that you are a fighter.” With that, he pressed two fingers to his face and let them drop in the form of a salute. “Thanks for the water,” he said and walked away. That was the wisest thing he had said so far. It was so true that it scared me. If those gates were breached, the BTC would turn into a slaughterhouse. I would be included in the statistic of bodies found if I didn’t leave the barracks. Throughout my stay in the barracks those words would not leave my mind. Yet there was no way to get out without falling in the hands of Charles Taylor or Alhaji Kromah’s fighters. Anyone coming from the direction of the barrack, especially an able-bodied person like me would simply be marching to his grave. Unusual as our first meeting was, Bone and I knew we had become friends.

* * *

29

MORE ON THE BTC

The next morning, I met Bone squatting behind a building. Sweat poured from his brow and he seemed to be in a catatonic state. The guy did not realize I was there, even when I said his name several times. He stared at nothing in particular. I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Bone jumped. I asked if he was okay. Bone reached into his pocket and took out a roll of opium, smelled it first, then lit it and drew on the flame. I stepped back and gave him room to puff out the smoke. “I swear this thing is going to kill me someday if the guns don’t get me first,” he said. “Why do you keep smoking it then?” I asked him. His response caught me off guard. “The same reason I keep fighting.” He smiled. “It is a habit that I can’t break.” I started to say something but stopped when he put his hands up. “With you everything is simple,” he said. Then he told me his story. As I suspected, Bone was his fighting name. His real name was Ezekiel. He was from a decent family, and his father believed, just like mine did, that neighbors are an extension of one’s family. Bone was still a teenage Krahn boy when the Liberian Civil War began. Neither of his parents worked for the government. On his way home one late evening, he witnessed his parents and his little sister killed. He was returning from an errand his dad had sent him on. Coming around the corner of a building he saw cars parked in his front yard and armed men interrogating his parents. He stopped short and backed away slowly. One of the men knocked his dad unconscious with a gun before putting a bullet in his head. Another man shot his mom and sister. His family’s crime was

simple; they were of the Krahn ethnic group, and every person of that ethnicity was an enemy. All this was carried out under the supervision of a man whose gait looked familiar to Bone. The man turned around and their eyes met. He was a neighbor. Bone ran but was caught before he got away. Miraculously, they did not shoot him. Instead they beat him up, threw him into the car trunk and sped away. Bone had pissed all over himself by then. After what seemed like a long drive, bullets rammed into the vehicle. It bounced on rocks before colliding with something that stopped it. The shooting and chaos outside was deafening. It calmed after a while. Somebody finally heard his cry and opened the trunk. Another gunman stood over him. “Hey! Come and see what we’ve got,” the gunman called his friends. Bone said that his captors fell into an ambush and some were killed. The men who rescued him fought for Roosevelt Johnson. Since that time, he had occasional nightmares from the incident. I had no clue how to respond to such a tragic story. Before I managed to tell him how sorry I was for his loss, he waved it off like it meant nothing. He continued, “I later ed the men that rescued me. After I had trained enough, I took some guys with me back to my neighborhood. Our house was burnt down, as I suspected it would be. But that is not the reason I went back there. It turned out the neighbor who took people to kill us escaped the ambush. He was in his front yard, his wife and kids too. The guy was shocked when he saw me.” Bone seemed reluctant to continue. It was not difficult to deduce how the story ended, judging by his body language. Frankly, I did not want him to explain further. It was not like him to leave anything unfinished. He turned the other way and spoke. “Let’s just say I paid the man back in his own coins, family and all. The men I fight along with are my family now.” My mind raced. The self-righteousness within me had long condemned Bone. I thought he should have forgiven his neighbor, more so let the man’s family lived. They had nothing to do with the death of his parents and little sister. He read my mind and asked.

“What would you have done Lawrence, had it been your family and you watched them get killed?” I did not expect that question. My answer should have been instantaneous, yet I was flabbergasted. Finally, I told him that I would have let the man’s family live. “Yes, I should have,” he said regretfully. “But I cannot undo the past. Just live with it. “Why don’t you quit fighting and start a new life?” I asked my friend. His reply was quick. He might have considered that option many times. He said, “It is not that simple. Once you are in, you can’t get out. It becomes an addiction just like smoking.” He got up to leave but not until he gave his departure advice. “You are a good man, Lawrence. Leave this barrack before you get sucked into this fight. Even if we are not overrun, stray bullets and falling rockets do not select who to kill.” The guy only knew how to say the right thing when he was about to leave. “You know what?” I asked. “You will be ed as the man who gave the greatest advice ever on your death bed.” He smiled broadly, drew on his opium deeply, let the smoke out, and looked at the stupefying poison. “Surely, this thing will kill me one day.” Then there was his usual two-fingered salute, and he was gone. Bone’s story is not unfamiliar to many Liberians. One evil person or a small group of people preys upon the weak and commits an atrocious act. The victim’s family , friends, and tribesmen take matters into their own hands because corrupt political and judiciary systems can not render true justice. Individual errors and senseless behaviors are stereotyped as tribal undertakings. Our leaders do nothing to calm the storm that starts to build up because of these

problems. They are more concerned with enriching themselves than they are about the well being of their nations and the people they swore to protect. Issues that could easily and peacefully be resolved are magnified by people who fan flames of resentment, insatiability and power struggle that are typical of African countries. Soon, the flames escalate into gigantic conflagrations and the storm grows out of control. Entire nations get caught in the whirlwind of African insanity. In order to protect their interests and love ones many people organize or different militias. Others are only interested in the spoils of war. The core of our unity shatters. We classify anybody that does not share our ideologies, an enemy. In so doing we lost insight and become extremists. There is no middle ground, no compromise of any kind. We become blinded to the beauties of life. In our world, only two colors exist; black or white, right or wrong, no shades of gray. Total anarchy reigns. Even God can not help us because we refuse to be helped. I watched Bone walk away. Shooting began from outside the walls again. Bullets whizzed by my ears and I ducked. More and more bullets flew. We ran between buildings to stay out of the open area. Enemies hiding on rooftops targeted anything that moved. I missed the days when we walked down the streets with no fear of getting shot; the times when nobody cared about tribal affiliations. I longed for nights when we did not wake up to explosions or the wailing of someone being killed. Only memories of those days remained and it seemed like centuries past. More flying bullets came. A frightened woman pulled her five years old son along and took cover. I wondered about the possibility of that kid and the several hundred other children in BTC surviving the brutality of war. My heart went out to children whose lives were sapped out of them long before they even knew their own names. The air reeked with the smell of rotten bodies in the streets. Prayer for Liberia did not seem to work at all. The shootings stopped once again and we emerged from cover. I returned to my usual hideout, behind the tallest building in the BTC called Officer Quarters, not far from the water well. We had enjoyed relative quiet the previous night, but everyone knew it was the calm that came before a storm. Our adversaries may have spent the night regrouping and re-strategizing. BTC fighters joked about eating their last meal.

Like any day, people gathered at the well to fill their containers. A rapid succession of gunshots was fired at the well. Some people were hit. The rest ran for cover. A few barrack fighters ventured to the well and dragged the victims to safety amid flying bullets. Then the shooting stopped as suddenly as it began. We waited for more shooting and bomb blasts that never came. It must have been about ten minutes of silence but for the whimpering of an elderly woman close by. Those who were hit were taken to the barracks’ hospital. Soon, the well was crowded again. Gunshots rang out once more but that time it came from a single weapon. A shot caught a man on his jaw. Miraculously, the bullet did little harm since his mouth was opened. It entered through his right jaw and exited the left without touching bone. Bone and some fighters arrived with their commander. Among them was a girl who wore a camouflage pant that was neatly tucked into military boots. A pistol hung at her side and an automatic rifle in her hand. Her white dress shirt was rolled at the sleeves and tied into a knot in front. She had her hair pulled back and tied into a pony tail. The girl could have won a beauty contest. I peeped to see what the fighters would do. They observed the direction from which shots were being fired. The commander saw it first. A window on the second floor of Monrovia’s Lands and Mines Building that stood on a hill overlooking the east wall got darker whenever the shooting started and clearer when bullets stopped flying. To my untrained eyes, it looked like a light breeze blew a window curtain back and forth gently. The commander believed that was no breeze. He leaned against a wall and aimed his weapon at the window. He waited for the window to get dark but the shooter may have remained hidden because no one appeared. “Well,” the commander said, “it looks like whoever it is up there will not come out until he sees someone to shoot at.” “I’ll make sure he sees me,” Bone said, and stepped out in the clear. The girl ed him. Both fighters had their backs to the direction from which the shots came. They had only gone few paces when the window revealed the same darkness. “There he is,” the commander said. Bone and the girl turned around and looked straight toward the window. Bone

raised his middle finger at the shooter and mouthed the dirty words that go with it. The fighter girl moved a finger across her neck, making the universal cutthroat sign. It was only a brief seconds before the commander pulled the trigger. One shot ended the sniper’s fire for a little while before it recommenced from the same building. I moved to another side of the Officer Quarters to stay away from sniper shots and just in time to see an ECOMOG war tank in the BTC take aim at the sniper. The men lowered the main gun on the tank and with one violent jerk, fired. In a few seconds a huge hole was blasted in the wall. Sometime later, someone pointed up a hill overlooking the east wall and shouted, “The rebels are coming!” An army of NPFL fighters in red T-shirts swarmed the hill. Some tied red pieces of cloth around the heads. They ran toward the barracks in a zigzag formation and shouted. It looked like ants on a hill. The BTC men readied themselves for the worst attack since the April 6 war started. Women and children began to cry. I did the one thing that had become my habit—reciting Psalms 23: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…” Hell opened up and dispersed its fury on us. Rockets and bullets pounded us like never before. We took our customary cover between buildings to avoid bullets that crisscrossed and rammed into walls. The buildings proved to be equally, if not more dangerous, as the bullets. Rocket-propelled grenades blasted into walls. “Let them keep shooting! Let them waste their bullets!” One fighter shouted. A rocket flew over us and landed with a deafening explosion on the roof of the overcrowded church building. Pieces of wood and metal scattered everywhere and a portion of the roof collapsed in. The cries of the multitude within the church sent a chill down my spine. Those with minor wounds scrambled to escape through windows and doors, trampling the people who fell. I had friends in there, the Jolo family. We attended the same refugee church in Sierra Leone. Like us, they returned to Liberia to rebuild their lives only to face another war. People came from everywhere and ran to the church to help. I ed them but there was no way to get in. We stayed down and waited for the stampede to subside. I saw the Jolo family fight their way out. One of the girls was wounded on the neck by particles from the blast. She was rushed to the BTC clinic with the wounded.

NPFL rebels continued their assault. Fighters from the barracks engaged them and the battle intensified. A pickup truck loaded with BTC fighters raced across the field and stopped a few blocks from my hiding place. Some of the men jumped out with boxes. They called out for anyone who wanted a weapon to come and get it. Almost immediately they were surrounded by men, young and old civilians who could no longer stand on the sidelines. It was becoming exactly like Bone had told me earlier.

As long as you are in this barrack, consider yourself a reserve soldier. Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah’s men will not choose who the fighters are from among us. When they succeed in overrunning this barrack, they will massacre us all, fighters and civilians, men, women and children included because they consider everyone in here as enemies. And believe me when I tell you this. You will not just stand there and let them kill you. You will fight back. Perhaps only then will you know that you are a fighter.

The temptation to get a weapon was very hard to resist. It seemed the right thing to do even if I couldn’t bring myself to shooting someone. I stayed put. The weapons distributed were not guns but brand new machetes. I was not surprised; some of the fighters themselves used machetes because there were not enough guns. The place was in frenzy.

. . . He leadeth me beside the still waters —PSALMS 23:2

NPFL’s attack from east of the BTC was still very intense when another major one, this time from the west, was launched by ULIMO K. They came under the escort of another ECOMOG war tank allegedly owned by the Guineans. boom! The tank blasted down part of the barracks’ fence. Particles and smoke filled the air. K fighters intensified their attack in an effort to enter through the fallen wall. The battle raged. Civilian casualties in the barrack increased and the wounded,

rushed to the clinic. A man carried his seriously wounded mother on his back. She was almost twice his side and he struggled. I ran to help. Just then, a RPG round fell and exploded few feet away from us. The impact knocked us down. My eyes dimmed. Except for the unremitting loud ringing sound in my ears, I could hear nothing. Blurry images went past. The last thing I ed before going unconscious was the scary thought of dying. I woke up to someone standing over me; or was it a mirage? It disappeared, and reappeared. Strong hands grabbed me by the collar and slapped me on the cheeks. I slowly returned to planet earth and saw Bone. “Can you hear me?” My friend shouted as he raised his hands to land another slap. “I can hear you! I can hear you!” I shouted back. “Good, then you are okay,” he said. With that, Bone shoved a pistol in my hand and leaned until his mouth was almost touching my ear. He shouted, either to drown the loud popcorn-like noises made by the many machine guns or because he wasn’t sure I was fully awake. “In case you need it,” he said, “just aim and shoot! It is loaded!” He got up to leave but dropped back down to give his departure advice. He grabbed my shirt, pulled me closer and gave me an order in a voice that sounded like a growl. “If you do not want to shoot anybody and you can’t get away, shoot yourself in the head on in the heart! Whatever happens, do not let them take you! You got that? You do not want them to carry you away!” He stared down at me before disappearing in the pandemonium. I did not know what scared me the most; the thought of killing somebody, shooting myself in the head or heart, or the look on my friend’s face. The monster in him was awakened and I was too glad to be a friend and not an enemy. Half raised, I dragged myself and leaned against a wall. The wounded woman I tried to help lay on the ground motionless. Her son, now wounded, sat beside the remains and cried. I checked myself for wounds. There was none. I was shielded by the

bodies of both mother and son. Move it! The battle call began again. As always, the response was deafening. Then we heard a loud explosion from the other side of the barrack. All of a sudden there was a great rush of men; fighters and civilians alike, coming from all over the barrack. Armed with guns, machetes, clubs, metal rods, rocks and whatever it was that could serve as weapons, they shouted and ran to where the explosion sounded. Part of the wall surrounding the barrack was blasted down by the attackers who tried to get in. But when they saw the mad and fearless crowd from the barrack coming, the attackers fled. Folks in the Barclay Training Center celebrated yet another victory that day. The wall was immediately rebuilt. I promised myself to get out at the earliest convenience.

* * *

30

NO MAN’S LAND

It was relatively peaceful the following morning. No one attacked us; no gun was fired. I feared there might not be a better time to leave the barrack. When I saw Bone and his friends going out to patrol the area and especially when he told me his team was using the route that led to the American Embassy, I decided to go alone. We arrived at a junction that led us different ways. My friend counseled me. “Turn back if it gets too dangerous to continue,” Bone said. “You can always try again. Do not carry with you anything that has your name on it because your last name will give your tribe away and you will be found guilty by association.” He joked. I started to walk away but he was not quite done talking. “Always keep your back against a wall when possible. Before crossing any street or intersection, make sure to remain hidden for a while until you know the area is clear. Look for something across the street that you can hide behind and make a run for it. Oh, and do not trust anyone?” He asked if I could all he had said. I nodded and he gave me his usual two-finger salute before they walked away. It was like a ghost town out there. Dead and decaying bodies lay in the streets, in gutters and overgrown bushes.

A Woman and her child: Killed and Tossed in Bush

I stayed in the shadows of buildings wherever possible and kept my back against the walls like Bone advised. I glanced behind frequently and scanned the streets in all directions. It was scary. I mistakenly stepped on a twig. It snapped, and the sound echoed in the emptiness of the surrounding. I took cover behind the burned frame of an upside-down vehicle. Every flammable object on the vehicle had been completely consumed. Broken pieces of mirror and windshield scattered everywhere. I raised my head and looked across the street. No one was in sight. I got up and hurried on. Buildings lay in ruins; plumes of smoke covered the sky. Homes and businesses that survived fire did not escape looters. Walls were riddled with bullets and the streets, carpeted with empty bullet cartridges. An intersection was just ahead. Everything within a few feet across the street had been cleared out, except a raised concrete square built around something; perhaps electrical wires or plumbing. To the far right of the intersection, I saw a checkpoint. Piles of sandbags formed the guard post on both sides of the checkpoint. No one was visible but that did not mean no one was hiding behind the sand bags. I dropped to the ground and watched for any sign of movement as I contemplated the risks of running across, walking across, or turning back. Nothing changed after a long wait therefore I got up and ran across, expecting to be shot at anytime. I dashed behind the concrete square and waited again. Surely, if there was anyone behind those sand bags, he might have seen me by then. The element of surprise was no longer in my favor. I stepped out briefly and dropped back down almost immediately just to see if someone would shoot. Nothing happened. I recited,

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

I stepped out into the valley of the shadow of death trying to fear no evil. No evil came; no bullet and no group of armed men came to get me. An old woman sat by a burned house that must have been her home. She talked to herself while she cooked in an old pot that hung over a fire place. I greeted but she did not answer or even raised a brow. Perhaps she did not recognize my presence. I walked on and got to an empty lot that was now being used as a dump site. Trash piled up everywhere. Vultures circling overhead told me there was a body nearby long before the stench hit my nostrils like a slap in the face. I yanked my head back and covered my nose. There, a short distance away from me was the cadaver. The birds pecked on it. I waved my hands vigorously to scare them away but they watched me with a how-dare-you look and went back to feasting. Then there was a fresh body, and another, and yet another. Those three bodies seemed to have been dumped moments before I arrived. Sound of an approaching vehicle interrupted the silence. It was too late for me to run now so I dropped down and played dead. The vehicle came to a stop not far from where I laid. Some men got down, threw out a fresh body and drove away. I waited till the sound of running engine disappeared in a distance and continued my journey. Another few minutes went by before screeching tires from behind scared me. I looked back and saw a man running toward me. At first, I thought he was chasing me so I ran. The guy was being chased by armed men in a car. The vehicle closed in on us. One thing that puzzles me even now is the fact that the armed men did not shoot us like they normally did to people that ran from them. I came to a narrow alley between two buildings and turned in. The man followed me. Our predators pulled over, jumped out of the car and chased after us. The alley led us to more alleyways between buildings. I kept branching off in an attempt to lose the armed men and the guy who still followed. “Go another way! Stop following me!” I called to him. He hesitated before going another route. I came to a dead end and had to run back in the direction of the armed men. Perhaps I can turn into the alley I ed moments ago before they see me, I thought. On my way, I almost collided with the other guy. Our paths crossed again. He ran ed and headed to the dead end. “There is no way out!” I shouted, but he was gone. I heard the armed men

coming. A house with a broken wide open door was nearby. I ran inside. The home had been ransacked by looters. An old barrel stood under the entryway to get up the ceiling and the room’s window was wide open. I thought about exiting through the window but feared our predators might be outside. I stood on the barrel and was glad my hands reached the ceiling. Hanging on, I knocked the barrel over with my feet and pulled myself up. It was pitch black up there, a perfect hiding place. The barrel rolled to one side of the room noisily and stopped just as gunmen entered the house. I could hear them go from one room to another. Some men entered the room and saw the barrel. One of them shot a hole in it. He thought I was hiding in there. Someone went to the open window and looked out. Perhaps they thought I fled out the window, so they filed out. Something moved up the ceiling. I looked up and saw a pair of shining eyes watching me— a big cat. It ran. The men fired in the direction of the noise and part of the ceiling crashed in, the dead cat with it. They laughed when they saw the cat and went out. I heard a man cried and knew that the other guy who ran for his life was caught. The single gunfire that silenced him still echoes in my head. I remained up the ceiling for a while, afraid to climb down and be captured by gun men who might be lurking close by. When I finally got the courage, I jumped down and continued my journey. I met an elderly woman with her two grandkids. They tried to run when they saw me. The woman settled down after I assured her that I was a civilian. It was nice to have company. Across the street, a lone man walked the other way. Another approaching vehicle sent us scrambling for cover. The car made a U-turn and went back. We reappeared on the street and walked on. “What tribe are you?” the woman asked me. “I am a Liberian, mama. I believe we should be less concerned about tribal affiliations.” We walked on in silence. It felt like somebody was watching us. The woman sensed it too and stopped. “Someone is following us,” she said. It was too late now. Turning back could get us killed so we reluctantly moved forward. Two armed men came out of hiding from behind us. They crossed the

road and disappeared between buildings. No one said a word. We knew our troubles had only turned worse. Rebels always immediately confronted or interrogated anyone they saw in the streets, unless they knew that person could not get away. Sure enough, just to our left was a man lying on his belly under an old car, prepared to shoot. Straight ahead, another watched from a window. We approached their checkpoint. A group of civilians, probably on their way to Greystone Compound near the American Embassy waited to be searched and interrogated by Charles Taylor’s rebels. Another man followed us. His face was painted and African juju ornaments hung from his neck and arms like a witch doctor. He carried a gun in one hand and machete in the other. I kept an eye on him. He grinned wickedly. As if it was useless to waste bullets on us, the man hung his gun on his shoulder and ed the machete from one hand to the other continually. A human head was spiked on a pole at the checkpoint. A wounded fighter sat on the ground, head bowed and his dreadlocks covered his face. He tilted his head to the side to catch a glance at us. One hand held the blood-stained bandage wrapped around his midsection; the other rested on a rifle lying by his side. The one dressed like a witch doctor, my newest tormentor still followed us. Our eyes met every time I looked back. Just before reaching the checkpoint, he stopped me. “Hey you Krahn man, stop!” I kept walking. “I am talking to you! I said stop!” I did not. Clicking sound from behind told me he was ready to shoot. I turned around. “Are you talking to me?” I asked. “Yes, I am talking to you!” He shouted. “Sorry, I did not know you were talking to me. You said Krahn man and that is not my tribe.” I lied.

He circled and sniffed me like a dog would. “You are Krahn,” he declared. “No, I am not.” I denied my tribe again, this time more vehemently. “Yes, you are,” he pressed me. The others at the checkpoint watched. Drawing attention was the last thing I wanted. My heart pounded so hard I feared he might hear it. But in situations as such, a show of fear could get a person killed. The guy circled me some more and sniffed yet again. Then he prodded me with a knife. “You are a Krahn man, I know that.” He said again. “What makes you think so?” I asked, even though I did not want to hear his answer. He stopped and sneered as if I just insulted him. Then without warning, he grabbed my neck and pressed a knife against my cheek. “I do not think so! I know,” he shouted and pressed the knife a little deeper. I tried to look calm but the hurricane within showed. Another fighter, probably of higher rank interrupted with a “Send him here!” The guy let go of my neck reluctantly. I hurried and ed the line. My tormentor moved toward the front of the line, sniffing people as he went. “I smell another Krahn blood here.” He said. “That stink scent is unmistakable.” I contemplated making a run but decided against it. Just then a man broke away from the line and ran as the smeller of Krahn blood approached him. Some rebels chased him, my tormentor included. The man who asked for me to be sent to him was distracted. He might have thought that I was the one trying to get away so he let everyone still in line go. We hurried away. As soon as we went around a corner, I broke away from the others and took another route just in case my tormentor came after the crowd in search of me. I was only halfway to Greystone and already had three near death experiences. The further I went, the more dangerous the journey. I took another route and

headed back to the Barclay Training Center. All I needed to say when I reached the areas controlled by BTC fighters was my last name. The very name that when mentioned would get me kill in other places during the war was my ticket to live in and around BTC. Bone was glad to see me when I told him want had happened. “Well, you are stuck with us.” He said. “Perhaps you should consider ing the fight now.”

* * *

31

CEASE-FIRE AGREEMENT

After nearly two weeks of fighting, a cease-fire agreement was signed by all parties and announced on April 19, 1996. It was a step in the right direction, but we knew that cease-fire agreements were not always observed. They provided opportunities for rebels to acquire more weapons and rethink their strategies. Many people remained in the barrack; others ventured out to check their homes. I went to see Mom’s apartment hoping that she might have returned to look for me. I met the front door to the house removed. My mother’s room door was wide open and everything she had was taken, but a pot that was left in the center of the room. I thought that was very odd. Upon reaching the pot, I found that somebody had deliberately shot hole in it. I had only been in the room for at most five minutes when a sound from behind startled me. A teenaged kid and an older guy pointed their gun at me. “Who are you?” The older man said. I told him only my first name, “Lawrence.” “What are you doing here?” He asked again. I told them that my mother lived in the apartment and that I was there to see if all was well but found that all her possessions were looted. Satisfied with my response, the older guy lowered his weapon. However, the kid was not convinced. “Where are you staying now?” the kid asked. As simple as that question seemed, it was a tricky one. Giving a location that fell in enemies’ territory would put me at risk and I did not know for whom my

interrogators fought. Also, hesitant answers—even if right—arouse suspicion that could lead to more questions. Many innocent people were killed in the war for those reasons. I tried to deduce who they were but came up with nothing. The kid awaited my answer so I played it safe by responding like a true politician— always careful to circumvent a question, but firmly saying what you think the audience wants to hear, even if it is far from the truth. “Calm down,” I said and faked a smile. “I am on your side.” Then I quickly tried to change the topic. The kid wasn’t fooled. He aimed the weapon at my left upper quadrant. My heart, I thought. Little Mr. Dangerous Smarty Pants barked, “And what side are we on?” He asked angrily. Kids like him, called “small soldiers” in the Liberian civil war became the most difficult and dangerous to deal with. Not only did they lack a sense of good judgment, but they were trained to be killing machines. Drugged and brainwashed, they feared no one. Stories of their wickedness are told everywhere in the country, even today. An old man once explained his encounter and near-death incident with a small soldier who could have been his grandson. There had been fighting in his neighborhood for some days. When the fight ended, the kid’s rebel group that controlled the area knocked on every door and forced the civilians to dig mass graves and bury the bodies of the victims. Some of the bodies were already decaying. The man carried a body or two and stopped. “If you do not carry another body,” the kid told the man, “I will make sure somebody carries you.” The man said that he grabbed a decomposing body right away. I tried fruitlessly to push such stories out of my mind. It was a miracle the kid had not shot me already but I could tell it was coming very soon. Since I had no direct answer to tell the kid where I lived or at last stayed, I told him that he was on the right side. Suddenly, bang! Bang! He fired at my feet. “Don’t mess with me!”

“What’s going on in there?” A familiar voice from outside called. “This fool is messing with me,” the kid replied. Bone entered. He saw me and immediately pushed the kid’s gun aside. “What are you doing here?” He asked me. I told him my reason. “Oh, do you know this fool?” the kid asked. “This “fool” you are talking about stays in the barracks,” Bone said sarcastically. “Oh,” the kid shrugged, and walked away. I watched him leave in disbelief. He almost killed me, and “Oh” was his reaction, as if it was not a big deal. Bone told me that some of Charles Taylor’s men were on a reconnaissance mission and had been seen in the area. On my way out, “small soldier” gave me a look that I translated to be you-should-havebeen-dead-by-now sneer. I walked past, not wanting to piss him off.

Small Soldier Poses

I turned onto a street that led to the barrack. A man hurried from an alley ahead of me. He looked very nervous and confused. I was almost certain someone else had disappeared in the shadows of the alley. The man coming toward me raised his head a little and turned around immediately. He was going back to the alley. I recognized the partially revealed face of Jim, my classmate, the Charles Taylor er who almost got killed. No perspicacity was needed to know why he was in the area. It had to be one of two reasons: either to spy on the barrack fighters, or because he was cut off from his NPFL friends. I had put my life on the line for him once in class. This was no school campus, though, and the conditions here were very different. It was a war zone. Jim had no gun in his hand, but I suspected that he had a pistol hidden from view. Two fighters from the barrack chatted with each other across the road. They saw us but suspected nothing unusual. The checkpoint just ahead crawled with fighters loyal to the military barrack. Jim may have thought that I fought for the barrack. One hand went slowly into his shirt. I supposed it was a pistol. “You do not want to do that,” I said, loud enough for only him to hear. He hesitated and let his hand drop to his side. I caught up to him. The rumbling engine of a slow-moving pickup with BTC fighters in it came from behind us. My classmate was visibly shaking now. Just when the vehicle was about to us, I threw a hand around Jim’s shoulder both to stop him from shaking and to erase any suspicion from any of the gunmen in the approaching vehicle. Bone stood in the half-opened doorway with one hand holding the door, and the other hand holding his gun pointed to the sky. He nodded to me as the vehicle ed. When all was clear, I asked Jim what he was doing in the area, although I knew exactly why he was there. He lied. “I came to see my sister in the area, but she was not home,” he lied. “I am leaving now.” The guy knew I did not buy his story.

“There is no way you can get out of here on your own. Follow me,” I said. He hesitated but had no choice. I waved to the guys at the checkpoint. We had just cleared the guards when, from behind us, one of the guards shouted. “Stop right there!” We did without turning around. My heart sank. How in the world am I ever going to escape this? I thought. Then someone came running at us. I turned and there was Jim’s friend, the person who had disappeared in the alley. He followed us closely. Guns were drawn and pointed in our direction. Jim and I dashed to the side and dropped to the ground. Some of the guards fired and the running man fell. The barrack soldiers ran to the body, Bone in the midst of it all. A BTC fighter asked the dying man for his name and who he was fighting for. They had no idea Jim and I knew who he was. The man said something before he died. Bone shouted it to the others, “He said he is War Child, NPFL.” We walked in silence.

Empty Cartridges Covering a Street

The checkpoint was now far behind, and there was no one in sight. Tears rolled down Jim’s cheek for his dead friend. “This war is someday going to end,” I told him. “If for some reason God spares our lives, we will be left with two things—our conscience and whatever mess we leave behind. One day, our kids will ask about the roles we played in the war. What will you tell them? Will you look them in the eyes and say that you helped slaughter so many people our streets ran red with blood? Will we tell them that in burning down our country, you burned their future with it?” My classmate remained quiet. “I am risking my life for you yet again, although conventional wisdom tells me not to do so. The next person you kill out there may be my mother, my brothers, or sister. I hope my actions today confirm that not all of the Krahn tribe are fighting this war. It is therefore wrong to kill people just because of their tribe. Perhaps today proves that we are not barbarians after all,” I told him. He said nothing. “I may not be there to save you the third time. Even if I am, do not count on it. You can go now,” I said. He looked around and jogged away without saying thank you.

* * *

32

JOURNEY TO GREYSTONE COMPOUND

On April 21, 1996, I contemplated a second attempt to leave BTC. With the ceasefire agreement somewhat observed there would be no better time to leave. I saw the Moore Family and told them that I was leaving the barrack and found my mother waiting. They had told her that I always went by. Mom was glad to see me unhurt. We decided to leave at once. I found Bone with some of his fighter friends. Music by Lucky Dube, Africa’s most popular reggae artist, blasted from a nearby stereo. Reggae music became even more popular in Liberia during the war. Charles Taylor’s rebels who called themselves Freedom Fighters and other rebel groups equated the political situation in Liberia to the times when Bob Marley and other reggae musicians sang about liberty, justice, and equality. The incongruity here is that they contributed greatly to the destruction of lives and properties. The period of the Liberian Civil War coincided with the height of the South African-born, Lucky Dube’s stardom. Bone saw me with a backpack swung over my shoulder and knew that I was ready to make another attempt to leave the barrack. “You are leaving.” He said. It was meant to be a question but came out more like a statement. “Yeah,” I said. “My mother is here, and we both are leaving for the Greystone Compound.” “Good,” he said. Then he leaned closer and whispered with a satirical grin on his face. “This ceasefire is not going to last.” He did not wait for me to ask what the excitement in his voice was all about. The guy had learned to read my mind.

“War is the game I play best,” he added. The look on my face told him that I disagreed with equating war to a game. He tried to explain. “War is like a checkers game—one wrong move and you are out.” I saw no use debating because that would not change his mind. He reached into his pocket, took out a roll of opium and was about to light it when he saw me frown. He toyed with it instead. “It’s a good thing you are leaving, Lawrence. You were right about this war being stupid. Some of my fighter friends have died and nobody even them. I may get kill anytime and be forgotten as well. Just look around you. See all the civilians, all the children in here. If we put down our guns now, there will be a massacre. Someone like me has to fight. So I will stay here in BTC and if anyone thinks he can capture this barrack and kill my friends and tribesmen, I will kill that person.” “That seems like way too much killing to me,” I told him. “It is called payback, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” He was pleased with himself for that quote. “Do you think you are the only one who knows philosophy?” he asked. “An eye for an eye and tooth for tooth” are quotations from the Bible, one of the laws given to Moses, but I let Bone have his moment. However, I asked what he thought about the word, “forgiveness” and got no response. “Hope we meet again someday after the war,” I said. He responded with, “I am not planning to die anytime soon.” I turned to leave, and he gave his usual two-finger salute and departing words of wisdom. “ not to take any ID or anything with your name on it. Your last name can give you away, and you will be found guilty by association.”

Mom and I went through numerous NPFL and ULIMO K checkpoints and faced no major harassment or threat. There were other people in the streets that time. Many considered the ceasefire as an opportunity to get search for missing relatives and/or to leave central Monrovia, where the war was being fought. We got to the Greystone Compound safely and ed several thousands other Liberians who sought refugee there. It was good to be together again.

* * *

33

ESCAPE FROM LIBERIA

Getting out of the Barclay Training Center was important, but we still lived in the country and feared the fight would escalate. If that happened, the already fragile Transitional Government would disintegrate completely. There was no telling how long it would take again to achieve relative peace in Liberia. We all thought leaving Liberia again was better than staying. However, our mother decided she was too old to keep running. She convinced us to leave without her. Mom gave us the few clothes she had taken from the house when they fled. “Sell these if you can,” she said, “and use the money for food.” We left the Greystone Compound with heavy hearts not knowing if we would see our mother again. We decided to stop at a church friend’s house because it was late evening. With night fall and Charles Taylor and Alhaji Kromah’s men many checkpoints on the way, going on meant surrendering to death. Ethel and the girl were good friends and her parents knew us very well so we assumed our impromptu arrival would not matter much. We were wrong. It did matter a lot that we feared her parents would turn us over to the enemies who controlled that part of the city. In the times of war, especially when our tribe was sought after by many, friendships deteriorated rapidly. The girl’s parents, especially her dad did not want us to stay the night. He did not ask us to leave but we overheard the argument with his daughter who somehow managed to persuade her parents to let us stay till morning. The man’s attitude toward us that night showed that he so badly resented our presence. Yet we could not leave because it was even more dangerous out in the streets. So my sister and I stayed under that very tensed and frightful condition that night while NPFL fighters and ers who sat right outside our window discussed how to capture the barrack and kill all the Krahn people in there. I heard one of the men who thought he knew BTC very well tell

his friends that one side of the barracks was not fenced. He said that if they attacked that side, they would gain entrance to BTC in no time. He was wrong. The Barclay Training Center was completely fenced and the side he talked about attacking was even more secured. A canal ran along the length of that side about fifteen feet away from the fence. Therefore, before reaching the fence, one had to maneuver across the canal, a very high risk to take at that time. Our church friend brought us a loaf of bread and fulfilled Psalm 23 once again.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of my enemies . . .

With no where to run and no way or defend ourselves; we waited for armed men to come get us. Thank God that did not happen. The rebels outside the window did not sleep that night, neither did we. Morning came and we left in a hurry. The checkpoints controlled by NPFL and ULIMO K fighters awaited us ahead. A likelihood of getting executed at every single one of them was near one hundred percent. Fighters from any of the Liberian warring factions, even my tribe killed civilians and faced no ramifications. It was nothing short of a miracle that we ed those check points and armed guards with success until we got to the last one in the Via Town area. I carried my backpack and my sister’s bag. In the backpack was a pair of tros, a T-shirt, and few books. A gunman approached me. “Empty your bags!” he ordered. I obeyed. The guy searched the backpack and my sister’s bag and saw nothing of interest. He ordered me to empty my pockets and looked disappointed since I had nothing valuable. Nevertheless, he was too proud to walk away without causing trouble. So he asked me for something impossible—to give him a man’s suit. “Did you say a man’s suit?” I asked, thinking I may have heard wrongly. “You heard me,” he growled. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

I offered him my tros and T-shirt but he did not want those. “If you want a woman’s suit, you can take it,” I said. He took that as an insult. “Are you calling me a woman?” “No,” I said. “I am saying that we do not have a man’s suit.” Another family arrived with suitcases that looked promising. He let us off the hook to rob the new arrivals. We crossed the checkpoint. The safest and most available way to leave Liberia was by sea. A huge crowd of people gathered outside the Freeport of Monrovia in hopes of boarding any one of the three ships that waited to take engers—frightened civilians who wanted to leave the country. We had no money but that did not stop us from ing the line. Nigerian ECOMOG soldiers guarded the seaport. People who had money and/or some form of documentation bribed their way in. Penniless ones like my sister and I were kicked out of the line many times but always found a way to get back in, counting on our only resources in those times—faith, hope and miracle. A nervous guy behind me shifted from one leg to the other repeatedly. Then he tugged at my arm to say something. I ignored him. With so many people around, it was wise to keep one’s mouth shut, and by all means not engage in conversation with a stranger. Yet the guy did not quit nagging me. He tapped me on the shoulder and in typical broken Liberian English asked very loudly, “My man, you get money?” I still refused to answer. He tapped me again. “Hey my man, you hear me?” My new tormentor was about to repeat the question, perhaps even more loudly when I answered with a monosyllabic word, “No.” “Me too,” he said as if I was interested in knowing about him. A few seconds ed without him saying or behaving awkwardly. I relaxed, thinking he was done talking. Another tap on the shoulder made me turn.

“My man, you get any traveling document? “No,” I said. “Me too,” he said once again. And then, “They will not let us in.” There was another short silence before his next question. “How will we enter the port?” He asked as if I was responsible or obligated to arrange his entry. Since I was already forced into conversation with him, it was useless to ignore him. He wouldn’t quit. “Look around you,” I said. “There are people in this crowd with no money but they will try nevertheless. I am entering this fence and getting on board one of the ships. I have no idea how it will happen, but it will.” “Me too,” he said. He calmed down, now that he realized others faced similar circumstances. ECOMOG Guards turned many people away. We got closer to the front of the line. A woman in front of Ethel was being checked in. Then there was pushing from behind. We crashed forward into a peacekeeping soldier who stood in the gateway. He fell back, and we ran through the gate: the perfect opportunity. The soldiers around were more concerned with shutting the gate to prevent more people from entering, than with chasing us down. We blended into the crowd of people already at the dock. My sister and I went back and forth, from one ship to another, begging crew to let us on board. A tap on my shoulder made me turn. Standing behind me was my newest tormentor who apparently entered the gates when we crashed in. “Hey, I got in my man but how are we going to enter the ship?” He said and asked in one breath. Three cargo ships—Bulk Challenge, Victory Reefer, and the Russian MV Zolotitsa—took engers on board. They also had ECOMOG soldiers on board and loaded with looted goods that were owned by some of the soldiers. Zolotitsa, the smallest ship which was destined for Ghana, was already overloaded with engers. It was right up to the dock and so low to sea level

that anybody could jump in with ease. Some of the people on board reached out and touched the surface of the water. Still the crew took more people who continued to pay the required amount of money although the possibility of a shipwreck outweighed any chance of reaching its destination. For the Captain of the ship, more people meant he would make more money. As for the desperate Liberians, they preferred any slight chance of surviving a possible shipwreck over the likelihood of being killed by bullets and bombs. My sister and I walked away from the ship that had death written all over it. We decided to try the other two ships. Entering the port yard was easier than boarding Victory Reefer or Bulk Challenge. We heard that Victory Reefer was going to Sierra Leone and Bulk Challenge, to Nigeria. I must pause here to acknowledge peacekeeping soldiers who conducted their lives with professionalism and remained true to the mission for which they were sent to Liberia. I want to thank the families that lost husbands, sons, fathers, and brothers while protecting innocent women and children. Their sacrifices will be ed not just by Liberians but by The One who sees all things and rewards those who give themselves for the benefit of others. THANK YOU. Now, I must also say that unfortunately, only a few ECOMOG soldiers may have kept to such professional standards. Many, if not all were openly engaged in selfprofiteering. Even high profile officers and commanders played conflicting roles since the time the supposed peacekeepers were deployed in Liberia. General Quainoo’s deal with Prince Johnson that killed the Liberian president just days after ECOMOG’s arrival was only the beginning of their double standards. In addition to that, ECOMOG contingents sided with different warring factions many times and switched their s occasionally to whatever profited them the most. They took bribes, sold weapons and allowed some warring factions to overrun their enemies’ positions. The peacekeeping soldiers looted anything that was worth money from hotels, government buildings, non-governmental offices, schools, etc. They stole so many vehicles and shipped goods back to their respective countries that Liberians changed the acronym ECOMOG from meaning Economic Community of West African Monitoring Group to Every Car or Moving Object Gone (from Liberia). Their conflicting roles and thefts exacerbated the civil war and led to the death of many thousand people. A Sierra Leone newspaper published later on May 24, 1996 read,

According to the U.S. State Department, troops of the West African peacekeeping force have been taking part in looting Liberia. State Department Spokesman Nicholas Burns said that looting has reached “Olympian heights,” and expressed concern that at least three ships leaving Monrovia contained large quantity of goods looted from the United Nations, nongovernmental agencies, and businesses. One of these ships, the Victory Reefer offloaded engers in Freetown. According to another spokesman, “The ECOMOG troops have been heavily involved since the day they arrived in ripping off Liberians, in looting goods, in dealing with contraband . . . These people are supposedly there to keep the peace. Well, they didn’t keep the peace very well. They didn’t keep it at all. They didn’t acquit themselves very well when the factions started fighting and they have been engaged in personal profiteering, pirating.” The ECOMOG force, which is Nigerian-led, includes a contingent of Sierra Leone troops.

Brig. Gen. Gabriel Anyankpele, a Nigerian chief of staff for the peacekeeping mission during the period of the April 6 war confirmed in Monrovia that more than two hundred ECOMOG soldiers based in Liberia were on board the Nigerian cargo ship, Bulk Challenge. He said the troops were Nigerians on home leave that paid to travel on the ship like everybody else. What the chief of staff refused to explain is that his men on board were escorting tons of goods they looted from Liberia and that some of those goods were his. General Anyankpele was arrested when he returned home and arraigned before the Nigerian general court-martial for importing a car from war-torn Liberia during the 1996 war. The car he imported was on the Bulk Challenge ship. He was convicted on the charge of disobedience to standing order and conduct to prejudice of good order and service discipline. At the Freeport of Monrovia that day, both Bulk Challenge and Victory Reefer stood high above water level. They were guarded by more peacekeeping soldiers, unlike the other ship. The money generated from selling Mom’s clothes was not enough to make the $100 USD payment per person for both of us to get on any ship. To be precise, we had less than the hundred dollars charge per person to board Victory Reefer. Bulk Challenge charged even more and was tougher to enter. Going back to Sierra Leone sounded better after all since we had no other option. Besides, it was now calmer than Liberia and we already

knew Sierra Leone and the culture of the country. My sister’s husband was still there. He would be pleased to reconnect with his wife. To get on board Victory Reefer, one had to go up a ladder that was made by tying strong ropes to small planks. The ladder dangled like a monkey bridge. Those who had money went in. We waited for hours hoping that at the end of the day, the captain would accept some of us who could only make partial payment. We knew that by nightfall, ECOMOG soldiers would clear the port of people who did not make it on board any of the ships. Given the way we got through the gates the first time, I doubted another opportunity would be presented. It was either then, or never. The pressure was on. The ship filled up rapidly. If my sister had the chance to go up the ladder, we agreed that she did so to talk the captain of the ship who stood at the top into allowing us on board his ship. Two ECOMOG soldiers guarded him. A tap on my shoulder and I turned. “My man, they will kick us out. We are stuck here.” It was my very nervous new friend whose name I did not yet know. I had completely forgotten him. It turned out more people could afford the money. Victory Reefer filled up and the captain asked the ECOMOG soldiers at the bottom of the ladder to stop people but not until Ethel ran up the ladder. I saw her talked to the captain who took the money but asked his crew to pull the ladder up. They pulled her in and lowered the crane to lift the heavy ladder. A brawl had already begun. Soldiers at the foot of the ladder were no match for the desperate crowd. We rushed forward. ECOMOG soldiers on deck fired in the air and aimed their weapons at crowd. That did not scare anyone. I somehow found myself in front the fighting crowd and immediately jumped on the ladder as it was being lifted. I hanged on. Other people jumped on. Some fell in the water and back on the hard concrete dock. Higher and higher they lifted us above the water as we fought to stay on. More people fell off the ladder and the weight shifted. The crane’s hook slid. We swung back and forth. From my upside-down position, I saw one other person still holding on. He let go when the ladder was directly over the ship and fell among the people on deck. I waited for the ladder to swing back over the ship again and left the ropes. I fell hard and knocked the winds out of my lungs just like the guy before me. Thankfully, I did not land on any metal object. When I stood up and located my sister, she had the captain by his shirt collar, demanding

them to go search the water for me. The only other person that fell from the ladder and on deck was still sitting where he landed. His face glowed with the biggest smile I had ever seen. He came to me with an outstretched hand to formally introduce himself. It was my nervously-wrecked-won’t stop talking-full of questions-and always nagging-new friend. “Dukuley,” he said, still smiling. “I am glad we made.” I said. His answer was the usual, “me too.” The captain stood by and watched us curiously. Then he turned and entered his cabin. Patrol boats rescued people out of the water. It may have been too late for others. I prayed:

Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life . . .

* * *

34

STORM AT SEA

The ship pulled away from shore and a solemn atmosphere took hold of us. Some among us began to cry for love ones whose lives were taken in the fight. Others cried for family left at the dock or whose whereabouts were unknown. The uncertainty of everyone’s fate was overwhelming. One of my idiosyncrasies is to walk when I get very nervous or confused. I walked through the crowd on deck that day and took in the scenery. Many sat, others reclined on the floor. Behind us, dark smoke rose high above the city from many directions. Victory Reefer parted the calm sea and sped away. Soon, the sky and Atlantic Ocean kissed in the horizon. Ethel stared into the ocean with a blank look on her face. I found a little corner, leaned against a metal object and closed my eyes. Liberia’s National Anthem, “All Hail, Liberia, Hail,” played in my mind and I struggled in vain to push it out. At last I succumbed to the anthem even though there was no reason to hail the country.

VERSE ONE

All Hail, Liberia, Hail

All hail, Liberia, hail! All hail, Liberia, hail

This glorious land of liberty, Shall long be ours. Thou new her name Green be her fame And mighty be her powers.

(Repeat last two clauses)

In joy and gladness With our hearts united, We’ll shout the freedom Of a race benighted, Long live Liberia, happy land! A home of glorious liberty By God’s command!

(Repeat last two clauses)

VERSE TWO

All hail, Liberia, hail

All hail, Liberia, hail In union strong success is sure We cannot fail! With God above Our rights to prove We will o’er all prevail. (Repeat last three clauses)

With hearts and hands Our country’s cause defending We’ll meet the foe With valor unpretending Long live Liberia, happy land! A home of glorious liberty, By God’s command!

(Repeat last two clauses)

Lyrics: Daniel Bashiel Warner, 1847 3rd President of Liberia

I paid close attention to the lyrics of the anthem like never before. The contrast in the meaning of the song and the prevailing situations in the country were like the difference between night and day. The more I contemplated the truth, the further back our devastations stretched. Below are the contradictions I realized. Verse One: Line three: “This glorious land of liberty” and lines twelve and thirteen of the same verse: “Long live Liberia, happy land: A home of glorious liberty.” Well, from the time Liberia was founded in 1822, no glorious liberty existed for every Liberian at any time in the nation’s history. From 1822 to 1980, the times ex-slaves from the United States and their descendants (the Americo-Liberians) ruled and controlled every good thing in the country and suppressed the natives, glory and liberty was only for the Americo-Liberians. To the natives, those two words had no meaning. Even foreign citizens were treated better than native Liberians. They prospered while the tribes struggled. Then from 1980 to the end of 1989, when a native ruled, he succeeded in disintegrating the cohesion among the natives. Corruption and power struggle in his government greatly contributed to the civil war. Let’s consider lines eight, nine, and ten of the same verse one: “In joy and gladness with our hearts united. We’ll shout the freedom…” From what is already discussed above, you now know that Liberia was never united. Equal rights and opportunities were accorded only to the handful of self-made elites, our corrupt leaders. They refused to address the issues that separated ex-slaves from tribal groups for nearly a century and half, or that which ignited fuel between the tribes. Those things dragged the country for so long because a divided nation will not prosper. Where there should have been great successes, the nation received sporadic progresses that were only effaced with time and by new governments. We had more issues that divided us than united us. Love did not glue us together, tolerance for one another held us by a thread. That thread finally broke and the outcome, absolute devastations. Hate, chaos, and carnage reigned. Verse Two: Line three: “In union, strong success is sure.” So it is also that in division total failure is inevitable. The only part of the national anthem that rang true to me is found in lines ten and eleven of the second verse: “We’ll meet the foe with valor unpretending.” Unfortunately, the foe we met was ourselves. And boy, how we destroyed that foe.

Do not get me wrong. I love the lyrics to the anthem and have sung it for many years. Nevertheless, I hated it that day when every word was filtered and ed through my mental microscope. Yet one thing remained true; the times of suppression were better than the times of the stupid war. So perhaps I could the few elites who prospered and foreigners who were provided opportunities to succeed in the land to say that Liberia was glorious. I wrote my first poem from their perspective.

From Glory to Gloom

See how tall and mighty she stands Dressed in all her morning glory Watch her scepter in her hands How she progresses in no hurry Radiating among many like the sun Brightening the way for her neighbors Giving courage, expressing love, what a fun People pulling unto her in all their labors Searching for rest in the circle of her embrace Strong and mighty like the cedars of Lebanon Quick and noiseless in her grace Her star, her lone star shines like none

But oh! Oh! She is falling

What a disaster! Everyone is running Watch! Watch! She is being torn apart By the hands of her own children Their hearts now dark No one to help! No one! Her children are divided Everyone for himself; no love provided

See! See! She has fallen, from glory to gloom She is doom

Perhaps Daniel B. Warner’s All Hail, Liberia, Hail lyrics are not in vain. Perhaps it was written to motivate us, to present a vision the country should follow, a step in the right direction, if you will. I thought it was time for Liberians to shape up to the meaning of the anthem or change the song altogether. I wrote another poem.

Wake up, Liberia!

Wake up! Wake up, Liberia! You are staying down too long Get up from your slumber It is long past time to rise

When a valiant falls, he rises again Look around you, see all those faces Waiting to see you rise Wake up! Wake up! Time flies on eagle’s wings The day is dawn, wake up!

We sailed on. Liberians on board who had never been to Sierra Leone did not know what to expect. They worried about what refugee life would be like. Sierra Leonean citizens had always been good and generous to Liberian refugees. In fact refugees in Sierra Leone live under far better conditions than those in other African countries. We spent a good part of the day watching schools of fish swim by and saw seagulls fish. We even saw what looked like a shark. Tired of the scenery, we settled down. My stomach growled. The only food I had eaten in five days was the loaf of bread at the home of our church friend, the night before we got to Freeport. I was okay then. Incessant gun battles in the BTC and the will to live had a way of minimizing hunger pangs. In the middle of the ocean, where there was nothing much to do but sit around in the cold, my hunger seemed to resurrect. I did not face the plight alone. Exhausted and starving kids, adults, and elderly people lay or sat on the wooden deck. Some looked like they would die soon. It was even tougher on people with children in our mist. Fending for oneself in times of war is one thing; fending for an entire family, especially with little ones, is a whole new ball game. I was glad it was just my sister and me. The huge blue tarpaulin stretched out over the deck to keep us in the shade from the sun flapped lightly in the sea breeze. I hoped for a new kind of life that did not render me helpless. Daylight gradually gave way to darkness. My mind wandered and my thoughts turned negative. I was too mentally and physically drained to fight off evil thoughts. Is this how the rest of my life would be spent? I asked myself. Perhaps it was time to be a realist and stop being a dreamer I reasoned that my life would

amount to nothing and that I was a failure. Death is better than life, I said to myself. A scripture that had helped me coped with life’s difficulties back in the Waterloo Refugee Camp came to mind yet again.

And the lord shall make thee the head, and not the tail; and thou shalt be above only, and thou shalt not be beneath; if that thou hearken unto the commandments of the lord thy God, which I command thee this day, to observe and do them. —Deuteronomy 28:13 (KJV) I recited the age at least three times and noted that it had a conditional clause. Success is based upon doing the right thing. Nothing good really happens unless a price is paid. I fell asleep. It must have been way past midnight. Morning came. The bright sunlight, clear blue sky and calm ocean waves, even the gracefulness of birds fishing should have been signs for a great day ahead of us. Under normal conditions, it would have, but not that day. Sickness struck us. At least four people vomited continuously. They complained of weakness, thirst, increased heart rate etc. Those were all symptom of cholera. One guy on the ship, Abdullah thought he was the meanest and most untouchable man who ever lived. He shouted for no reason but to wake people from their naps. And when he was told to quiet down, he would shout again and threaten to fight anyone who got in his way. We ignored him. My friend Dukuley came by to chat about random subjects. I caught his interest when I told him I had lived in Sierra Leone before. He asked me lots of questions about life being a refugee. Dukuley was a very friendly guy. He kept no secret. We had only met but it felt like I had known him for a long time. He was a member of the Mandingo tribe that was allied with the Krahns when the war first began. Like me, he judged an individual by his or her character. He was an ex-fighter.

* * *

35

BACK IN SIERRA LEONE

We arrived in Sierra Leone on Saturday, May 11, 1996. The number of sick people had increased dramatically, but there were no lives lost on board Victory Reefer. The first person to see lights shouted and everyone got up to look. Until that day, lights had never been that beautiful. Pessimism immediately vaporized. Seeing land once again worked wonders and gave me the strength to dream. Victory Reefer slowly approached the dock but stopped short. A patrol boat filled with the Sierra Leone soldiers approached. They inspected the ship, spoke with the captain in his cabin and went away. Then something happened that got us all frenetic. The ship began to move away from the dock and into deeper water. Sierra Leone government denied us entry and the captain was commanded to immediately move his ship back fifteen miles. With the nation still battling its own war, the last thing Sierra Leone government wanted was allow people who could very well have rebels among them into the country. Some of us had no documentation to show who we were; even if we did, there was no way to prove we had no connection to any rebel group. More so, Liberian mercenaries had become involved in the Sierra Leonean crisis. Some fighters from the United Liberation Movement for Democracy in Liberia ed and fought for Sierra Leonean military officers who overthrew the nation’s legitimate government. Our arrival presented a major problem for the government. It faced pressure from the international community, Amnesty International and other rights groups to take us. Newspapers were already printing the stories and televisions and radios stations broadcasted our dilemma all over the world. Then the government decided to allow only women and children to disembark and send away all men on board. That plan was aborted because doing so would separate families. Besides, it was ridiculous to assume all men were rebels. The leaders needed time to sought things out but desperate and sick refugees did not understand. A

delegation from the UN came on board and urged that we be patient. They promised to do everything within their powers to ensure that the government allowed us entry. Medicine San Frontier (MSF) workers arrived with boxes with medicine, high protein biscuits and heavily chlorinated water. It was like feeding a hungry pack of wolves. We devoured the food in no time. Sick people received treatment. The Red Cross arrived later with bread, sardines, and more medication. Abdullah, the untouchable confiscated a box of food that was supposed to be distributed among us. Still no one confronted him. Any form of violence on the ship would only add to our woes and show that Sierra Leone government was right about sending us away. By late evening, we knew there was no getting off the ship that day. At least we had some food in us. Filled with biscuits, bread, sardines, and chlorinated water after overindulging like there was no tomorrow, we enjoyed Mother Nature’s magnificence under a full moon. Stars sparkled as they danced in the calm ocean like diamonds under shallow water. To crown the serene ambiance, God dispatched all kinds of fish to put on a show. They chased each other, wrestled, and performed high jumps while we watched in awe of their gracefulness. Some of the fish shot up from the water like arrows, went as high as they could, nosedived and disappeared underwater immediately in one splendid performance. At the close of the ceremony, schools of multicolored fish swam very close to the ship. “Fish parade,” I thought to myself and laughed at my own silliness. Perhaps too much stress had finally driven me insane. Except for the cold temperature that we suffered without blankets, we were all right. Morning came. The government maintained its stance. We received more of the same food as the day dragged on. Fear of being turned back worsened our restlessness. By nightfall a few guys suggested swimming to shore. A canoe with two fishermen in it came by. Somebody on board the ship promised to pay the men if they would take him to land. They refused and left, but soon returned. The captain and his crew pretended they knew and saw nothing even as two ropes tied to the railing and dropped overboard mysteriously appeared. Fortunately, the moon did not shine as brightly as it did the other night. The canoe came right up to the ship. Two people climbed down the ship and into the canoe. They paid, and the fishermen rowed into the night. Further away from the ship, they turned on the motor attached to the back of the canoe and sped away. The men came back with two more canoes and friends. By morning, at least

thirty people had left the ship. The canoe men promised to return at nightfall and those that had money waited with eager anticipation. The unimaginable happened on the third night. The peaceful water suddenly turned turbulent. It began with a shift of wind that quickly blew low-hanging dark clouds over us. Clouds covered the sky like a black sheet. The captain of the ship got on the radio and called the port authority that still refused to allow us to the berth. The tempest built up speedily. Women and especially children entered and filled up the cabin. The rest of us remained on deck to face the storm and fight for survival. We held on to anything we could as the storm raged. Victory Reefer rocked violently from one side to another and bounced on high waves. Every time it tilted we were certain it would capsize. Lightning flashes revealed mountainous waves coming at us. They crashed against the vessel and threatened to smash it to pieces. Our cries drowned in clashes of thunder and the angry ocean. Silhouetted shadows and fear-stricken faces clutched on for dear life. Sweet Mother Nature now became a monster that preyed on the weak. The ocean threatened to swallow us into its big angry belly. Another lightening flash showed a growing wave. It got bigger as it drew closer and finally dwarfed the ship. We looked like midgets about to be trampled by an angry giant. The wave smashed onto the deck and washed everything it could to one side of the tilted vessel. I lost my grip, was tossed against objects as I slid feet first, and almost went through a hole into the side of the ship where an anchor was lowered into the dark water. By some miracle I grabbed the chain but not until my feet had gone through the opening and the inside of my knee banged against iron. Had I not held on I would have disappeared into the belly of the deep. My knee throbbed with unbearable pain and I remained in that position for a long time; I was unable to pull myself out. No cries for help were heard as the tempest swallowed up every shout in the chaos of the situation. When it finally ed about an hour later, some guys pulled me up. Nobody could explain why no life was lost. Ethel’s eye was injured during the storm. Something hit her. The untouchable Abdullah was shaken. Even when all was calm he clutched the ship and prayed to God, Jesus, Mary, Mohamed and probably Buddha all together in one repeated sentence. The guy prayed for forgiveness and promised to be a better man. Nobody found that funny until everyone settled down and the joking started. Abdullah was a changed man after the storm. He even laughed when he was teased and searched for the box of food he confiscated to divide

among us; only, it had disappeared into the ocean. Sunrise brought with it a bright rainbow. The waves returned to the calm we were used to. A boat filled with Sierra Leonean authorities and delegates from the United Nations arrived to inspect the damage. The captain was told to steer his ship to the dock where Red Cross volunteers waited to get on board and attend to the wounded. My sister’s injury was critical, so the authorities allowed the Red Cross to take her off the ship and to a hospital. There she got in with her husband who picked her up from the hospital. They returned and hung around the port waiting for me to somehow get off Victory Reefer. Now it was up to me to find a way to them. The opportunity presented itself when delegates from the Liberian refugee camp came to see us. They heard about Liberians that fled the April 6 war. The delegates brought food for us. Port authorities allowed some of them to take the food on board the ship. Some of them I knew from the Waterloo Camp. They told me that the refugee camp was relocated to Jui, a town closer to the city. Government soldiers and RUF rebels fought in the Waterloo area soon after we were repatriated to Liberia. I gathered all the necessary information to make my escape. When it was time for the Liberian delegates to leave, I pretended to be one of them. A military guard stopped me. Being truthful would not save me then. I later ed the delegates as they left the ship. A soldier stopped me. “Where are you going?” He asked. I responded in Krio, a national language spoken by over ninety percent of the nation’s population. The guard did not know that I had once lived in Sierra Leone so speaking the language would make him believe that I was not one of the new arrivals. “A de go back na camp,” I replied. Translated, it means “I am going back to the camp (Refugee Camp) He was taken aback. The guy was certain that I was not part of the delegation but confused all the same. So he pressed on just to trap me. “You nor to one of dem.” That means “You are not one of them.” “I been come wit dem from Jui,” I replied. That means I came along with them

from Jui. He asked for my name, “Wetim yu nem?” The soldier finally let me go when I began telling him the names of places in Sierra Leone, the school I attended and why the camp was moved etc. I ed Ethel and her husband who waited nearby. We left the port right away. So after seven days at sea, I set my feet on solid ground again. News reported later that apart from the ship’s crew and the ECOMOG soldiers, one thousand people came on the ship. There were nine hundred Sierra Leone citizens, forty Liberians, and additional citizens of Ghana and Guinea. The forty Liberians they counted, mainly women and children and a twelve-years-old girl who said she was a citizen of Sierra Leone but had no way to prove it, were turned back with the ship. The girl’s grandmother came too late to claim the kid. The ship had already left. United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees representative, Nini Akiwjumi was quoted as saying, “It is most disappointing and distressing that people were not given a proper chance to present their cases.” The authorities did not count the people that left the ship with the help of the canoe men nor did they count Ethel and me. We got off the ship before the counting process began. That may have made us the only Liberians that disembarked Victory Reefer. The Bulk Challenge ship encountered problems as well. The two thousand people on board arrived in the Ivory Coast on May 9, 1996, but were also turned back by the Ivorian government. It then went to Ghana and was shunted back and forth for three days before it finally got permission to dock. Liberians on board MV Zolotitsa did not get access to any country. The ship stalled at sea for twenty-two days and returned to Liberia with 450 Liberians who had tried to flee for their lives. West African countries wanted nothing to do with us anymore. Who could blame them for that?

* * *

36

JUI REFUGEE CAMP

When I recuperated from seasickness, and the swelling and pain in my knee got better, I went to see what the camp was really like. It would be my home for a long time. While the Waterloo Camp was built near the busiest road to the city, it took nearly thirty minutes walk from the motor road to Jui Camp. Whereas Waterloo was built on an old airfield and had transitioned from tents to mud and brick homes when we left, this new camp was built near a river that flooded with rising tides. Tiny white tents held down by ropes made up its buildings. Another thing, Waterloo was almost 25 times the size of Jui. Nevertheless, the new camp held one huge advantage over the previous one—closeness of a school. The Huntingdon Secondary School in Jui was literally a stone throw away. Anthony, my friend in the all boys singing group from Waterloo Camp now lived in Jui. He was happy to see me and prepared to take me in. News of my return had already circulated the small camp. I expected that since delegations from the camp that took food to the ship saw me. What really baffled me was that people in the camp already knew that I stayed in the besieged military barrack during the April 6 war that was still raging in Liberia. I had not told anybody about my stay in BTC. The ceasefire agreement was broken and fighting was renewed. Some people attributed my hurt and bandaged knee to a gunshot wound. A rumor that I fought in the war was already ed around. Visitors came to see me for various reasons. My friends were simply happy that I was alive and well. Many from my tribe came to get a firsthand report about the fight and BTC. Still others came to see the mysterious gunshot wound that they thought I had sustained in battle. “You got shot in the knee in battle is what everyone knows on Jui Camp,” Anthony said.

I took the bandage off and showed off my unscarred knee to quell the rumor. The last thing I wanted was create an active enemy from among people that hated my tribe and would do everything to hunt me down. “So where is the bullet wound?” many people asked when they saw no abrasion. It was only then that some became a little friendlier. Somebody asked me why the poorly armed Barclay Training Center had survived the onslaught from Charles Taylor’s and Alhaji Kromah’s well-armed fighters time and time again. “Do you think that the barrack was protected by zayglay or by God?” he asked. Zayglay is one of the names given to demonic powers that some fighters believed protected them from bullets. The Liberian war was full of juju rituals. Many soldiers from the different militia groups rebels carried charms that hung around their necks or were hidden somewhere on their bodies. They believed that these charms saved their lives. Personally, I did not witness bullets bouncing off of people who possessed the charms, but such stories are still very common in my country, most especially so during the war. Therefore, I cannot validate or nullify these stories. The closest I came to seeing such a thing was during my stay in the Barclay Training Center. A man left the barrack to check on his house during the brief ceasefire agreement on the very day that I went to see my mother’s apartment. Since he lived further away from our safe haven, people tried to talk him into not going. Even the Moore family did. The man disregarded reasoning and left anyhow. He returned to the barrack some time later, out of breath and as perspiring profusely. Tiny holes covered the back of his shirt. According to him, the doors and widows of his home were broken and the house was looted just like many homes in central city. The guy said that there was no sign of life in his neighborhood when he first arrived. He came out and sat on a stone in front of the building. Then, he heard something snapped and turned to see fighters coming toward him. He ran. The fighters chased and fired at him. The man said that he only had zayglay for guns, but not for knives or machetes. He removed his shirt and revealed a fetish tied around his waist and said, “This thing saved me.” ULIMO J’s General Butt Naked believed that his rituals protected him as well. There is no doubt that many fighters and some elders in the BTC prayed to their

own devils for protection. Therefore, when asked whether God or the devil had protected the barrack, I told my friends that God had protected me and would protect those who believe in him. I slowly settled in Jui and was again ready to start the never-ending debacle of our pitiful lives. This lack of stability presented us with no time to lay foundations for the future. Anything that grows needs time and not just a suitable but also a stable environment. Like other refugees, I was enrolled in the Huntingdon Secondary School. UNHCR helped to pay the fees. Anthony and my other friends took me to see Mr. J. C. Cole, the English instructor who was one of the best teachers in the school. He had acquired his Masters Degree in the United States, a proud accomplishment that he managed to weave into every conversation. “Did you know I got my masters in the United States?” he would say with a huge smile that illuminated his tiny face. “And oh, just so you know I do not get paid by the local school here. I get a big check directly from the Sierra Leone government.” The man rarely stayed in the teachers’ lounge or the huge room with divided cubicles that they used for an office. He said that his teacher friends had nothing better to discuss but gossip. He instead used a small room as his personal office. All of his co-workers knew better than to disrupt his lectures. Mr. Cole thought that disruptions robbed his students of their hard-earned tuition. One time, the principal wanted to speak to him. He was lecturing when the message came. “The principal would like to see you now, sir,” the messenger said. “Go tell the principal I am doing what I was paid to do, and that is to teach. When I am done, I will talk to him.” The messenger hesitated before adding, “It is an emergency, sir.” “Is he or anybody dying?” the teacher asked. “No,” said the messenger. “Well, then it is not an emergency,” Mr. Cole replied.

He did not leave class until the bell rang. I liked Mr. Cole right away. He was assertive. The man told us what we needed to hear, not what they wanted and he pushed every student to do better. He walked with a cane because he was handicapped in one leg. This did not bother him in any way. My friends asked whether he would let me become a member of the Form Five Green class that he presided over. Since there were too many students enrolled in all of the classes, each class was divided into four sections, and colors were given to represent the sessions. For example, there were four Form Five classrooms—green, yellow, blue, and red—and different teachers supervised each room. Mr. Cole said that only people with great minds could be in his class. I was put into one of the other classrooms but my friends insisted that Mr. Cole’s room was the place to be. The teachers told them that he could not move me into his class. Doing that would involve changing the school’s decision. I had just taken my seat in the other class on my first day of school when Mr. Cole entered. The other supervisor was not in yet. “Lawrence, take your books. You are going to be my student,” he said. I collected my books and followed. “If you do not prove yourself, I will kick you out,” he threatened. I became one of his three best students. The other two, John and Fatima, were student leaders. In the Sierra Leone school system, one boy and one girl are chosen by the students in collaboration with the principal and teachers to lead and represent the student body. They are given the titles “Head Boy” and “Head Girl.” Mr. Cole loved to see me fully engaged in his lectures. When I received the highest score on his first exam, an accomplishment only John and Fatima had achieved before I came onto the scene, Mr. Cole fuelled the flames of competition between John and me. Before long, our closest friends were drawn into the rivalry. Jealousy entered the picture when Fatima and I became friends. I had a crush on Fatima that began the first day we met. To me, she was not just beautiful; she was breathtaking and very intelligent. The girl was an integral part of what Mr. Cole called his “Ring of Three.” That ring consisted of John, Fatima, and me. Fatima’s looks and charisma captivated every boy both on—and off-campus. She was a Liberian, but came from a family that, compared to mine

was considered to be very wealthy. Her dad once worked for the government of Liberia. Although a political refugee in Sierra Leone like me, Fatima had never lived on any of the camps. She rented a suite on the upper floor of a decent house close to Freetown and was sponsored by relatives who lived in the United States. When she came on camp, it was only to see her friends. The girl looked like a model, dressed like a model and acted like one. Frankly, that intimidated me. John and Fatima were close friends long before my return to Sierra Leone and enrollment at Huntingdon. It was even rumored that they were lovers. However, for some reason—and this may have been the newfound competitiveness that was becoming a Sierra Leonean versus Liberian thing—the two student leaders drifted apart. That gave me the opportunity to engage Fatima in small talks, but my nervousness was apparent. Truth be told, my intention was beyond friendship. I wanted a relationship, but was too chicken to tell her this because I thought she would say no. I was fighting the worst battle that any man can ever face—the battle of self-degradation. I believed that she was too high class for me. Therefore I rendered the guilt verdict on myself and not let her do so. “Come on, Lawrence, the difference in your financial status is like night and day,” I thought. “You are mauled by poverty and cannot even feed yourself. How in the world will you keep up, even if she agrees to your proposal? The girl receives U.S. dollar bills every month while you don’t even know what a U.S. dollar bill looks like.” My self-punishment continued. I was hand-washing my clothes one day in camp when I saw her approach. My heart skipped a beat, and I fought to get my nerves under control. “Hey,” she said. “Going home?” I asked in such a low voice that I doubted she heard my question at all but she did. Fatima She was indeed on her way home. Not knowing what else to do, I said the first thing that came to mind—good-bye. She nodded and walked away. I got back to washing, but my hands failed me since my mind and nerves refused to function. The girl was walking the thirty minutes to the bus stop alone. Perhaps escorting her would help me to overcome my nerves. I dropped my clothes in the bucket and ran after her. “Where are you running to?” she asked when she saw me.

“To you,” I said. “What happened?” She looked confused. “Are you walking alone?” I realized that the question was silly because nobody was with her. “Um… yes,” she said and gestured. I said, “Don’t mind me; I can be very silly sometimes.” Now, that made her to laugh. “Do you mind if I walk you?” I said. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?” Fatima asked. “I was hoping you did.” I just shrugged. Surprisingly, nobody had offered to escort her to the bus stop before. Perhaps like me, the other refugee boys were intimidated by her presence. I was glad to be the first. Still, instead of telling her about my real intentions, I chickened out again. I had no problem giving a speech before thousands of students or a church congregation. Yet when I came face to face with that one girl, I could not express myself. Inferiority complex quashed my courage every time. “Perhaps it is better we stay friends,” I said to myself, rationalizing my inability.

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37

SCHOOL DEBATE

Time went by quickly. I couldn’t believe that ten months had ed since my return to Sierra Leone. Mr. J.C. Cole, our teacher organized a debate in his class. He selected four students, two on each team, to argue a very controversial topic. Fatima and I happened to be on the same team. John and another classmate, Rebecca formed the other team. When the day arrived, Mr. Cole introduced us and the debate began.

INTRODUCTION

J. C. Cole: Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to welcome all of you here today. The two teams of debaters are your very own. They will argue to help expand our horizons on the resolution: The Problems of Africa Are with Africans Themselves. You, the audience, have the opportunity to be the judges. Without much ado, me in welcoming Mr. Lawrence Zarkpah and Ms. Fatima Fofana, our first team that will debate the affirmative. Next, let us welcome Mr. John Bassie and Ms. Rebecca Dumbuyah, the second team, who will argue the negative. Ladies and gentlemen, I present Ms. Fatima Fofana.

AFFIRMATIVE 1

FATIMA: RESOLVE: The problems of Africa are with Africans themselves. It is easy to point fingers and shift the blame to external causes for the failures in one’s life, or in this case, an entire continent. But ing on the blame does not solve anything. At the end of the day, our problems still stand as tall and as immovable as always. Taking responsibility for one’s own actions is the first step to recovery. Those who will not do so go nowhere in life. My brother and sister here will try to persuade you today to believe that the problems of Africa lie beyond the borders of the continent. But while it may sound pleasing to the ears, this does not mean that everything they say is true. My opponents will take a little fact and spin a wild web in order to try to convince you. If you are not careful, they will carry you away. Our team, on the contrary, will show you that we, collectively as Africans, and individually as people, are the hindrances to our development and prosperity. If we are willing to do what is necessary, we will reap the benefits. Until we are ready to do just that, we will always be known as the Dark Continent. Africa is still the world’s richest continent in of mineral reserves. Yet we remain among its poorest people, even while possessing 30 percent of the planet’s mineral reserves; 60 percent of its cobalt and 90 percent of its platinum group metal (PGM) reserves. We also possess much gold, and about half of the world’s diamonds are mined in Africa. There is the potential for us to build hydroelectricity or solar energy that can power up all of Africa, yet we remain in darkness. I’ll tell you why that is so. We lack leadership with vision and knowledge and therefore we perish. Instead of using what we have to get what we want, our leaders exploit our resources and sell them to foreign countries for almost nothing. Look, friends, everything that Africa needs to prosper and progress is right here at our feet and in our hands, but our greed and ignorance holds us captive. Something is seriously wrong with us.

NEGATIVE 1

JOHN: I am here to remind you about what has long existed back to the times of

our ancestors and still exists among us today but in different forms. It is typical for people to classify Africa’s conflicts and catastrophes as the result of greed and tribal differences. But that has not always been true. Considering, without proper knowledge, that tribal conflict and greed are the causes of our conflicts is dead wrong. Such stereotypical news reports prevent people from investigating for themselves the underlying reasons for the wars that claim hundreds of thousands of innocent lives every year. I am not naïve to the fact that there are problems among us Africans. We face challenges among ourselves, just like everybody else anywhere in the world. Evil does exist, but not in Africa alone. Africa, however, appears to be the safe haven for evil because people get away with their crimes here way too easily, even if they are not Africans. Powerful nations that promote chaos among us in order to have easy access to our natural resources are perils to African prosperity. They tear down and decimate anybody or anything that stands in the way of their greed. And nobody seems to pay attention to this. The quest to dominate the world at all costs has produced a circle of unimaginable devastation that ripples throughout our societies today. Many of our problems are deeply embedded in the past and present intents of powerful governments outside of Africa that intend to control our massive wealth. There was a time when we depended upon ourselves. Then the world powers swung upon us and ripped us apart like vultures. Our men, women, and children were murdered in cold blood. Many were chained together by their hands, feet, and necks and carried on ships to unknown lands where they were enslaved on plantations, in factories, and in homes. Our sweat and blood helped our oppressors to prosper. We built their economies. Everything they needed to prosper then and now has never and will never be found in their lands; just like whatever we need is not in ours. For this reason, mutual understanding and coexistence is necessary. You help to strengthen my weaknesses, and I can help to strengthen yours. However, that has never been the case. Powerful countries exploit our weaknesses. They extract our resources and give us virtually nothing in return. We suffer the losses, they enjoy the profits. That has been the nature of our relationship since the beginning of time. Foreign powers are predators, and Africa is their prey.

AFFIRMATIVE 2

LAWRENCE: The relationship between foreign countries and ours has nothing to do with their being predators and we their prey. The difference is not even based on superiority and inferiority, although I must sadly it that, by our actions, we so easily show ourselves inferior. What makes foreign nations different from us has always been a matter of choice. While they choose the ballot box to settle their differences, we choose the barrel of a gun. Where they choose hard work and dedication, we choose laziness and embezzlement. They choose to build, and we choose to destroy. They choose to stretch out their hands to give freely; we choose to open our arms to take by force. And while they choose to rule, we choose to be ruled. My friend there talked about coexistence, so let me talk about it also. Should I? Tell me, is it coexistence when all we do is rely on charities from taxpayers of other nations to clothe us, feed us, bind our wounds, and send our kids to school while we do nothing but kill each other? Is it coexistence when our governments cannot function properly until they receive charity and donations from foreign countries? And when they receive these donations, there is no of how the funds are used. Is that our definition of coexistence? I will tell you what that is—complete dependence on foreign aid. Good things do not come from providence. The thought of that alone is killing us. Our dependency on foreign aid and donations is causing us to remain enslaved in the twenty-first century. It remains true that the more dependent you are on somebody, the more control that person has over you. We consume and fail to produce and reproduce. Our leaders have no winning formula, which is one of the reasons we remain in a state of utmost poverty. Although millions of dollars from outside the continent are invested into our countries every year, there is no proof of how these funds are spent. Our leaders pocket the money. The hundreds of millions that they steal during their extended years in office, they save in foreign bank s. Many of these s are opened under different names. And when they die or are forced out of office, those s are frozen. The country’s money, which was supposed to be used for development and other purposes, only benefits other countries while we perish in lack. Yet we want to blame others for our tragedies.

African leaders are failing us miserably. A whole lot of them are incompetent and corrupt. Instead of working for the people, they work for themselves. They bend and break the laws in order to satisfy their selfish wants and secret agendas. And when their in office expire, they refuse to step down. They cheat the ballot and change constitutions to extend their years in office. They allow wars to destroy their peoples and countries rather than cede power to others. In the end, we are left in a more deplorable condition than we were when our leaders first took the oath of office. And who do we blame for this, foreign governments? Our young generations grow up knowing only the language of violence and war. The generations that are supposed to be our future leaders grow up in poor, outof-control, flea-infested refugee camps with little or no education. Some of them different rebel groups just to survive, and our older civilians take up arms to protect their families. The end result is anarchy, rape, massacre, vandalism, and hatred that linger among us for decades. How are we supposed to compete with the rest of the world when we kill our future? How are we supposed to advance and prosper when we turn our children into killing machines and weapons of destruction? But still we blame others for the tragedies we put on ourselves. Do not make the mistake of blaming others. Fellow Africans, we are our own problems, and we can change our situations if we are willing.

NEGATIVE 2

REBECCA: I find it interesting when people talk about foreign governments donating millions of dollars to help Africa. I’ll tell you this; no donation comes without a price tag. For every penny that we receive they are guaranteed double, triple, or more benefit in return. A free lunch does not exist. If there is nothing in it for them, foreign governments and entities will watch you die, period. An example can be seen in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. There was every indication that the massacre would occur. The world did nothing to prevent it. When the genocide finally started, all of the superpowers stood by and watched. The Germans, the Belgians, and the French, whose devilish major roles in the

country led to the genocide, pretended as though they had nothing to do with it. Nobody intervened because they had nothing to profit from it. They would not even use the term “genocide.” After 400-plus years of slavery, some ex-slaves returned to Africa. Many were dropped off at different geographical locations, not where they originally came from. This set up territorial conflicts that still loom among us today. Our Western and European overseers that brought our forefathers back to Africa decided to stay on our lands and, according to them, colonize us and make us civilized. But there was only one difference between the words “slavery” and “colonization.” In slavery, we were taken from our lands to theirs by force in order to enrich them. In colonization, they forced themselves upon us and captured our lands to take our resources back to their countries.

AFFIRMATIVE 3

FATIMA: Nobody is arguing against the devastation on Africa caused by the slave trade. The gruesome stories of torture and death still send chills down our spines. We are not saying that colonialism did not yield brutal and regrettable experiences for us. The whole world knows the great evil that befell us. How long will we dig up and lick the wounds of the past? Can we also see that which is equally true? That although some of us find it a constant point of argument to blame all of our mishaps on others, we still remain enslaved to the suppressions, corruptions, genocides, and ignorance of our own leaders. Listen, the greatest enemy is not those from the outside, but those from within. If everyone within is united, no power from out there will triumph over us. A divided house cannot stand. Our elders say, “If your house does not sell you, nobody is going to buy you.” We’ve been at this crossroads for a long time. This is a crossroads about remaining locked up in the past or moving into the future. We are at the crossroads of continually playing the blame game and going nowhere, or taking responsibility and fixing the problem among ourselves so that we can get somewhere. No matter how loud you shout the past from the mountain top, it

still remains the past. True liberation begins in the mind. So anyone who still holds on to the past days of slavery is not enslaved to Europe and the West, but enslaved to him or herself. Bob Marley once sang, “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.” Time is overdue to forget the past, live in the present, and prepare for the future. My brothers keep portraying the rest of the world as full of evil, violence, and just waiting out there to devour us. While there is a little truth in that, the only place that violence is at its peak is here in Africa. Have we wondered why? Are we fair enough to look at the incidents from both sides of the spectrum? Or are we being a little more self-righteous?

NEGATIVE 3

JOHN: European and Western governments behave like they are not involved in destroying Africa. If an African president refuses to do the biddings of the European and Western powers and stands up to them, he becomes an enemy and risks assassination. His government is undermined by secret agents who seek to replace the president with an opposition who will succumb to Western and European dominance. The opposition then is empowered and ed in the forms of promises, funds, and ammunition, whatever it takes to usurp the African leader who refuses to yield to the foreign powers. This leads to extended civil wars. The Western and European arms dealings, a multibillion-dollar industry, brings in revenue to the dealers who trade the weapons to rebel groups for blood diamonds, oil, and other African mineral reserves that are exploited and sold on black markets. Ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake. Since the day that explorers set foot on African soil and discovered our wealth, Africa has remained locked in the jaws of foreign powers. Great African leaders were murdered or overthrown by foreign powers. Congo’s Prime Minister Patrice Emery Lumumba was assassinated a few months after he took office by foreign agents because he advocated for independence from foreign dominance. This was by no means a tribal conflict. His death came about as a result of brutal Belgian rule.

Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah’s overthrow occurred on January 26, 1966, one month after the inauguration of his famous project, the Akosombo Dam. Few lucky African leaders like Jomo Kenyatta of Kenya and Nelson Mandela of South Africa spent years in jail because they spoke the truth. Guns from the Cold War, which were supplied to African countries like Congo, Ethiopia, Eritrea, Somalia, and Angola, intensified struggles and added to the bloodshed in civil conflicts. Up to 1990, some of these weapons were still being used, and until now, thousands of land mines are blowing up and killing farmers. The human, social, and economic wounds that were the result of the Cold War still affect us. How can anyone ignore the vast contributions of foreign powers to the afflictions of Africa? How can the world say that Africa’s problems are solely the result of tribal conflicts? I challenge anyone listening to the sound of my voice to investigate for himself or herself, if not for anyone else, just to know the underlying truth behind Africa’s problems. Brothers and sisters, if Africa must improve, if the wars in this continent must end, it is going to take the sincerity of powerful governments to stop their clandestine operations among us. They must make amends for their wrongs. They must stop supplying arms and ammunitions to rebel leaders and corrupt governments. But they will not stop because Africa is the money well.

AFFIRMATIVE 4

LAWRENCE: My brother argues that foreign powers infiltrate our governments to control our wealth. If that is true, we can blame ourselves for allowing outsiders to control us. If patriotism is stronger than greed, we don’t have to worry about what’s coming from outside. They argue that external forces propagate assassinations of good leaders by promoting opposition and supplying the weapons used to carry on carnage. If that is true, then the question becomes, who is pulling the trigger? Who is using machetes to chop off people’s limbs and heads? The last time I checked, it was

not a white man. It wasn’t a European. It was Africans killing each other. It was your tribe and my tribe butchering each other. Any man that lets his country and his people suffer by illegally extracting minerals to purchase weapons to kill more of his own is liable for whatever happens. So why should we blame the arms dealers? If you do not offer to buy the weapons, they will not sell them. What Africa needs is love, wisdom, and comion. What Africa needs is a new breed of people, a generation interested in nation-building, leaders with visions for their people. Personal and collective success comes with a price tag— sacrifice and hard work. If we cannot work on those things for ourselves, nobody will. We hold the future of our children in our hands. Let us not continue to be ignorant like our fathers. The problem with Africa is Africans.

NEGATIVE 4

REBECCA: Sometimes, you don’t have to allow something in before it happens to you. We did not allow the Scramble for Africa. It was forced upon us. We did not request colonial rule; it was shoved down our throats. If foreign powers will just leave us alone, things will be better. We do not have to possess all the riches of the world and live in skyscrapers to enjoy life. Wealth has never been and will never be the answer to peace. thank you. The audience voted in favor of the other team, 51% to 49 percent. It was a close call, but that reflected the opinion of many Africans. Although we have problems among ourselves, many people believe that most of our conflicts are not only rooted in our pasts but in clandestine operations in the present as well. Thankfully, the debate was over. It was time to concentrate and prepare for the West African Examination Council’s (WEAC) testing, which was required before graduation.

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38

THE WORLD WE LIVE IN

We live in a world that sometimes blesses the unjust and destroys the righteous. According to conventional wisdom, good things are bound to happen if you work hard. That is not always true. Some people work hard and smart but get nowhere, while good things seem to line up for others who do not even try. Yet this must not stop hard workers from trying just as it should not encourage the lazy to do nothing. One thing remains true. When wise men and women unite under a common banner and sacrifice all they can to build a foundation for future generations, and those generations keep building on the legacies ed on to them by the forefathers, their world will continue to expand and the lives of all who live in it will be blessed. That is something I marvel at in developed countries, and the United States in particular, since that is the only other place I have been. Africa has either never grasped this common knowledge or the people simply refuse to do so. A vast majority of our leaders do not build legacies for their countries. The very few that do find whatever they left behind destroyed by whoever comes after them. It shames and scares me that Africa may continue down the path of destruction until the world is no more. This poem is written to show some ways in which Africa differs to the United States and what the African continent could have been like if we possessed the same kind of unity the great nation has.

THE USA

If Africa can be one And let all differences be gone If her countries be united And all hearts are not divided If her countries be called states And among them no one hates If her riches be for all And each answers to her brothers’ call If there could be but one president And love for every African be evident If the leaders for the state be senators And govern not as dictators If there could be two political parties That will behave not as warring armies And if there is one constitution That leads no African to destitution Then Africa could be called The United States of Africa The USA

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39

SHATTERED HOPES, BROKEN DREAMS

The West African Examination Council (WAEC) testing was only a few weeks away. If there had ever been a chance to fulfill my dream in Africa, it hinged on how well I performed on the exams. I spent an extra five hours studying after school everyday and at least ten hours on weekends. The riverbank became my place to read during the day. Candles or kerosene lamp provided light at night. Bedtime was midnight and wake-up time at 4:00 a.m. so that I could read over what I studied previously before a quick cold bath and school. With that very strict schedule, I covered all of the study materials one week in advance and felt very confident. Yet something else was lurking—fear. I was afraid that the exam would be cancelled. Political instability once again showed its ugly head. Military helicopters flew back and forth over us to the Hasting Airport that was not too far from Jui Camp. A military barrack built at the junction of the camp and the main road became very active. Soldiers with guns were seen everywhere. Students of military parents or siblings brought pistols to school. Tension built with each ing day. I hoped for the exam to be over before hell reigned. The first day to take the WAEC exam finally came. We gathered in front of the examination hall and waited for the bell to ring. That would be the signal for us to enter the hall. I had a good sleep that night and felt refreshed and ready. Another military helicopter flew over us yet again. War tanks roamed the streets. The noise was deafening. Anxiety tried to weaken me. I sat under a tree and leaned against its massive trunk. Like I always did to keep my mind focused, I closed my eyes to calm my nerves. “Are you all right?” a voice asked. I did not need to open my eyes to know that it was Fatima. “Yes,” I said.

“Are you ready?” she asked. “I have never been more ready for anything in my life.” I said. She chuckled and with that turned my heart to butter. The bell rang. We entered and sat at the desks indicated by our name tags. The questions were already on our tables. Just when we began, there was an explosion nearby. Everyone jumped up, ready to run. The explosion was from a car tire. With our hearts still racing, we sat down and continued. It was not a conducive environment for taking any kind of test, especially one of such magnitude. In the middle of testing, noise from a loud rumbling low-flying helicopter brought us to our feet once again. Everyone, including the examiners ran outside. The copter carried a war tank in a big green net. The distraction was too much for two students to handle. They took their bags and walked out. The rest of us continued the test. I completed my test and went outside at about the same time Fatima did. We completed two courses that day. Two more awaited us the next day. I walked her to the bus stop, waited till the bus drove away, and went back to camp. On May 25, 1997 at about 5:00a.m. the next morning, a group of seventeen Sierra Leonean officers staged a military coup that rocked the nation and renewed fighting in the capital city and its surrounding areas. They stormed a prison and released Major Johnny Paul Koroma who had been detained earlier for alleged coup plotting. Major Koroma took charge of the operations and more soldiers ed him. My worst nightmare came to yet again. Explosions from bombing and shooting woke us from sleep. Soldiers from the military barrack near the camp found themselves caught in a dilemma. Some of them ed the coup and others stood against it. It wasn’t long before they started fighting each other and by doing so, blocked the intersection leading to the camp and boxed us in. The only other possible route to escape the camp was by way of the swamp, but the tide had risen to an extraordinary high early that morning. Our fates were sealed. Our chance to survive worsened because some of our Liberian brothers, once part of the ULIMO rebel group, had become mercenaries for the Sierra Leone government. They were actively involved in the fight. A special camp built for them was only about two miles away from the Jui Refugee Camp we lived in, too close for comfort. Again they often came on our camp.

There was no telling the difference between Liberian mercenaries and Liberian refugees, so all of us were classified as mercenaries. Terrified refugees dashed in and out of their tents with bundles of their most precious possessions: pots, pans, food, and whatever clothes they possessed. Parents dragged their children along even though there was nowhere to run. The earth quaked with explosions. Anyone will think that I should have been used to the scenery of unwanted early morning fireworks and balls of flames. I was not used to that. No one gets used to being killed because literally, death happens once. I had to fight and keep the breath that I so cherish. Yet death was only secondary to what preoccupied my thoughts that morning. I knew that it was the end of the examination, at least for a long time. With my hopes shattered and dreams broken, it was time to run again. Just like many times, I found myself powerless against the devils that sought to destroy me. I believed that God was too slow to act and became mad that He allowed the innocent to suffer at the hands of the wicked. We remained in camp and waited. The mercenary camp was visible across the quagmire and so was the bridge that connected the Jui Junction road to that which led to Freetown. Some soldiers that ed the coup plot tried to cross the bridge to get to the city. They encountered resistance from the Liberian mercenaries who ed the ruling government. From the refugee camp, we witnessed the fight that took place on the bridge. The battle raged but the bridge was taken. The shootings stopped sometime later. We saw many civilians that wanted to get to Freetown crossed the bridge. It was better for us refugees to go to the Liberian Embassy in Freetown then o remain on the camp that was opened to any gunman. Besides, my sister and her husband lived in the city and I wanted to get to them. A family friend had taken them in when political tension in the city escalated. Other citizens ed the train of refugee leaving the area. I reached Freetown and reconnected with Ethel and her husband. The Mussah family that owned the house planned to go to Guinea, a neighboring French-speaking African country. They chartered a bus and wanted us to go along. I refused to flee to yet another country and hoped that somehow the political situation in Freetown would calm again. I did not want to miss the WEAC exam in case it was continued. Going to Guinea meant putting school on hold for a long time since I had to first learn to speak and write the French language. Even with that opportunity to continue my education was not guaranteed. We got report the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees was giving no scholarship to Liberians. Tarrying in Sierra Leone seemed the best thing to do.

My sister’s husband did not want to leave either. He was working on some projects that had started to materialize when the coup happened. She did everything possible to make us change our minds and failed. Instead we convinced her to go with the Mussah family. When they got to Guinea, she would stay at the Liberian Embassy where many Liberians already lived. We promised to follow if situation did not improve in Sierra Leone. With her gone, it would be easier for us men to survive hell if it came to that. The chartered bus arrived two days later. Everybody but my brother-in-law and I stayed. Let me just say that Hell opened up after they left. The fight consumed the city. Mrs. Mussah planted a little garden in the yard. The sweet potatoes, corn, and bananas that she tended were not fully grown, but we ate them anyway since there was nothing else to eat. Thieves came at night and took whatever they could. Day and night, the fight continued and death toll rose. We remained in the house most of the time. Just like they were deployed in Liberia, ECOMOG also was in Sierra Leone. Military helicopters and peacekeepers jet bombers thundered in the sky. Everything in the city and beyond shut down, including businesses, government offices, and schools. It became clear that the high school examination was not going to continue after all. Many who had the opportunity to flee Sierra Leone did. Our decision to stay in the country proved to be very unwise. With no money to get out, we found ourselves stuck. Ethel called from Guinea on a few occasions to check on us until the telephone line went down and communication was severed. Ethel took the risk and came back for us. Her unexpected return said little than the rage in her body language. It was certain that she did not come back to negotiate with us; she came to eradicate any reason that we may still hold to stay in Sierra Leone. If she had to drag us along, my sister came prepared to do just that. However, dragging us was not necessary since we had had enough. My brother-in-law took me aside. “Say yes to whatever your sister say and do not argue with her.” He said. Even if I was insane at that time, there is no way I could have had the courage to argue after seeing the look in her eyes. “Get your things, we are going to Guinea.” She ordered. We did. While in Guinea, Ethel made some phone calls to people she knew that

lived in the United States and asked for money to get us out of Sierra Leone. We found a taxi that took us to the Guinean border. Another chapter of my life story in Sierra Leone closed.

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40

ESCAPE TO GUINEA

We arrived at the border very late in the evening and were not surprised by the large crowd of people that waited to be checked into Guinea. The bamboozled expressions on their faces reminded me all too well of the time we first left Liberia and crossed into Sierra Leone. Now accustomed to the harsh realities of refugee life, we appeared more settled than the others, even though every indication suggested that Guinea was going to be more difficult than Sierra Leone. Our first encounter with the Guinea soldiers at the border gave us a taste of what awaited us. Although some of them knew how to speak English, the soldiers preferred speaking the French language they very well knew we did not speak or understand. In early July 1997, we crossed into Guinea and boarded another overloaded taxi. It took us through the countryside and to the Conakry, the capital of Guinea. We got to the Liberian Embassy Residence and ed several hundred other Liberian refugees who had no where else to stay. We spread sheets and slept on floor, occupying nearly every inch of space. Since the place was too small, most of us men slept under the trees in the yard at night. When it rained, we clustered indoors and sat down or stood up to accommodate those that usually slept outside. Whatever cash Ethel had saved was depleted in no time. The real challenges that refugees faced in Guinea unfolded unlike anything we had experienced in Sierra Leone. Not knowing French was not just our problem. Many citizens of the country did not know the language either. With a literacy rate of 29.5 percent, the citizens spoke native tongues that sounded unreal to us. When we tried to communicate in whatever broken French phrases we managed to pick up over time, some Guineans responded in one of their many native tongues and confused us even more. To add to our quandary, some policemen and soldiers patrolled the marketplaces and waited at checkpoints to arrest refugees and rob us of whatever

money we had or of valuables like wristwatches and chains. They would begin by asking to see our documents that proved we were granted permission to stay in Guinea. Well, many of us were not issued any kind of document. Besides, asking for identification cards was only a front since those with them were also robbed. The soldiers and police would then carry us to waiting vehicles and empty our pockets, purses and bags. Then they threatened us with imprisonment, deportation, and sometimes even accusation of the dreadful crime of being rebels. In the end, we begged them and they set us free, but not with our money or jewelry. Any argument or stubbornness on our part only worsened the situation. We were only too grateful to get away. I was arrested twice and robbed once. In my second arrest, the soldiers searched and found nothing of value. They threatened me with imprisonment or flogging for having no money to pay for my release when I did nothing wrong in the first place. I was thrown into a military van and driven at least ten miles away from Medina Market, the place I was singled out from the crowd. They finally kicked me out of their vehicle when I told them that there was nobody to bail me out. According to estimates recorded in the CIA World Fact Book, 47 percent of Guineans live below the poverty line. Job opportunities, manual labor or not were given to fellow citizens, not to refugees. Even with all the terrible things mentioned, some Guineans proved to be some of the greatest friends I ever had. I met one of such friends during my stay at the Liberian Embassy. Every morning and evening when bored, I walked out to the fence and strolled the short distance to the main road. A guy my age and his sister always sat right outside their fence just chatting or reading a book. They watched me go by every time and occasionally nodded when I waved. One day I stopped to talk to the guy who sat outside alone. “Bonsoir,” I said and was surprised at the response I got. “Hi,” the guy said very excitedly. It seemed like he had been waiting for me to stop and was glad that I finally did. “Me like Anglais.” He was experimenting with his English skills. He either forgot to translate the word Anglais, which means English, or simply thought the word was pronounced the same way in both languages.

“Oh, yes? I love French too but do not know how to speak the language,” I replied. “Français easy, Anglais difficile,” he went on. He meant that French language is easy and English is difficult. I saw that he had a French/English dictionary. This was my chance to learn French. I was about to ask him to teach me a few phrases when he proposed the same idea. “You tease me Anglais, me tease you Français, good?” “Yes, good, but the words are pronounced, ‘teach,’ not tease and ‘English,’ not ‘Anglais,” I corrected. “T-e-a-c-h,” my new friend repeated and was elated that he said the word right. Then he tried the other, “An-g-l-i-s-h” and jumped from his seat to give me a big hug. He was too excited so I let the second pronunciation ed without correcting it. His sister came out to see what the excitement was about. Whatever he explained to her sounded alien to me, but I knew that it was full of arrogance. She only shook her head and watched as her brother pretended to be an Englishman. That was the beginning of our friendship. My new friend’s name was François. He waited for me outside the fence every evening, and we tried to teach each other the best way we could. I was soon invited to his family’s house. François and his sister Brigitte lived with their parents. Both parents worked for the government. They were as friendly as the kids. The father joked about being next in line to learn English. My friend taught me a sentence during one of my visits. “Say, Je t’aime,” he said. I repeated what he said and asked him to tell me the meaning. “It is quelque chose bien. You see.” He continued to use both French and English words in the same sentence. He told me to say that to Brigitte. I sensed mischief but he convinced me with a

straight face to tell his sister that. When she came out, I did as I was told. The girl blushed and François could not contain his laughter. “You say you love her,” he teased. “Well, you should teach me more of that kind of stuff next time,” I joked and we all laughed. Life got tougher at the Liberian Embassy. I moved to the Farmoriah Refugee Camp to with UN and receive food supplies. Farmoriah was as remote as Malima Junction in Sierra Leone. Only in Sierra Leone we spoke English with the villages. I was not prepared to live like we did at the Junction. I was ready to get out the first day I arrived in the camp but had to stay because we depended on that. Two months went by. Still the registration did not happen nor did I get any food supply. I lived on whatever friends could spare. Ethel and her husband came to see me since there was no telephone to communicate. My brother-in-law was asked to help pastor a small newly established church new Freetown. He gladly took the position and with the stipend he received rented a two bedroom apartment with another Liberian family. As the job was temporary and his salary not guaranteed, discretion in spending the little cash was very essential. The apartment had a small living. Compared to the Liberian Embassy and the refugee camp, the apartment was heaven. I taught myself to play a bass guitar over the years and it came handy at the new church with a predominant refugee congregation. I did not know how to read music, still doesn’t but everybody thought I knew how. I could hear a song and learn how to play it in no time. We still struggled to pay rent and obtain basic necessities, but remained grateful for the place we called home. The landlady made it a point to constantly remind us in the middle of the month that rent was due soon. My sister’s husband received news that his mom was okay and still in Liberia. He went to find her and was away when we were evicted. I then started to attend another church, the Bethel World Outreach Ministries, where I made new friends and also played the bass guitar on few occasions. Bethel’s Pastor Siafa M. Getaweh asked me about my family just when the eviction was issued. I told him about it and he offered to lodge us until we got another apartment. The pastor already had many people staying with him. As long as my sister had a place to lay hr head, I was okay and cold manage elsewhere. Mr. and Mrs. Gaylah who happened to be of my tribes took me in. They had a huge family too.

For a very long time I would spend the night sleeping in their living room, get up early and wandered the streets all day till it was bedtime again. My sister’s husband returned from Liberia. Pastor Getaweh was glad to see him and not only offered him an opportunity to serve in his church but helped them get back on their feet. Worship services were conducted in both French and English. There could be no better way to learn. I improved my knowledge of the French language in church. With no scholarship available, school was delayed for several years and church work kept me sane. I finally obtained a temporary job as a housekeeper for a Guinean businessman and his family. My job included cleaning the house, tending the yard, doing laundry, and ironing clothes for a family of eight etc. I was paid the equivalent $10 USD a month. Four months into the job, I was replaced by a relative of the family. She needed a job and I was not family but a refugee. I hoped for better days and scrapped my way through. Uncle Belh always said that every man must learn how to stand up in the midst of storms. We never appreciated his tough rules and treatment. Yet I can not deny that my ability to stay the course no matter what was the result of my time spent with him. It was paying off after all. I needed to thank him for that and give him updates about our whereabouts. I wrote him a letter:

Dear Pa,

I bring you greetings from Conakry, Guinea. Although our escape from the April 6th war in Liberia was not an easy one, we made it back to Sierra Leone where I was enrolled in school to continue the path to education, one that you set me on when I was still a child. All was okay for a while. We even began the West Africa Exam but the political instability in Sierra Leone intensified and a fresh round of gun battles rocked the entire city and beyond. Like many times before, we found ourselves scrambling for survival. It seems like war and brutality will continue to be our story. We can only hope that all this will come to an end one day. By God’s grace and if I am still alive, we will tell stories of the senseless wars that tried to destroy entire nations and our numerous escape from the hands of death.

However, the main reason for writing this letter is to thank you for being there for us. Thank you for taking the headache and the pain we caused. You were not obligated to take on the responsibility but you helped us anyway. I am glad for the light you shone in my darkness. Thank you for sending me to school and instilling within me the importance of education. Thank you for showing me the right way a man must conduct his life, in the midst of lack or abundance and teaching me how to stand in the storm. All the struggles we so hated to endure were only meant to make us stronger. Indeed, it is through trials that we learn patience and endurance. The values we almost neglected then are now paying off in these times of war. Without them, I would be lost or dead but I am still standing and weathering the storm. Thanks for being my dad when my dad was nowhere around to help. Once again, thank you for everything. i love you.

From your son, Lawrence

Verbal expression of love was never practiced in Uncle’s household. In fact, I never heard anybody say I love you until I moved out. An occasional tap on the back from one of us to the other or a thank you showed that we loved each other. Uncle expected the best from us and demanded nothing less. He sent me a reply sometime later. In the letter he wrote me, my uncle said that he wept when he read my letter. He ever closed his letter with the words I never heard him utter at anytime in his life. It said, “I LOVE YOU: FROM YOUR DAD.” I understand that for some people those words do not mean much. To me, they meant the world. Bethel Church was one of many churches established by refugees that quickly incorporated citizens as well. It ran on very little capital and occasionally no fund. Like others, I spent most of my time doing church work but was never financially compensated for what I did. Yet it was always worth it, especially for us refugees. The church gave us hope and strength; it taught us how to laugh and love again, and it gave us sense of direction to our tumultuous lives. Bethel

became a great place to build lasting friendships.

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41

MORE HARDSHIPS AND MORE POEMS

Dennis, one of my friends from the church returned to Sierra Leone, his country. He left the keys to his apartment with me and asked that I take care of it until his return. Since I did not have a place of my own, it was nice to be able to relax whenever I needed to, even in the middle of the day. My friend paid a month’s rent in advance before he left, but he did not return I could not afford to make the payments on time. Pressure from the landlord caused me to avoid him. The elder was the last to go to bed and the first one up every day. It was a gated community, and he sat on his porch overlooking the only gate that served as both entry and exit to and from the compound. Because he did not have another job, the man was always home, always sitting on that partially hidden porch of his. I would come in skipping and every single time would hear his all-too-familiar voice and the sentence that I came to dread. “Laurent, je te vois. Donnez-moi mon argent.” That means “Lawrence, I see you. Give me my money.” Until I somehow came up with the rent, I went to the apartment at midnight and left before dawn. It was the only opportunity to escape the elder’s watchful eyes. I never turned on the lights when I was indoors so the landlord could not tell if I was in or out. One of his dozen children would pound on the door and call for me but I pretended not to be there. “Papa, il n’est pas ici.” They would say—Papa, He is not here. One day, while at a meeting in church, one of my friends said that someone wanted to see me outside. It was the landlord’s eldest son. I had no idea how he managed to track me down. I now owed two months rent and had eluded them for weeks. His father wanted to see me now. “Tell your dad that I will see him later on today with the money,” I said not

knowing where in the world the money would come from. By the end of the meeting, one of the elders in the church walked up to me and handed me an envelope. “I want you to have this,” she said. “Open it when you get home.” “When I get home?” I thought. “I have no home to get to.” I opened the envelope when she left. In it was the exact amount of money that was needed to pay the two months rent. Phew! What a relief that was. I did not walk, but ran to the apartment. As soon as I entered the gates, the same voice called out. “Laurent, je te vois. Donnez-moi mon argent.” I replied, “J’ai ton argent monsieur. Je suis désolé il est venu en retard—I have your money Sir. I am sorry that it came late.” He frowned and asked. “Il est venu en retard, d’où.” Meaning, it came late from where? “Le ciel papa, le ciel,” I answered in French and gave him the envelope. Le ciel means heaven. He looked at me in disbelief as I walked to the apartment like I owned the place. An eviction notice was hanging on the door, but I needed not to worry about that. The landlord was right behind me. He ripped down the notice, gave me one queer look and threw it in the trash. Eagles are my favorite birds. They remind me of courage in the face of storms. The more stormy the weather, the more determined to fly eagles are. Whenever life’s storms threaten to destroy me and when I face unprecedented setbacks, I eagles. In the middle of one sleepless night, I wrote the following poem:

I AM AN EAGLE

I am an eagle, locked up in a cage Imprisoned by poverty and lack of opportunity This is not where I belong, that I know For years, I have fought to be free Yet the more I fight, the more difficulties there are But I shall not give up, I vow to myself Even in prison, I shall exercise my wings Strengthening every muscle, preparing for my flight My vision I will keep focused, waiting for the day That great day when I shall bolt out like lightning Out of the dungeon, up into the sky Higher and higher, conquering every storm I am an eagle, I shall soar the heavens. Soon, I began to write other poems about courage.

MEN THAT PREVAIL

Men that prevail are not those that never fail Instead, they are men that rise up each time they fall Men that prevail are not those that are kept still

By problems and pain Or fear scars only intended to make them stars Rather, men that prevail are Those with conviction and stubborn determination They build a secure nation And the men that prevail do not die Their deeds remain alive And give light and direction for other men to prevail.

BLEED ON, BLEED ON!

Bleed! Bleed, my heart If you will, split apart But I shall keep hanging on Even if my strength be gone For no good thing comes easy So I dare not be lazy Bleed on! Bleed on! Yet I’ll fight till the battle is won.

DEPRESSION

I now know you, so you can no longer get me For I’ve learned your ways Experienced the power of your grip Struggled under your burden but But by Grace came out strong

I now know you, so you can no longer destroy me Since I am not ignorant of your strategy How you steal your way into people’s lives Capturing first the mind, then Sinking your tentacles into their hearts

I now know you, so you can no longer reach me For I see you come like a thief To gradually isolate your prey Suffocate their potential Yeah, the very essence of life

I now know you, so you can no longer trick me By magnifying problems

Creating hopeless situations That sends your victims to early graves I know you, and I will triumph over you

The next poem is an of a man who saw his brother shot to death by rebels:

THE NIGHTMARE FOREVER

There I lay, praying that I might not be seen Flat against the rock, I hid on the beach Then I heard a sound, and I was keen I saw him getting out of their reach But no! They had seen him, like lightning they ran Shouting insanities and jumping over boulders I saw them coming, running from their van T-a-c-k! Something hit the rock above my shoulders Fear gripped me as I flattened against the stone While my brother continued running with all his might No one to rescue him, all on his own Stumbling and falling as they pursued him in his flight

Just before him was the chance of his freedom If he only rounded the corner he could have escaped after all But then I saw it lifted, the gun went Boom! Boom! And slowly, very slowly, I saw him fall My mouth gaped, my body shivered with fear As I watched him rock with spasms of great pain I bowed my head, wanting to cry but no tear Lightning flashed and came great downpour of rain With blood oozing out, his body went still The predators went away laughing With grief, my heart was filled I walked to my brother’s lifeless body crying About the insanity of the Liberian Civil War

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42

TERRORIZED IN GUINEA

With an estimated 125,000 Liberian and 330,000 Sierra Leonean refugees, Guinea hosted one of the largest refugee populations in Africa. That number dropped when President Lansana Conte of Guinea gave an inflammatory speech on national radio on September 9, 2000 that caused Guineans to raid refugees everywhere in their country. The speech came about when rebels from Liberia and Sierra Leone launched cross-border attacks on villages and towns inside Guinea. Citizens and refugees were killed in the attack. However, in his nationwide broadcast, the late President Conte wrongly accused refugees and set raid in motion when he said,

We know that there are rebels among the refugees. I am giving orders that we bring together all foreigners in neighborhoods so that we know what they are doing and that we search and arrest suspects. I call on all Guineans; young, old, men, women, army and civilians to stand up and defend Guinea against foreign invasions. Refugees are no longer welcome here. Their stay is overdue. Let us arrest them all. Let us crush the invaders . . .

By the time he was done talking, the President had incited his entire nation against us. Angry mobs quickly formed and went on a rampage. Armed with stones, sticks, iron rods, knives, machetes, and guns, they went door to door looking for refugees throughout the city. Some stopped traffic and searched vehicles. Others occupied market places and streets corners. There was no place to hide. Landlords and neighbors, taxi drivers and bus drivers, civilians, law enforcement officers, and soldiers all participated in the raid like prides of hungry lions. Thousands of refugees were arrested and imprisoned; many were

beaten; young girls and women raped; and some killed. In the heat of the raid, I did not want to be alone at Dennis’s apartment so I stayed with the Gaylah family. Our neighbors and the entire community knew us very well. We even played soccer with our Guinean friends many evenings and visited some of them occasionally. After the president’s speech, our friendly neighbors stared at us like they had never seen us before or as if we suddenly came from some unknown planet. It was only a matter of time before they pounced on us. We waited for the inevitable since there was nowhere to run. It was better to remain locked indoors and pray for the mercy of neighbors who knew us than to get away only to be apprehended by people who had never seen us before. The inevitable came the following night, a little past midnight. Mr. Gaylah’s phone rang and he answered the call. A relative who lived in the United States heard news reports and saw on television the way refugees were been treated. He called to see if everyone was okay. We had no idea that the community had organized a special vigilante group to monitor our affairs. Some of the guys outside of our window overheard Mr. Gaylah talking on the phone. Within minutes, a loud banging on the door awoke us and of the vigilance ordered us out. We obeyed. By then the entire neighborhood was awake. They crowded the home. Some turned the house upside down in search of weapons or for any clue that could link us to rebel activities. We remained quiet as others hurled insults and accused us of making phone calls to Charles Taylor. Some neighbors went away after hours of incessant death threats with guns, machetes, and sticks. A small group was left behind to keep an eye on us until the morning. Our fate was sealed. If it was destined for me to die that night, I hoped for a bullet in the head, not death by flogging or butchering. The leader of the group lived only two buildings away but he showed no trace of friendship that day. When morning came, we were led to a town hall where community elders waited to interrogate us before an ever growing mob. Onlookers mocked us as we escorted to the community hall. Our next door neighbor pushed me. “Hurry up,” he ordered. “Do not behave like you do not know who we are,” I said.

“I don’t care about any rebel!” He shouted and pushed me forward. Bystanders cheered him on. We were questioned and taunted for what seemed like an eternity. Mr. Gaylah explained the reason for the phone call. They then released us and we returned home. My sister and her husband were not that fortunate. Ethel was pregnant at the time and a mob broke in their apartment door. With knives held to their throats, the mob robbed my sister and her husband of everything they had. Another refugee in our church was arrested in the market. The soldiers beat him up, threw him in the back of their truck, and carried him away. He was placed in a prison cell with other refugees for three days. In the evening of the third day, prisoners that had suffered serious injuries were taken away in a truck to be killed. My church friend was one of them. The soldier stopped the truck on a beach and lined up the prisoners. Then one by one the killing began, always a bullet in the head. Just when they got to him, another vehicle arrived with an order from a high command to return the refugees to their prison. It was too late for those that had already been killed. My friend was set free that night. They put him in a vehicle, drove him to a deserted area of town, and threw him out naked. A taxi driver who was married to a refugee woman picked him up in the street and drove him home later. The guy looked as if he had been hit by a car. His charming and friendly personality was replaced with deep-seated bitterness. The next couple of days saw more tensions, threats, tortures, arrests, burglaries and death of many refugees. We starved because it was dangerous to go to the market. With the intervention of humanitarian organizations, the government softened its position and the citizens of the land eased their threats later but the damage was already done. We slowly picked up what was left of our lives and attempted to mend ourselves. Many refugees returned to their countries after that incidence. Some of us that had no where to go ventured to the marketplaces again in search of food and slowly went back to our usual daily activities, careful not to speak in public and sure to be home before dark. Those that were thrown out by their landlords or feared returning to their apartments stayed cramped in the Liberian and Sierra Leone Embassies. Others simply refused to walk the streets. Many of our citizen church friends did not know what to say to us. They wished

the episode did not occur but it had so they lived with the shame.

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43

ARRESTED BY GUINEAN SOLDIERS

The Youth Department of the Bethel World Outreach Ministries International in Guinea hosts its annual celebration on the last Saturday and Sunday in September. This celebration brings several hundred youths from churches all over the nation’s capital. Invitations had been sent out and preparations made before the September 9, 2000 speech of the Guinean president and the raid on refugees that followed. Some suggested that the youth program be canceled that year since majority of the usual attendees were refugees. Everyone feared that such a gathering could lead to another raid. Besides, it did not seem like anyone would attend. We held a general meeting and decided to continue the program. Cancellation would send a wrong message that could cause a ripple effect throughout the other churches that had similar end of the year programs already organized and announced to the public. We found ourselves in position to either fight fear or endorse it. We made phone calls to let people know that our program would be hosted as planned. The youths had a Plan B just in case attendance was very poor. If that happened, the occasion would be used to pray for the nation and the refugee community. The first day of the event came. Few guests arrive a little early but it appeared as if Plan B was the better way to go. Then all of a sudden buses and taxis began pulling at the church with representatives from the different churches like they planned to arrive at the same time. The celebration was not jam-packed as usual, but attendance was still very good and we stuck with the original plan. No soldiers or angry mob interrupted the program and everyone was glad we did not cancel after all. We looked forward to an even better day two event. News about that day’s success spread to other churches. Nevertheless, a problem still awaited Stephen, our youth leader, and me. Since he lived further away from the church and it was still very unsafe for refugees to be out at night, he decided to spend the night at Dennis’s apartment

with me. The youth program ended earlier that evening but cleaning up and getting everything else ready for the next day took time. We left the church compound a little after 8:00 p.m. and were dropped off by a taxi driver at the usual Petit Simbaya intersection. The house was only few minutes walk from there. A military truck parked by the roadside ahead of us meant trouble. We tried to get to the other side of the road as soon as we saw the truck but it was too late. The soldiers had already seen us. In no time at all we were surrounded and taken to the awaiting truck. They searched and confiscated everything we had, including money. In addition to a change of clothing in Stephen’s backpack, we had a camcorder and tapes that were used to record that evening’s ceremony, two green Bethel Youth Press jackets and press badges. All those items were taken and the interrogation began, in French of course. Even though not fluent in the language, I knew a little more than my friend and therefore answered most of the questions asked. I told the soldiers about the youth program and that my friend was staying at my place that night since he lived far from the church and it was already night time. They did not believe us but instead made up a story that fitted President Conte’s speech perfectly. They accused us of being rebels. The men said that my better French speaking was a result of me living in the country longer than my friend. They alleged that I was an informant for Liberian rebel leader Charles Taylor. As for Stephen, he was considered as a newly arrived rebel friend who was under my care till we attack the capital. The soldiers thought that the Youth Department’s camcorder, tapes, press jackets and badges were logistics used for spy purposes and the church served as the front to cover up our clandestine operations. Nothing we said that night mattered. “If you play the recording on the camcorder,” I told them, “you will realize what we say is true.” They threatened to shoot me if I said another word. The men took us to their nearest checkpoint and detained us in a little room. They radioed the commander in charge of the area and said that two Charles Taylor rebels were arrested and detained, waiting for his orders. The commander came around 3:00 a.m. that morning with a pickup load of soldiers, armed to the teeth. “Where are the rebels?” his voice thundered as he stormed through the hall. “In here!” The soldier who guarded us and stayed ready to shoot in case we

decided to do something stupid answered. A surprised look crossed the commander’s face when he saw us. I interpreted that as a positive sign. Perhaps he expected to see two raggedy and dangerously looking men. Instead, he saw two young men who, though frightened, appeared harmless. “What are your names?” he asked quietly. Whatever storm he entered the building with had given way to some calm. The man spoke English perfectly and used both languages during the interrogation to his advantage. He spoke French where he wanted to confuse and trap us and English wherever he deemed necessary. I told him our names and answered all the other questions he asked about our nationality, where, how and why we lived in Guinea. He also asked if we had even been in Sierra Leone. We told him all he wanted to know, including the youth program and the items that his men took from us. “So wherever you go Charles Taylor follows,” he said. “That makes you friends of Charles Taylor or to put it simply, rebels. You go ahead and spy on your targets. Then you send all the necessary information to Charles Taylor. Other rebels like your friend here, you and you attack and kill innocent people.” It was a statement, but I considered it a question and said that we were no rebels and that his story was wrong. “If you are not Charles Taylor’s friends, then that makes you his enemies. Am I right?” the commander asked. My friend and I agreed ionately. “Okay, that is settled,” he said. The man stood up, rubbed his hands together as if to keep them warm and startled us when he clapped loudly. Stephen and I were very confused. What is settled and how? Those questions were answered in his next statement. “Being Charles Taylor’s enemies makes you our friends,” he said. “It also means that together, we can fight Charles Taylor. My men will take you to the border, have you trained to use a gun and you will us to fight the common enemy.

You can prove your love for this country by doing that.” He began to walk away. I have never seen anybody look that serious. We had gone from one mess to another one. “Levez-vous!” the soldiers shouted and we scrambled to our feet. I called to the commander who was already heading out the door. He stopped. With tears in my eyes I said, “We have no intention of fighting a war. All we ever wanted was to be safe and continue our education in this land.” One of his men pressed the barrel of his gun into my head and pushed me forward. “Allons!” he ordered. “Don’t ever push me with that gun again!” I snapped and shocked everyone. If playing nice was not helping our situation, perhaps raising my voice would. What was there to be afraid of anymore. “What did you say?” the commander asked me. “I say we have had enough of your men pushing us. We have done nothing wrong. I have lived in this country for many years and appreciate your diligence in protecting this nation. However, your doubt is misplaced. As a matter of fact, we pray for Guinea every time and for the president, His Excellency Lansana Conte. The Bible tells us to pray for the nation we find ourselves in because our prosperity depends on the prosperity of that country. If the country fails, so will we also. Our lives are in your hands now. You can kill us if you want, but that would be the wrong thing to do. So listen to your conscience and do the right thing. Let us go. If you still doubt us, for God’s sake, at least go to the church and ask if the pastor knows who we are.” That was our last card. An order from the commander to shoot would have left us dead and our bodies dumped anywhere to become part of the growing statistic of missing refugees. He pondered our fate and what he said next surprised everyone, even his soldiers.

“You heard him; he does not like to be pushed around. Lower your weapons.” His men obeyed. Cold sweat ran down my spine. He continued. “I will take you to the nearest police station and call your pastor to pick you up first thing in the morning. If I release you tonight, you may be arrested by another group that I have no control over.” He ordered his men to return our possessions. They had spent some of the money already. All we cared for was our lives. The French pastor, Raphael Sagno picked us up the next morning. Everyone in church was glad to see us. The Sagno family is among the most loving and friendly people I have met. They conduct their lives with integrity. Knowing them was a pleasure. A little while later, I moved out of Dennis’s apartment. With no job, I could not afford the rent.

* * *

44

FAILED MISSION TO GHANA

The possibility of going to school in Guinea was almost zero so I thought it was time to try Ghana, another not-too distant West African country. United Nations sponsored some refugees from the Buduburam Camp. It was worth a shot. Also, I was told that William, my brother lived on the camp. The opportunity to go to Ghana came when Bethel World Outreach Ministries International organized its 8th International Conference held in Ghana in 2003. of our church planned to attend, and so did I. We boarded several buses, drove three days and finally arrived at the Buduburam Refugee Camp. Finding my brother was very easy. All I did was ask the first person we met if he knew William Zarkpah. “Yes, of course. Everybody knows Zarkpah. He’s a funny guy right?” “That will be him,” I said. William is the funniest person in the family. I was glad to know that he still kept his sense of humor. It had been nearly thirteen years since we had seen or heard from each other. I stayed with my brother. The conference was soon over and the team from Guinea returned without me. I visited the office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in Accra a couple of days later. After a long wait, a security guard opened the gate and let me in. He pointed to a man standing in the doorway of the United Nations building. “That is the representative in charge of refugees’ education. He’s the one you want to speak to. Good luck.” The representative already knew the purpose of my visit.

“Lawrence?” He asked. “Yes sir,” I answered. He cut to the chase. “UN is not sponsoring refugees to study anymore. In fact the High Commissioner is working on sending Liberians back home since the war in your country has ceased. Sorry I cannot help you in any way. Have a nice day.” He walked away without giving me an opportunity to say anything. The war may have ceased but it was not over. I returned to camp more discouraged than ever. All other attempts I made to see the representative again were denied. It was like running into a brick wall. No matter what I tried to do, my future looked bleak, like midnight. I want to pause here and speak to those who are going through situations that just won’t go away. Perhaps midnight describes your situation right now, one of hopelessness. Just like I did, perhaps everything you’ve tried failed: your aspirations, health, job, family, friends, and loved ones. Such times can cause anyone to throw in the towel, get bitter and question God’s existence. Listen. Midnight also speaks of something else—a time to hope. that the darkest part of the night is closest to dawn. So when all hell breaks loose, it is good to that it will and your sun will shine again. All you need to do is stand fast. stay strong. stand ready.

Weeping may endure through the night, but joy cometh in the morning. —PSALMS 30:5

If things can turn up good for me, it definitely will do so for you. While Liberian refugees in different camps throughout West Africa faced many of the same challenges, their lifestyles differed. Here is one thing that shocked me about Buduburam Camp. I heard several people talk about going to “the gulf” in my first two days of stay. I asked my brother what “the gulf” was.

“Oh, you haven’t been there yet?” he smiled. “Well, I won’t tell you then. It is better you find out for yourself.” His wife wanted to tell me but he made her promise not to. I soon found out what it was—a bush close to camp where almost everybody went to defecate. I was not at my brother’s house when I needed to use a toilet. Everybody I asked told me to go to the gulf. “What is this gulf I keep hearing about?” I asked a boy. “Oh, you are JJC,” he said, and told me more about the most famous name on camp. “Do not be shy. That is where everybody go around here. You can even pick up a chick over there,” he joked. JJC stands for Johnny Just Come; a Liberian term used to describe any newly-arrived person. It turned out picking up a chick in the gulf was no joke at all. I went as far as possible until I long stop seeing piles of feces to jump over. No one was in sight and I thought nobody had ventured into that part of the bush. I found a place to crouch and pulled down my tro. Seconds later, somebody approached. “I am here!” I called out to whoever it was hoping the person would go another way. “Nobody is looking for you,” the man said before turning the other way. Then there was chuckle from behind the high grass to my left. I jumped when I realized that I wasn’t alone and especially that it was a girl taking a dump that close to me. It was a very awkward situation but she did not care. She asked, “Are you new here?” I ignored the question. “Are you new here?” she repeated the question. “Aw y-e-e-e-s,” I managed to say. “What’s you name and when did you arrive on camp?” She squeezed the

questions between releases of gas. I couldn’t believe she wanted to carry on a conversation under such circumstance. I wasn’t quit done but I cleaned myself quickly and got up to leave. “Are you shy?” she asked. I walked away from the sound of her laughter. William sat by his hut when he saw me come from between buildings. The look on my face told him everything. “You just came from the gulf,” he said. I asked how he got to know that. “Welcome to Buduburam. Every newcomer has that look the first few times. You will get used to it.” “No, I won’t.” I said.

* * *

45

RETURN TO GUINEA

Four very long months went by. I got an email that said my mother was in Guinea. She went to the Liberian embassy and was brought to the Bethel Church. I spoke to her on the phone. Mom encouraged me to return to Guinea. “Whatever God has for you will find you no matter where you are.” She said. Those words meant everything to me. They were not just spoken from the person I ired the most, but from a mother who has never quitted anything and whose wisdom and experience I can not challenge. I boarded a bus that took me back to Guinea. After seven years of separation, we were glad to be together once again. She stayed with us for a couple of months and encouraged me every day. Before my mother returned to Liberia, I had managed to instill in me the expectation of a major breakthrough about to happen. I having such faith at one time in Sierra Leone. Back then I needed a pair of shoes. My only pair was worn out so badly it felt like walking barefooted. My friends joked about it. We all poked fun at each other about different things and no one got offended because we suffered the same conditions. One day on our way back from Freetown, I stopped by a vendor and bought black shoe polish. “Did you get a new pair of shoes that we don’t know about?” one of the boys asked. “No, but it is coming,” I replied. “I don’t know how and don’t know when, but it is coming,” I said. We all laughed. “How do you know it will be a black pair of shoes?” The other guy asked.

“I know because that is the color of shoe I want,” I said. The very next day, a man that lived next to our hut called upon me. He brought out a brand new pair of black shoes. “Someone gave this to me but it does not fit. See if it is your size.” I tried the shoe on and it fitted perfectly. The man told me that I could have the brand new black pair of shoes. He did not ask for money like anybody else on Waterloo Camp would. That same kind of expectation was created in me again. That time however, it had nothing to do with wanting a new pair of shoes but everything to do with my aspiration for something bigger, something better and something that would positively affect people around me. I told my friends In Bethel Church that I was travel to the United States. Some thought I was joking, but I knew that faith all too well. It was no joke.

NOW faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. —HEBREWS 11:1

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46

MOTHER VIVIAN REEVES AND THE KINGDOM PRAISE MINISTRY

The first opportunity that awaited me in Guinea was an acquaintance with my next hero, Vivian Cia Reeves. She was a member of the same church I attended. Although I saw her many times, we had not formally met. Mother Reeves, as we all called her, is very goal-oriented. Whatever she sets her mind to do is already a done deal. She is a single mother and had had her share of life’s struggles. The woman won a scholarship to study in the United States and got her degree in Business istration. After the study, she returned to Liberia and secured a position with Flight Information Region (FIR) of Liberia, an international aviation communication system used by countries to communicate with aircrafts flying within their airspace. The Liberian civil war caused her to flee the country and seek refuge in Guinea. She had no problem acquiring a job with the same FIR that had its branch operating in Guinea. The woman provided financial assistance to so many refugees in Guinea—such generosity is unheard of. She founded Kingdom Praise Ministry, a Praise and Worship that was an of Bethel Church. I was invited to attend the group’s meeting and soon became a member of the new establishment. With time, I assumed a secretariat position. Mother Reeves home served as the main office. She taught me everything I needed to know pertaining to my new position and gave us stipend monthly. I rented a one bedroom apartment and made sure to pay several months in advance. Everyday we went to work on different projects at her house and learned the songs she wrote. Kingdom Praise Ministry’s first musical album was produced in the Ivory Coast in 2003. Mother Reeves had a toughness that helped her excel in African societies dominated by men. Apart from being an assiduous worker, she told it like it was; no need to sugarcoat anything. While many did not like that approach, that never kept them away. It was obvious that some among us cared more about getting

some of her money than they were about her and that bothered me. The woman was no fool either. She knew that too but her generosity sured everything else. However she did not relent to tell us consistently how she felt about the insincerities with which she was being treated. Her constant “I know that everyone of you are here only for my money,” talk bothered me too. Uncle Belh’s words came back to me: “Let nothing but integrity defines who you are in every condition and don’t be afraid to be different.” My Uncle was right. It is difference that separates us from other people, not similarities. Hence I tried to let her know that I was not part of the crowd, that money was not the reason I ed the group. I did not mind forgoing the monthly stipend she gave, especially when six months’ rent was already paid in advance. Conversely, my efforts to stand apart from everyone else was misconstrued and considered as arrogance. Categorizing all of us under an umbrella of disingenuousness became a little too much for me. Rather than being more thoughtful about her feelings, I messed up when I allowed her venting upset me. Things got worse. MV Doulos is a famous missionary ship devoted to social services and evangelism around the world. The ship also contained the world’s biggest floating library and was coming to Guinea. Before its arrival, representatives came to our church and asked for volunteers to help the crew during the length of the ships’ stay in the country. I told Mother Reeves and signed up. She had no problem with my volunteering then. But when Doulos anchored at the port and the day I was scheduled to work on it came, our leader threatened to cut our stipend if we went on the ship. There was another project she wanted us to work on. I did not go to her house that day. I went to work on the ship. She considered my decision a conflict of interest, scolded me and appointed a new secretary. The relationship went south and I quitted. Nevertheless, Mother Vivian Reeves was too kind to let me stay away. She called me back to work three months later.

* * *

47

LOVE, OR WAS IT?

After living in Guinea for five years, every thought about a possible relationship with Fatima was forgotten. Then I met Jay, a girl whose name is intentionally shortened in this book. We became friends, but only for a short time before it developed into something more. I popped the will you marry me question and was elated when she said yes. It felt like I was the king of the world. Jay and I had a lot in common. I thought our meeting was divinely orchestrated. We are of the same tribe, same religion, came from poor families and faced the same daunting challenges. Still, hard times were the least of our worries. Love kept us going and we quickly became two pieces of the same pie. Our friends called us Romeo and Juliet. Wherever I went, she was, and vice versa. Yet one thing haunted me—she had the opportunity to travel and lived in Australia with her parents and some of her siblings. I, on the other hand was going nowhere. Jay’s family was granted political asylum by the Australian government with the help of United Nations. Political asylum is one in which a person who faces serious threats of persecution or deaths in his/her country is taken to other countries to live. That person can be granted citizenship in whatever country he/she is taken. The process begins with an application to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. United Nations then goes through the many applications received and selects from among the files families whose face imminent danger. Several interviews are done by UN and the countries that agree to host the asylum seekers. Medical exams are given to the families that ed the interviews and departure dates are set for people that the medical to be flown to their destinations. A political refugee does not choose the country he/she wants to go and the process can take a long time. My sister, her spouse and I did apply for asylum in 1997 when we first arrived in Guinea. It had taken six years and we still had gotten no word from the UN about the status of our application. In fact

we did not know if UN received our letters. Jay thought it was a good idea for us to be formally engaged before she traveled. “I do not want to leave you without a ring, among all the single girls here in church,” she said. I was not thrilled with the idea of us getting formally engaged when she was going away. We all knew many instances in which relationships fell apart because one partner traveled to a developed country. Marriages ended when partners met someone else who presented better opportunities in life. If marriages can end because of distant relationships, what chance does an engagement has. Although I did not doubt her love for me then, nor mine for her, I still was very uncomfortable to do so. I thought it was better to leave the relationship fluid but to do everything we both possibly could to be together sooner than later. Jay would not have it that way. She misunderstood my intention to mean that I did not really love her. She promised to file for me to her in Australia but there was no guarantee the government there would want me. I bowed to her wish, and we got publicly engaged. My fiancée reiterated that filing an immigration visa for me was her utmost priority. The date for her departure came all too soon. It felt like a whole part of me was leaving. We went to the airport and she checked in. I squeezed through the crowd waiting to see the plane take off. “Excuse me, excuse me,” I said in an effort to reach the front, but stepped on a guy who threatened to beat me up. He stopped shouting when the plane taxied the runway. It took off and soon disappeared into the clouds while I watched with mixed emotions; perplexed yet happy for her; feeling lost and lonely already. The first few days were the hardest. It amazes me still how a person can go through life alone and be okay with it. Yet when he/she meets that significant other and they have to part, temporarily of permanently, life all of a sudden becomes so unbearable. Days dragged on. I got a phone call from Jay one week later. She called a friend’s phone because I had none. The guy let me keep his phone for few hours. “You can bring it anytime later,” he said, knowing we would not be done talking any time soon. Oh, how we talked. Jay said they arrived in Brisbane, Australia safely and the

place was beautiful. We talked for about four hours and the battery ran out. I returned the dead phone with a new bounce in my step. My friend did not miss the opportunity to tease. “You are on top of the world, Lawrence,” he said. He brought the phone again the next day, but that time with the charger. Jay and I talked about everything, some of which I am not going to tell you. The poor guy’s phone remained with me for the greater part of two weeks. My fiancée told me a thousand times how much she loved and missed me and I never tired of hearing that. She wished that I was there to make her days go by easier. We would talk until the minutes on her prepaid phone expired. Then she refilled the card, and we talked some more, sometimes throughout the night. Still, when it was time to go, nobody wanted to hang up first. We would say goodbye or talk to you later for the tenth time and still hold the phone to our ears. “Are you still there?” she would ask, and I would say yes. Then we would talk some more. One night, I went to pick up the phone from my friend’s house. On my way back in the middle of a conversation, I walked right into the busy street without realizing it. Cars honked and angry drivers screamed. Even then, I just gestured an apology and walked right on. The family in Australia wanted Jay’s elder brother and her sister’s husband, both still in Liberia, to me in Guinea. In that way, they could file for us together. I thought it was a great idea. In no time, both guys arrived and stayed with me. We now had a phone, so communication was easier. Jay even started a small business. She sent money through the Western Union Money Transfer for me to buy gold chains and women’s hair extensions. I mailed them to her and she sold the items. She occasionally sent money for my personal use, but I bought more goods and mailed them back to her. It was my way of letting her know that I was more interested in her than money. Her brother thought I was insane. “She wants you to spend the money on yourself,” he would say. Everywhere I went, Jay’s picture was with me, even at choir practices. We had always gone for practices and youth meetings together. Some of the youth joked that I looked like a lost dog since she left. It made me appreciate her even more. One time, I was late for practice. My friends had planned a joke on me. They

took away the extra seats but left two unoccupied chairs right where Jay and I usually sat. I dashed in the building not even realizing how unusually quiet they were that day. When I got to my seat, I hesitated slightly upon realizing the only other unoccupied seat was there for her. The expression on my face was priceless. My friends tried so hard not to laugh—some bowed their heads or held their mouths. I couldn’t deny it. They got me all too well but I wasn’t going down helplessly. I reached into my pocket, pulled out Jay’s picture, raised it up for everyone to see and blew a big kiss before placing it gently in the empty chair next to me. The place erupted with laughter. I thought our relationship was going to be the and-they-lived-happily-ever-after kind of story. It was not so. Time went by and our conversations became once every few weeks and lasted no more than ten minutes. Those ten minutes were usually spent discussing business related events. Jay seemed to always be in a hurry to get off the phone. I made myself believe it was due to the busy schedule of the developed world. Success demands hard work. Even though she seemed to have no time in the world when she talked to me, she would spend longer time talking to her brother. The fear about distant relationship was coming to . Didn’t somebody say “out of sight, out of mind?” Still, I dismissed negative thoughts that came to mind and attributed her new behavior to the stress of becoming accustomed to the new way of life in a demanding society. I counted on the times we shared together in Guinea, the times we spent talking on the phone all night, and that she always made it a point to tell me that she loved me. I considered the break in communication a temporary obstacle and tried to revive the relationship. After all, every storm es. I spent whatever little money I had on Internet cafes and international calls. All I got many times was answering machine or endless rings. Jay’s brother became my only source of information. I asked him about her well-being and sent messages through him. Sometimes she would be on the phone with her brother but when I asked to speak to her, he told me it was someone else on the line. She called one morning and he ed the phone over for me to say hi. We had talked for not quite a minute before she told me she had to go but wanted to say goodbye to her brother. So many things I wanted to talk about, but she insisted on me ing the phone over to him. The guy took the phone. As he walked away I realized he was talking to someone else.

“Hey, V,” he said. The person at the end of the line spoke. His voice sounded familiar, nothing like any member of Jay’s family, though. Besides, none of their names began with the letter V. Even more surprising was the fact that her brother seemed to know whoever it was. One thing was obvious; he had talked to this guy many times. I walked away. Johnson, the elder sister’s husband, realized my displeasure. Her brother chatted on with his new friend. Maybe I was paranoid about nothing important. Not long after that Jay’s brother was still on the phone with V, the letter that was now haunting me. “Is your sister still on the line?” I asked to trick him. “Yes, she is,” he lied again. “Let me talk to her,” I said. My mind would not rest until I found out who V was or what the relationship between him and my fiancée was. Suddenly, the phone went off and her brother pretended like the connection was abruptly ended. He fidgeted with the phone. “The connection must be bad again. She will call back.” He lied to me even though he knew I did not buy his story. That gave me a terrible feeling. Maybe I should have stopped being suspicious long time ago but I was conditioned to the human spirit that wants to know more even when afraid of the outcome. I was loosing trust in Jay. Her brother was the accomplice to my fate. Not wanting to believe reality, I made excuses for her by considering my reaction immature. Perhaps the guy on the line was really just a friend and yes, dropped calls were common in our part of the city. Something different was happening too. Whenever I talked about Jay to my church friends, they quickly changed the topic. Perhaps everyone was tired of my yapping. Soon it was Christmas, and then New Year’s Eve. Back home in Africa, we always call loved ones far or near to wish them a happy new year before anybody else does. I had saved up some money to make the call to Australia. Considering the time difference between Brisbane and Conakry, I called when it was about 2:00 a.m. in Brisbane. The phone rang for a long time and directed me to her voice mail. I did not leave a message but called again

after a couple of minutes. Then I called yet again after a little while. She picked up the call on the fourth try. “Thank God,” I muttered. “Hello!” an angry but sleepy voice said. It was not Jay but the voice that was always present with her and that I had come to loathe. “Who am I speaking to?” V questioned harshly. I must have interrupted his sleep. I checked the time on the phone again just to make sure how late it was. “It’s Lawrence,” I answered. “Oh, hi Lawrence,” V said nervously. It suddenly clicked. I was speaking to Varney, one of my friends from the youth group who had traveled to Australia long before Jay. He was also granted political asylum. He was stuttering now. I ordered, “Varney Lynch, put my woman on the line!” He did not have to wake her since she was up by then. I heard her ask Varney who it was on the line. “Lawrence is on the phone,” he told her. They argued. “I told you not to answer my phone,” she said. They might have forgotten that the phone was not disconnected and that I was still listening. There was no greeting when she finally took the phone, but an earful of verbal thunder. Then she ended with questions and gave me no time to answer any of them. “Why are you calling at this hour? Don’t you know it is the middle of the night? Some of us need to get up in the morning and work, you know! I will call you

when I have time!” Click, she hung up. I stared at the phone blankly. All around me, other youths celebrated the New Year. They chatted with loved ones. There was no reason for me to hang around. My fun had ended so I went home. Johnson, my fiancée’s brother-in-law, knew something was wrong when he saw me. He was not surprised when I explained what happened. The guy did everything he could to console me but that did not help. I wished she could call and talk to me. An apology would not take away the mistrust and the hurt, but it would be a start. The phone call from Jay came almost a week later. Apparently, she did not have any time until then. It was neither an apology nor an explanation. She accused me of something absurd, having many girlfriends. According to her, friends had told her I now lived a bad lifestyle since she left. She kept shouting over me so I let her talk. After five minutes of ranting, Jay instructed me to give her brother the phone. She wanted him to keep it permanently. “If I want to talk to you, I’ll tell him,” she said, and hung up. They paid for the phone so I did as told. Her brother already knew what transpired between us. He was embarrassed and spent most of his time out. He moved into the apartment next door. Johnson stayed with me. Friends at the church heard about my fiancée’s lifestyle in Australia long before I suspected anything. They thought it was best that I found out for myself. Up until New Year’s Eve, I still carried her picture in my pocket and made a fool of myself. I tossed sleeplessly in bed many nights. During the day, I stayed away from everybody, even church, because of shame. When I could stay away no more, I went through the motions but was mentally disconnected. I made a lot of mistakes and some stupid decisions that I never dreamed possible during that time. Integrity became irrelevant. I took long walks in the middle of the night to reflect and put things in perspective. Johnson woke up and offered to go with me many times. The guy probably thought I would harm myself. “How are you coping?” the youth president asked me one day after church.

“I will be traveling to the United States of America before the end of this year,” I said. “I am tire of being poor.” He tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Amen, brother. Amen.”

* * *

48

HOPE AT LAST

The breakthrough finally came in April, 2004. Our names, among many, were posted on the billboard at the United Nation’s office to sit an interview for political asylum. A family friend saw the list and brought the good news, a glimmer of hope at last. I ran the one-hour distance to see for myself. News of the new list of names had circulated and drawn a large crowd of refugees at the office. You could hear the excitement from a mile away. I pushed through the crowd and there before me on the bulletin our names seemed to stand out among the others. I had never felt such peace. After almost seven years of waiting and uncertainty, the answer came. Once the process started, it went really fast. We had no problem with any of the interviews many found intimidating. We were asked very few questions and moved along to the next stage. The United States government received our documentation and granted us the most sought after immigration status. My file was separated from my sister’s and her family and within three months of the first interview, the date for my departure arrived. Ethel had just given birth to her third child, Vivian. She had a caesarean section and was delayed for another two months to recuperate. Jay was not ready to talk to me. She said she would call whenever she wanted to talk but she still communicated with her brother. Along with fifteen other refugees I boarded the flight on August 8, 2004. The plane took off. As we flew high above the clouds I ed my two best friends, David and Munford from Buchanan. I particularly ed when we lay on the ground and watched a plane high up in the sky. We were kids then but how can I ever forget that profound question; What do you want to be when you grow up? And my answer; I want to be a

millionaire. I ed when bullets and bombs rained down on us in the Barclay Training Center in Monrovia. The words I encouraged myself with also replayed in my mind. No, I am not going to die in here. I will live through this and tell the story or even write about it. I also ed my friend Stephen Yates, youth leader for Bethel Church in Guinea; when he asked me how I was coping after Jay’s unfaithfulness. Even then when there was no hope of leaving Africa. I ed telling my friend; I will be traveling to the United States of America before the end of this year. I am tire of being poor. I thought about the many sleepless nights and days that I had. They all seemed unreal all of a sudden. Oh! Was the flight a reality or just a dream? I pinched myself for the hundredth time to make sure it was no dream. Words can not explain my feelings that day. Tears ran down my face. A flight attendant stopped by. “Can I help you with anything?” She whispered. “Thanks, but no. I am doing just fine,” I responded.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the lord forever. —PSALM 23:6

* * *

PART TWO

THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

49

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT AND ARIZONA

We arrived in New York around 10:00 p.m. on August 9, 2004. Catholic Social Services (CSS) social worker was at the John F. Kennedy International Airport to receive us. CSS provides a welcoming and ive network that helps refugees in the United States gain independence and become productive in their new communities. It wasn’t difficult to tell us apart from the rest of the engers since each of us carried a white plastic bag. Printed boldly on the bags were the blue letters IOM, the acronym for International Office of Migration. The bags were as important to our settlement in the United States as blood is to life: they contained all of our documents, including plane tickets. A lost bag meant instant deportation. Getting out of the building was comic scenario. It took nearly thirty minutes to convince one of the older women who came with us to get onto an escalator. Every time she tried to get on and felt it moving, the woman jumped back. People close by were mused by what was now quite a show. The CSS representative decided to let her try the elevator instead but the refugee woman would not get into a locked heavy metal box because she was claustrophobic. The rest of us waited at the bottom of the escalator laughing our hearts out. After many attempts and much prodding, she closed her eyes and quickly jumped on the escalator with both legs at the same time. Thanks to the quick hands of our guardian who caught the woman and prevented her from falling. You could hear everyone at the terminal gasp. A loud cheer went up for the woman when she finally reached the bottom. “Why can’t everything stop moving?” she asked. An elderly couple jumped aside when we, a bunch of loud mouths and excited Africans approached them. Our rough looks and heavily accented gibberish that was supposed to be the English language probably scared them half to death. I

smiled reassuringly and got a nervous smile in return from the elderly woman and a stare from her husband. We stepped outside the terminal and—My God!—it was beautiful. The many lights and tall buildings enthralled me. “We are in New York City,” I said to the others (like they did not already know that). I continued. “This is no movie, no picture from a book, no dream whatsoever. We are actually in New York.” While the other refugees got on a shuttle bus, I walked few paces away. “Where are you going?” our guardian asked. “Walking down the streets of New York,” I said excitedly. “Wait till you actually get out of the airport and see the streets in daylight,” he said. The bus left the airport and we drove down a street. We marveled at the night beauty of the city. There were so many lights, the skyscrapers, the busy streets, and oh yes, the crisscrossing freeways. How did they build such things? “Mama is this heaven?” a little kid asked. “Nope,” I answered like the kid was asking me. “But this is as close to heaven as you can get.” “I see God,” another guy with us joked and everybody on the bus laughed, even the driver ed in. We spent the night at a hotel. No, let me be precise. We spent the night on a hotel’s balcony. Although given separate rooms, we decided to stay together on the balcony of the room with the most beautiful view down below. We became too excited to sleep and preferred to watch beauty of New York’s night lights and the actions on the streets. Daylight revealed even more beauty of the city in its entirety. After a quick shower and breakfast that some of us giggled over like children, we returned to the airport and boarded different flights that took us to our respective destinations. Some went to Chicago, others to Nevada and Florida. I boarded a plane to Phoenix, Arizona where another CSS worker

waited to receive me. Back home, we had no idea that there are desert lands in the United States. We usually saw pictures of skyscrapers, snow-covered streets and trees and people wearing thick winter jackets, scarves and gloves. Therefore it became a norm for us to call the United States of America “the cold.” For example, a person would say, “I know somebody who lives in the cold,” or “I am making a phone call to the cold.” So we left Africa wearing heavy jackets to battle the supposed to be cold American weather in early August. Well, I do not know what the others thought when they arrived at their respective destinations, but I know my shock. I came to ARIZONA in AUGUST wearing my heavy jacket. Perhaps not all of you readers will know what I mean, but those who live or once lived in the great desert state, or even visited Arizona at that time of the year understands perfectly what one hundred degrees weather feels like. I saved up every last penny and bought myself that jacket that is suited for the North Pole and that I still can not wear. I now understand the reason all eyes were on me at the Sky Harbor International Airport. Mario, the CSS worker who also became my case manager said nothing about the jacket. I, on the other hand, failed to notice how lightly everyone else dressed. As we walked out of the airconditioned terminal, heat waves hit me like a hot oven was opened before me. I stopped. “What’s wrong?” Mario asked. “It’s hot here,” I said. He laughed and asked me. “Is it not this hot in Liberia?” “No,” I said. “It gets really hot here. In fact, today is a record-breaking low temperature day.” We drove to my new address—5902 W. Royal Palm Road in Glendale. I ed the three Zleh brothers in a two-bedroom apartment. It was refreshing to know that they were not only from my country, but from my tribe as well. There were other Liberian refugees who lived in the Glendale shadow complex. Just like me, they had also migrated to the United States as political refugees.

* * *

50

THE LAST STRAW

A week into my stay in Arizona, a phone call came for me. One of the Zleh boys told me someone from Australia was on the line. It was Jay. She had been in Australia for nearly two years. The last time we talked was in January, when she scolded me for nothing—eight months past. This time when she called, the girl was her usual calm self, something I had almost forgotten and surely did not anticipate. I did not call to tell her about my unexpected travel since she wanted nothing to do with me, at least until she was ready to talk. However, I knew that her brother did tell her. “Hey, how are you?” she asked. “I am fine, you?” I said. “You should have told me you were traveling to the United States,” my fiancée said. She waited for me to say something. Our relationship, if there was anything left of it, had become nothing more than apprehension. In my anger, I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Yet something restrained me from going verbally ballistic. Instead, I remained quiet. A whimper from the other end of the line meant she was remorseful, or so I thought. So I waited for an apology that never came. If she had apologized that day, I was ready to put her insincerity behind me and begin the relationship on a new page. Come on. This is life and stuff happens. That is why nobody is perfect. The main thing is that we recognize out imperfections, be humble enough to say sorry and be ready to start anew, with a sincere effort to not repeat our errors. “There is something I must tell you,” Jay said. A brief silence stretched for a long time as she gathered herself to talk. That

drove me crazy and I started to fill in the blank by thinking: Perhaps I am wrong about her wanting to apologize. Perhaps she officially wants to break up. Maybe… “I had surgery few weeks ago,” Jay interrupted my thoughts. Few weeks ago meant that I was in Africa still. Yet nobody, not even her brother told me that she was having surgery. That made me to really feel very inconsequential to her and the rest of her family . “You had surgery and no one cared to tell me!” I said angrily. She remained quiet. “What kind of surgical procedure did you undergo.” “Caesarean section,” she said hesitantly. “What?” “I had a C-section.” She said again. That was the final dagger. The lights went off in my mind and my anger thermometer was peaked red. I understood that to be a cold way of saying, I don’t want you anymore and, Hey! Your friend and I just had a baby. “Are you still there? Why are you not saying something, anything?” She asked. For the first time in a long time, there was panic in her voice. “What do you expect me to say, Congratulations?” “No,” She replied calmly. “I expect you to shout at me, or throw something like many men would do. I don’t like how quiet you are. That is dangerous. “Maybe you should have thought about that. How is your baby’s health?” She said that the baby was fine. “I see that all is well with you. Congratulations,” I said satirically and hung up the phone.

Another call came the next day. Apparently, she was calling to check up on me. Two weeks later, she called again, just to say hi.

* * *

51

THE BREAK UP

I was glad when my sister and her family were brought to Arizona two months after my arrival. They rented an apartment about twenty minutes drive away from me. I rode a bicycle to their apartment one evening. Still on the way, a car approached from behind. The street was deserted of pedestrians and only few cars went by. The vehicle slowed down. I turned just as one of the boys in the car raised a gun. I swayed quickly and lost control of my bicycle. The boy pulled the trigger and caught me on my left arm and side. I hit the concrete sidewalk, knocking the wind out of my lungs. The car sped away. Images of the shootings and killings in Liberia crossed my mind as I lay on the sidewalk. In that brief moment, the thought of surviving bomb blasts and bullets in Africa only to be killed by a gun in the United States seemed like a real possibility. My side was covered in red and my left arm hurt. My knees and elbows bruised from the impact of the concrete. All the same, there seemed to be no serious injury and the pain felt more like burn. I sustained no deep wound either and did not understand why, at first. The blood looked a little different too. Yep, it was no blood; only red paint. I was shot at close range with a paint ball gun. Jay called gain a few months later and said that she wanted to visit. I was no longer interested in the relationship, so the visit did not happen. Together with my sister and her husband, I called Jay’s family and cancelled the engagement. Her parents gave me an earful. They accused me of engaging their daughter only because I wanted her money and an opportunity to travel to Australia. They believed that my love for Jay was never sincere because true love is forgiving. One thing I found really puzzling is that not one person in her family apologized for what she did and they wanted me to stick with the relationship, even with all the drama already surrounding it. Over time, I overcame the hurt.

52

JOB SEARCH

Catholic Social Services helped me fully integrate into my new environment. Here is how the whole integration system works for refugees. Non-governmental and humanitarian organizations like the CSS, International Red Cross and Lutheran World Services find an apartment for refugee families and make use of programs that will help pay the rent, medical insurance and buy food for those families until the adults in their household get a job. Job acquisition normally takes anywhere between three to six months. However, it takes longer than that time period to get some people working. The humanitarian organizations also help with that process, in addition to Social Security application, States identification cards and other legal issues. All those benefits stopped when we get a job and can then handle our own affairs. Then we pay back the travel loans. Travel loans are interest free money that was borrowed and used to pay for the costs of our travels. I could not wait to get a job and earn my first dollar, but I also wanted to learn a career. Mario took me to apply for an entry level job. We went to a hotel, at the airport, glossaries store and at a hospice. Frankly, I did not like any of the housekeeping, yard maintenance, and glossaries stacking jobs. My case worker recognized that I was not happy but hey, the guy had to find me something quick and cross me off his list. We stopped by a Quick Trip gas station for Mario to first use the restroom and then fill his gas tank. I noticed a sign in front of a building that said, “Payday Loan.” “Do they loan money over there?” I asked him. He said yes and jokingly asked if I wanted to borrow money. Then he left me in the car and went into the convenience store. I got out and went into the Payday

Loan building. “I am looking for a job,” I said in my heavily accented English. The first question one of the guys asked was, “Where are you from?” Then, he said, “How long have you been in the United States?” When he heard that I was from Africa and had only been in the United States for a little over two months he was not thrilled, but only went through the usual business formality to not appear rude. “Did you have any money handling experience in Africa or here in Arizona?” Yes I had money handling experience in the Kingdom Praise Ministry founded by Mother Vivian Cia Reeves. I handled the distribution and sales of the group’s musical album and learned from Mother Reeves. I told the payday loan manager that and he gave me an application to fill. I spoke with so much confidence the guy looked intrigued. “Can you take a quick math test?” he asked. “Sure.” The test was twenty questions long. When Mario returned and did not see me in the car, he knew where to find me. I was just completing the test when my case manager walked in. He asked what I was doing and I told him that I was finishing up a test and filling out the application. Vivian Reeves had to be my first reference listed on the application, and Mario was my second. We waited for the test to be graded. The manger came back moments later with a surprised look. “You answered all the questions right.” He said. “All we need now is to your Mrs. Reeves. If all goes well, you got a job.” And oh, we do onsite training also so you will be alright.” I thanked the manager and we left. Mario said nothing. As we pulled into the apartment complex, I asked him about the next thing on my mind. “How do I go about enrolling in school?”

His advice was for me to first get a job, and then spend at least two years to fully understand the American system before considering formal education. He knew that I would disregard his counsel even before he finished talking. “Something tells me you will not do what I just said,” Mario told me. I only smiled. He went on, “I have worked with many people from your country but have seen none like you.” I asked what he meant by that. “You are different; proud and different,” he said. “Is that a compliment or an insult?” I asked. “Let’s just say it is a little of both.” He joked and drove away. I thought about our little discussion later. Mario was right about me being different and yes, proud too. After the nearly fourteen years of civil war in my country, years of being on the run and wasted in refugee camps in three African countries, Sierra Leone, Guinea and Ghana, finally doing something I loved and would be proud of was my utmost concern. I did not want to call my mom thousands of miles away and tell her that I was cleaning toilets and scrubbing motels and hotels. If that is considered to be arrogance, so be it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t mind doing those things if there was nothing else available but there was. I did not get the payday loan job. Mother Reeves could not be reached when the Payday Loan store tried to her. She had traveled to another African country. Somebody else got the job but at least I tried. What matters in life is not that you fail, but that you set a high goal and work at it, one step at a time.

* * *

53

WORK AND SCHOOL

Another case worker named Joseph came by my apartment one morning. Catholic Social Services decided to have two refugees trained in signs making at the Fastsigns store on Bell Road. Mario told his friend that I would be very interested in the opportunity. Sita, another refugee from Congo came along. We went to Fastsigns that morning. Deborah Campbell, the owner of the business, and her son Jerry, who was then the manager received us warmly and prepared all of the necessary documentation to begin the six-week training. Week one was challenging but the workers were glad to teach us. Their patience and smiles calmed our nerves and helped us to not only learn the trade, but also to ease into the American culture. The friendship that we established then is one that I still count on today. The first two weeks went by and my first paycheck came. I was shocked to learn that they paid eight dollars an hour to train, a rate that was higher than the hotel and airport cleaning jobs Mario wanted me to take. I did not cash my check for a while even though I needed the money. It just felt good looking at it. Deborah hired us when the training ended. My performance improved and more responsibilities were ed on to me. I paid off my IOM travel loan earlier than it was due. The benefits that I received from the United States government were stopped before many refugees that had lived in the country long before I arrived. I was also able to help my mom, siblings, and some of my friends back home. Until you’ve lived in lack and poverty, you cannot understand that a little help can go a long way. Many times it takes depriving oneself of comfort in order to better help others. It was obvious that my friends at Fastsigns wanted to know my story, but they refrained from asking questions for fear of stirring up bad memories. One day, I

told them a little bit about the Liberian war but had to stop when Deborah started to cry. It was very touching to see someone relate to my sufferings like that. She has been a mother to me since. Working for Fastsigns was great, but I wanted more. I saw an ment on television about a medical assistant program and enrolled. Three months into the program I decided that was not what I wanted and switched to the surgical technology program instead. Full-time work and full time school was very difficult. Not having a vehicle of my own made the situation even worse. I woke up at 5:00 a.m., studied until seven and got ready for both work and school because I went directly from work to school. I would catch a bus to work, several buses to school. Any delay meant at least forty minutes tardiness to school and missing over half of the first lecture. I literally ran to the nearest bus stop after class, which was 11:15p.m., hoping that the last bus had not already left even though it did not drive by my apartment. Yet that was the one that ran closest to where I lived and by saying closest, I mean about three miles away from my apartment. Missing that bus after school meant walking home, something that happened almost every time. Very tired, one time I boarded the wrong bus. It took me in the opposite direction. I was awakened from sleep when it came to a stop. My distance back home was even tripled. It was around 3:00a.m. when I reached my apartment. I called off work that morning. Jeff Hardin, the man I considered one of Bryman School’s best instructors was a nice guy, and very funny too. He took his teaching career very seriously but always had time to joke around with students. That made him approachable. The man loved hearing me and also my perspectives on a wide range of issues, including the Bible. He constantly brought up controversial topics. When we first met, I thought, what is Conan O’Brien doing here? Hardin insisted that I call him by his first name, but I preferred Mr. Hardin instead. “Just call me Jeff,” he said. “Yes, Mr. Hardin,” I would reply. After many unsuccessful attempts, he settled with calling me Mr. Zarkpah. One time, Mr. Hardin wore a suit and tie. Now, this guy usually preferred jeans

and T-shirts, and occasionally a dress shirt. Students everywhere in the hall cheered as he walked past them. He drew more ‘oohs’ when he entered my classroom. The childish beam of content that radiated from his face was enough to light up the world. “Nice coat and tie, Jeff!” someone exclaimed. He responded with a “thank you.” “Nice suit, Mr. Hardin.” I added. “Do you want it, Mr. Zarkpah?” he joked. “No, but thank you,” I responded. “Besides, it doesn’t fit me.” “Is that it, Mr. Zarkpah? It doesn’t fit or you are just not used to wearing one?” he teased. “I heard there are no clothes in Africa.” That was Jeff Hardin the comedian again. We all laughed and I decided to play his game. “Actually, sir, that suit is too ugly for a man like me,” I responded. “Ooh, it’s on!” somebody shouted and the entire class ed in the fun. Mr. Hardin smiled. “I really think you want it Mr. Zarkpah but you’re too shy to acknowledge that.” “No,” I countered. “I may not have had lots of clothes but there are few things about dressing I picked up along the way that you need to know. Here is the first thing. The tie is way too small and does not proportionate your body size and that coat lacks quality. That is what we call “roach coat” back home. A good hiding place for cockroaches.” Everyone laughed. “Oh,” he made a surprised face. “I did not know anyone wore clothes in Africa.” That drew more laughter. “I bet you are right, sir,” I said. “I almost forgot that we still wear leaves and

sleep in caves.” We were only messing around like usual. This guy had served in the United States military and had been to Africa several times. He knew that people do wear clothes there. He even talked about his experiences when he served in Africa and how he mingled with the people. However, it is true that many people know very little or nothing at all about the continent. Some of the questions that people asked me are so absurd; I sometimes wonder how they came about. Here are a few that I want to answer. No offense.

• That guy is from Africa—do you know him? Like I suppose to know every body from Africa. It is not a small village. Many times, even on the cover of this book, people use villages to represent the continent because villages are unique characteristics that define the culture of the people, especially from the past. There are still very many villages in the rural parts of the continent, but there are also modern day’s buildings including skyscrapers. Africa is the world’s second largest and second most populated continent. It is six percent of earth’s total surface area and 20.4 percent of the total land area. According to 2009 estimate, one billion people live in Africa. • Are there cars where you come from? Nope, we walk everywhere we want to go. Just kidding. Yes there are cars. • Did you have a pet lion? Are you kidding me? I am afraid of lions. Not all of us went lion hunting. • Do people from your country live in houses? To answer simply, yes we do. It is only because of conditions of war and unforeseen circumstances that made some of us sleep outside. • Oh, you speak English. Who would have thought so? I thought you only spoke African. Yes buddy, even if it is heavily accented, I learned it. I do have the ability to learn. Sorry that you did not realize. • Did you wear clothes back home? I hope so.

• Are there car roads in Africa? Yes there are. That is how cars move about. • What is the capital city of Africa? Africa does not have a capital city because it is a continent, not a country. • Are there really white Africans? Yes there are. White African is just the same term use to describe, for example, African Americans, Native Americans, and French-Canadians.

Ethel, my sister was riding on a public bus on her way home from work one day when her phone rang. She answered and was still on the line when a woman who until then had been sitting at the very back of the bus approached. She heard Ethel’s accent and interrupted the conversation. “Are you from Africa?” she asked. When Ethel replied that she was, the woman asked another question. “How are the lions, the elephants, and—” My sister answered simply: “I did not live with them.”

* * *

54

MY FIRST VEHICLE

I still did not own a car because I had no cash with which to buy one. The idea of obtaining a car on credit was very unwelcoming. While it is very important to have a good credit history in the United States, anyone fond of crediting in Liberia was seen as being irresponsible. I was stunned to know that so many Americans carried at least one credit card. Others have many credit cards and they actually prefer to use the card even when they have the cash to purchase whatever it is that they want. Since I was already piling up student loans, any other form of borrowing seemed like too much of a problem to handle. A co-worker at Fastsigns told me that I could get a car on credit and she recognized my hesitation. “What is your credit score, Lawrence?” she asked. I beamed proudly and declared that my score was zero. “Uh… Maybe you should get a credit card and start building your score,” she advised. “Why would I ever want to do that? Why would anybody want to be indebted to another person?” I asked. “Open your eyes, goofy,” she joked. “You are no longer in Africa. Here in the United States, credit is a good thing.” The cultures of both worlds did occasionally clash. Yet the benefits of credit did strike me. For one thing, credit made it possible for me to be in school. In my country and many other parts of Africa, you can not have what you want if you do not have the cash to pay for that. I now see how disadvantageous that is. I believe African governments should create credit opportunities, if for nothing else but for education.

It was time for me to yield to the new way of life. After all, owning a vehicle is not a luxury in the United States; it is a necessity. When you are in Rome, you must do as the Romans. The mental walls that I had put up against credit slowly began to crumble. Nevertheless, I was not going to buy an expensive car. All I needed was something that worked and would not break down on the highway. I avoided going to auto dealerships. Cars were always parked by the side of the road with FOR SALE signs on them, just waiting for me. About a week later, I came across an immaculate, silver-colored 2000 Mitsubishi Eclipse convertible. The owner, leaving the United States needed to sell the car. “For how much are you selling the vehicle?” I asked. The guy wanted $10,000. My heart sank like lead in water. I had no money whatsoever, but acted like the richest man around. I wanted a car that will cost somewhere around $5,000. Still, I was drawn to Mitsubishi Eclipse. Sitting in the vehicle felt like being on an airplane. I turned the key and the engine came to life. It revved like rolling thunder. The A/C blew cool air like ocean breeze and the stereo blasted Tupac Shakur’s “Me against the World.” Extra speakers were built into the back. They vibrated as sound waves escaped through. This could be mine, I thought. I finally dragged myself out, but not until I had popped the hood. Shining engine greeted me. The car battery was new. I walked around the car and saw no scratch or dent. The impatient owner waited for me to make an offer. All I could say was, “I’ll be back.” I did not have to go back. As I turned away, a truck pulled over. A boy and his girlfriend got out. They looked no older than twenty. “How much do you want for the car?” the boy asked. The owner told him his price. “Do you want it?” the boy asked his friend. She said yes. He went back to his truck and brought back the money, cash. I watched them drive away to have the title changed. Truly,

A feast is made for laughter, and wine maketh merry: but money answereth all things.” —Ecclesiastes 10:19

The next day, I visited Bank of America to speak with a loan officer. He assured me that I was qualified for an auto loan, even after I made it clear that I was not looking to go to a dealership but instead buy a vehicle from an individual. “Make sure to come back with the vehicle and its owner,” he said. Within a few days, I was interested in another vehicle, a white 2001 Toyota 4Runner. The owner wanted $5,000, but I managed to convince him to accept $4,000. However, it was Sunday and the bank was closed. The owner was unsure that I would return, and I did not want him to sell the vehicle to anyone else. The truck was parked in front of his house, so I knew that he would not run away with my money. He asked me to make a $200 non-refundable deposit. Counting on the bank’s promise, I gave the guy the money and he wrote and signed the contract. We met at the bank the next day. The same loan officer that had promised me the loan became hesitant. In the end, I was not given the loan and I lost the deposit. It took another two weeks before I finally received a loan from the Arizona Federal Credit Union for a blue Suzuki Grand Vitara, my first valuable possession. I always parked my vehicle with dozens of other cars in the parking lot. There was no report for car theft in the area but I feared that my car would be stolen. Yeah, I know that I am silly.

* * *

55

EXTERNSHIP AND GRADUATION

My School secured me a site where I could complete the practical aspects of the course. This was in Del E. Webb Memorial Hospital’s operating rooms. At first, preparing the many instruments that had been designed for different kinds of surgical procedures was overwhelming. In all of my life, I had only visited a small clinic as a patient. Now I was in a big hospital and in charge of almost everything that was needed for surgery. Furthermore, this was among people who were surrounded with sophisticated equipments and only God knows what else. I was very nervous, still does at times. Frankly, I must say that a vast majority of those who worked in the operating room glared at my every move, not just because I was a novice but because I was different in some ways. To begin with, my accent did not help the situation. I was a little too self-conscious. I am not trying to say this to be negative, but for some reason, people tend to be very skeptical of others who look, different, speak different, and who, in my case at least, come from parts of the world that many consider illiterate. I did not take offense but considered the extra scrutiny a challenge to prove myself worthy. Besides, the patients were not lab dummies, so it was a matter of life and death. Therefore, everyone was within reason to press me hard. One morning, the clinical director called me into her office. I thought that my preceptor had given her a bad report about my progress, and I was scared that she would terminate my training. “Maybe I am just not cut out for this kind of a job,” I thought. My heart pounded so loudly that she might have heard it. “Take a seat, Lawrence,” she said as she reached into her cabinet and pulled out a small bottle.

The clinical director continued as she handed me a 99-cent bottle of deodorant. “I know how this may sound to you but I don’t want you to take it too seriously. Someone complained that you have a strong odor, so I picked this up for you. Now I understand that in certain cultures, or because of certain religious reasons, people use certain things that, unaware to them, become offensive to others. I hope you like the deodorant.” Terminating my training seemed minuscule to the insult that I had just received. Still, what I had to do was take the insult and smile. One wrong word from me could terminate my training and all those sleepless night be wasted. I struggled to control the emotions that welled up inside. “Thank you,” I said. “However, my culture does not permit dirtiness, and I personally do not condone it. I am sorry that somebody thinks I stink.” I left her office that day feeling very discouraged. The break that I so badly needed came later that same day. A lady who was a certified ed nurse anesthesiologist (CRNA) pulled me aside when there was time to spare. The encouragement that she gave me was more precious than gold. “Come here, Lawrence,” she said. “All this will . You are doing great, so just keep it up. And do not get into any kind of confrontation with anyone and everything will be okay. For some reason, health care seems to be the only career where staffs destroy their young.” Then she told me how when she was going to medical school her instructor said that she was too old and too stupid to make it through her studies. But she had overcome all of that. The next day, I had an opportunity to be shadowed by two other surgical technologists, Sarah Weifenbach and Angie Fischer. They let me scrub the entire case without trying to make me feel stupid. I performed better. Even the doctor complimented me after the case and had few words of advice too. He told me to not let anyone try to intimidate me in any way, even doctors. That was the greatest praise. Time went by and my training finally ended. The same hospital hired me before my graduation ceremony. Deborah Campbell and some of my co-workers at Fastsigns came to rejoice with me. I received two awards; the first was academic excellence for a 4.0 GPA. The second was a President’s Award for organizing weekend tutorial classes that helped many students.

Time came for me to leave Fastsigns and begin my new career as a surgical technologist. I still work for the sign store whenever I can and when they need help. My uncle always told us to be diligent in everything we do. “If your job is to be a sweeper, make sure that you are the best sweeper in the world. Do it meticulously because you never know where that sweeping position will take you,” he usually said. I began my new job in January 2007. Every day brings different challenges, but each challenge is an opportunity to learn something new. I still work at the same hospital and happy to be requested by some doctors; among them are Arash Araghi, DO and John A. Brown, MD. They are both great surgeons with great personalities. Doctor Brown is even helping me find somebody who can turn this book into a movie. It has not worked out yet, but he is trying and that means a lot to me.

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56

MY WIFE AND KIDS

My wife Sarah is also from Liberia. She too came to the United States a refugee, along with two brothers and a sister. A neighbor asked if I had met the African family that just arrived the other night. I went to make their acquaintance the next day. Like me she was a Liberian citizen, had fled the war and lived in Guinea, was granted political asylum and brought to Glendale, Arizona, rented at the same apartment complex and the building next door. We did not know each other until I went to greet them. Most people will already connect the dots. I did not because my mind was preoccupied. I thought our meeting was just by chance. Well, chance had nothing to do with it; predestination did. Many times we miss our blessings because our minds are set on something else. We develop a mental image of what we want and how we want it and become fixed to such images and will not let go. Until we can reprogram our minds and see beyond our self-imposed limitations, we stand the risk of missing out on life Thankfully, I came to that realization sooner rather than later. The humor and ambiance about Sarah was magnetic. Our friendship bloomed into something more and I realized that we share similar goals and interests. I am glad to be married to a friend, who also is very beautiful and fun. Our first son, Lawrence N. Zarkpah Junior, was born on February 6, 2008. We had gone for my wife’s routine checkup when the doctor told us that she needed to stay. The next morning, the doctor decided that Sarah needed a C-section. I had worked in surgery for a year and had had the opportunity to see many things —both the wonders of surgical procedures as well as the downs that come with it —but nothing had prepared me for the birth of my first boy. Holding my child was the most precious thing. I was a very proud dad ready to take on the world if need be. Work in the operating room was going well. Here is one of my favorite moments. An elderly gentleman was brought into the operating room for a total

shoulder arthroplasty. This is a surgical procedure in which the shoulder is replaced as a way of treating severe arthritis of the shoulder t. I had already prepared all of the instrumentation that was needed for his surgery, but was still scrubbed. I introduced myself like always before the patients go to sleep. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Liberia, West Africa,” I responded. I could see that he was very concerned. And I don’t blame him for that. Surgery is no fun, and if I ever become a patient, I too will be concerned about who is helping my surgeon. As you may already know, there were more questions. “Did you go to school for this here in the United States?” I smiled and told him that I did. “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” he asked again. I responded with a, “I hope so.” The entire room roared with laughter. The patient caught on to the joke and couldn’t help but laugh. Then on a more serious note, I told him that he was not the first patient whose surgical procedure I scrubbed for and that I wouldn’t be working if I was unqualified. The doctor told the patient that he would have postponed the surgery if I wasn’t scrubbing since I was the only one that knew what was needed. The patient was relieved, and the surgery occurred with no complications. Too often, we underestimate the power of a compliment. The funny thing is that we always want people to tell us how good we are. Yet many times we forget to tell others how much we appreciate them and how their work enables us to do our parts well. An honest compliment has the power to change lives. So don’t forget to give compliments to all those with whom you work today. Ethan, my second son was born on January 22, 2010. I felt like a king.

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57

OUR DREAM

Our dreams are the result of our experiences, the reason for which we feel so ionate about them. It is an understatement to say that we have seen how much destructions war has on children. It hurts to know that people, to put it simply, care less. Nothing has been more ingrained into our hearts and minds than to help such children. The best way to help save the lives of children in war torn countries is to prevent wars. That is why it takes everybody but more so leaders of the world because they have the power to end if not all, but some of these unnecessary wars. We hope this book will fall into the hands of people that will put selfish politics and profiteering aside to stand up for the thousands of children who suffer and die in war about which they know nothing. Children are the future of their societies. Whatever conditions they grow up under dictate that which they become and eventually determine what kind of world in which we live. We hope for a new kind of movement that will focus their efforts on peace and stability for all men, not just for one group of people. We also want to help put food on the table for struggling children and families, provide scholarship opportunities for the needy, water for those that thirst and medical relief for the sick.

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58

BAD NEWS

I called back home to speak to Uncle Belh. From the sound of his voice, I could tell that he was not well. First he lost his sight. From then on, his health deteriorated badly. At one time, I was told that he called the family together and told them that his wish was to have a quiet funeral when he died. He did not want to be embalmed. He only wanted his body be wrapped in a blanket and buried. Randall, my elder brother took charge of caring for him. The once robust man became completely depended upon people for everything. The next time I called and heard my Uncle cried is when I realized how seriously his condition had deteriorated. On the night of July 25, 2010, my phone rang. Paye called to tell me that Uncle Belh had died a few hours ago. The man whom I had known all my life—even more than my dad—was no more, and I could not even attend his funeral. His body was laid to rest one week later. He ed at the age of seventy-three.

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59

MY FEAR

The last time I saw my mother was in 2003 when she visited us in Guinea. She looked older then and that was nine years ago. I fear we might not see again and that my children may not have the opportunity to see their grandmother. I have always wanted to build a house for my mother, to buy her a car and find a driver to take her around. All of those things are still just dreams because I am not financially able to accomplish them and time is running out. We are in the process of having her visit the United States, but I feel that everything is moving too slowly. Perhaps I am too impatient. help me god!

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PART THREE

HISTORY OF LIBERIA AND EVENTS THAT LED TO THE WAR

60

LIBERIA

It is not enough to write about my experience during the Liberian Civil War without explaining the history of the country and the progression of events that led to the war. The War is deeply rooted in the foundation of the nation. Liberia, which is officially known as the Republic of Liberia, is located on the west coast of Africa. It has a total area of 111,370 sq. km. (43,000 sq. miles), slightly bigger than Ohio State and is home to 3.9 million people. The country is bordered on the west by Sierra Leone, on the east by the Ivory Coast, on the north by Guinea, and on the south by the Atlantic Ocean. Monrovia is its capital city, a name that was given in honor of James Monroe, the fifth President of the United States who was a prominent er of the colonization of Liberia. Monrovia is the only non-American capital city named after a U.S. president. In 1461, Portuguese explorers made with Liberia and named the area the Grain Coast. Melegueta pepper seed, also known as the “grain of paradise,” grew along the coast. It is said that the name “grain of paradise” originated from spice traders in medieval days who tried to convince people that the peppery seeds grew only in the Garden of Eden and had then collected along the coast as they floated down the rivers out of paradise. After the abolishment of the slave trade in America, ex-slaves and their children encountered constant difficulties. As they increased in number, abolitionists decided to find ways to address the problem of African integration into white communities. One of the solutions was to return the ex-slaves to their homeland of Africa. For this reason, the American Colonization Society (ACS) was established in 1816. In 1821, the first group of ex-slaves from America arrived on Sherbro Island, in what is now Sierra Leone. Sicknesses and diseases plagued the free slaves. Many lost their lives. Another ship from America with more emancipated slaves also came to the island, rescued the remaining settlers, and took them to Cape

Mesurado in 1822. Cape Mesurado was renamed Monrovia in 1824 and became Liberia’s capital city. When the ship arrived on the cape, representatives were dispatched to negotiate with the local people who already lived on the land. The representatives’ form of negotiation was simple—they put the native Kru, Grebo, and Bassa chiefs under gun-point and forced their agenda on the aboriginals of the land that had no other option but to agree. That created a major conflict from the very beginning. More slaves that had been rescued from slave ships were brought to the Grain Coast from different parts of Africa. Colonial expansionists encroached upon the natives for more territories in order to form new colonies. Wars began. The natives’ spears were no match for the colonists’ guns. By 1835, five colonies had been started by the American Colonization Society on the same West African coast. One of those colonies was destroyed by the natives; the remaining four incorporated. ACS was governed by white agents from America. In 1840, the ACS diminished its for the colony. In 1845, the organization held constitutional conventions in Monrovia. The settlers declared that Liberia was a sovereign country in 1847. Joseph Jenkins Roberts became the first president of the new Republic of Liberia. He was born a free man in Norfolk, Virginia. The Liberian government was modeled after the United States, and its red, white, and blue flag significantly resembles that of the US. One slight difference is that the Liberian flag has one star in its blue field and eleven red and white stripes that represent the eleven people who signed the African nation’s Declaration of Independence. Liberia also adapted the United States’ constitution and pledge of allegiance. The only difference in the pledge is where the names of the countries are swapped, one reason why many Liberians call their country “Little America.” Some even questioned why Liberia never became a U.S. territory in Africa. However, Liberia’s existence presented the United States with the opportunity to have a top ally in Africa. Apart from what is already mentioned above, the histories of both countries still have more striking similarities. Let us consider some:

• Africans in the US suffered under the yoke of slavery and discrimination when they were set free. Therefore they were taken to Africa and settled in Liberia to enjoy freedom and security from oppression. Similarly, the American pilgrims

migrated in order to seek economic opportunities and religious freedom from British oppressions. • When the ship that carried free slaves from America reached Cape Mesurado (Liberia), the place was not free of people. African natives already occupied the lands just as Native Americans occupied the lands before the pilgrims and other colonists arrived in what is now the United States. • The quest for colonial expansion in native Liberian territories led to brutal wars between the well-armed free slaves and their white agents on the one hand, and on the other hand the poorly armed natives whose weapons were spears, bows and arrows. This story is similar to what happened between Native Americans armed with bows and arrows and the new colonists who sought more territories and were armed with guns.

Although the ex-slaves in Liberia once suffered badly under oppressive conditions in America, they knew how profitable the weapon of oppression worked for their white masters. And so they did what no one would have ever thought. They made themselves masters and oppressed native Liberians. Although they were the same color, the ex-slaves and their descendants considered themselves superior, hence the term “Americo-Liberians,” which distinguishes them from the native Liberians. For 133 years (1847—1980), the Americo-Liberians even though being only five percent of the nation’s population, they used their connection with the United States government to prey upon their subjects. The ex-slaves controlled Liberia’s education, politics, and economy and prohibited native tribes from migrating to the capital city, Monrovia unless the natives were brought there to work. Americo-Liberian children received the best educations in segregated schools. Everything their kids needed was readily available, while the natives and their children struggled to obtain basic necessities. All kinds of scholarships were reserved for Americo-Liberians. They were sent away to colleges and universities in the U.S. and Europe to acquire the best educations that the world had to offer. In short, Americo-Liberians were groomed to rule the natives. Education was a privilege for the native sons and daughters who, along with their elders, labored to clean and care for Americo-Liberians homes. Very few natives managed to complete their elementary educations by taking night classes

in poor institutions that had no more than a blackboard and some chalk. Even fewer completed high school. Americo-Liberians called the natives “country boys and country girls.” These are not of endearment in Liberia. They are offensive phrases that deliberately insult someone as having impaired social skills and learning disabilities. Liberia was governed by a one-party system, the True Whig, which was solely created by and for the Americo-Liberians. For many years, True Whig permitted no organized political opposition. In 1920, Charles Dunbar Burgess King was elected Liberia’s seventeenth president. He talked about reform in public, while in private he was a stern er of the one-party system and its dominance. In all their copying from the United States, Liberian leaders failed to tap into two of America’s greatest strengths: patriotism and resolve. Where the Americans had inspiring leaders who encouraged nation-building and innovation, our Liberian forefathers cared less about the future of their country. They borrowed huge amounts of money from foreign investors in the name of nation-building and then embezzled the funds. As if that was not enough, they surrounded themselves with like-minded subjects who obeyed their every word. In their shortsightedness and greed, Liberian leaders made deals that exploited their country. One such contract was with the Firestone Company of the United States. Based on a $5 million loan in 1926, the Liberian government, under the leadership of President King, gave exclusive rights to Firestone to use one million acres of land for ninety-nine years. The proposal created conflict even within the government, but the deal was struck. In the 1927 Liberian election, President King was challenged by Thomas J. R. Faulkner. ed voters in Liberia at that time numbered fifteen thousand. After the ballots were counted, official statements reported that President King had received 234,000 votes. He retained his presidency even though everybody knew that fraud had been involved. Charles D. B. King’s election was listed in the 1982 Guinness Book of World Records as the most fraudulent election ever reported in history. Needless to say, Faulkner was not happy with the results of the election. He accused of the True Whig Party, including President King, of recruiting and selling the indigenous people as slaves. The League of Nations (LON), an organization composed of from different countries, investigated the accusation and found that it was true. LON was founded at the end of World War

I at the Paris Peace Conference with the objectives of peacekeeping, the just treatment of native inhabitants, and protection against human and drug trafficking, and the regulation of the arms trade. Charles D. B. King and his Vice President Allen Yancy resigned. Other of True Whig were also implicated in the slave trading. It took Faulkner’s loss in a seriously fraudulent election to uncover the truth. However, the findings did not end the Liberian government’s discrimination against the natives. The nation’s 19th President, William V. S. Tubman, took office in 1944. His rule ushered in policies that included national unification and economic growth. President Tubman tried to reduce the social and political differences between his fellow Americo-Liberians and the native Liberians. During his istration, new schools were built, roads constructed, the iron ore industry of the country established, and the Free Port of Monrovia opened to the world. He is regarded as the father of modern Liberia. Still, with all these developments, the president was a controversial leader. While he was loved by some for preaching reconciliation, he was hated by others for ing the interests of AmericoLiberians. Toward the end of his istration, he was a complete authoritarian. President Tubman died in a London clinic on July 23, 1971. His Vice President William R. Tolbert Jr. became the President of Liberia. William R. Tolbert was born in Liberia. He was a grandson of an ex-slave from South Carolina. President Tolbert allowed the formation of other parties and the Progressive Alliance of Liberia (PAL) was formed. PAL was the first legal opposition party in Liberia. Soon after, Movement for Justice in Africa (MOJA) was founded by the natives in 1973. MOJA’s purpose was to mobilize and raise political awareness among the natives in the country. True Whig Party still dominated the government. While Tolbert faced unprecedented criticism from this MOJA for not quickly addressing native suppression and income inequality, of his own party thought that he was moving too fast. On foreign issues, relationship between Liberia and the United States was dampened during the governance of William R. Tolbert. He did not continue the late President Tubman’s pro-Western policies. Tolbert established diplomatic relationships with Russia and China. In October 1973, Tolbert cut off all diplomatic relationship with Israel, the United States’ greatest ally. The United States Pres. Jimmy Carter visited Liberia for the first time in order to strengthen the relationship between the countries in 1978. President Carter talked about his

visit to Liberia sometime later. According to him, Liberia was a “symbol of stability and economic progress in West Africa” when he visited the African country. Despite what the American president and other foreign leaders thought, Liberia was no symbol of stability. They might have thought the country was stable because many foreign investors courted Liberia during the rule of William Tubman. The peaceful transition of power after Tubman’s death was also unprecedented in African politics and contributed to such conclusion. However, Liberia’s political climate was deceptive. Beneath this calm surface, a political volcano was about to erupt. Liberian natives were tired of living under oppression. In April 1979, the Liberian government planned to raise the price of rice, the nation’s staple diet. That move meant that poor natives could not afford to feed their families. Florence Chenoweth, then Tolbert’s minister of agriculture said that the increase in price would allow rice farmers to stay in the rural parts of the country and produce more rice instead of migrating to the city in search of jobs. PAL organized a peaceful demonstration against the government’s decision. A major riot in the streets of Monrovia ensured and armed police fired at the crowd of protesters who were predominantly, if not entirely, native Liberians. It was reported that at least forty people were killed and many other wounded. That may have been the last straw.

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61

SAMUEL KANYON DOE, LIBERIA’S TWENTIETH PRESIDENT

On April 12, 1980, Master Sergeant Samuel Kanyon Doe and a group of noncommissioned army officers, all native Liberians, staged a military coup d’état in a late-night raid on the Executive Mansion. President Tolbert was killed. The coup plotters seized control of the government and called their movement the People’s Redemption Council (PRC). PRC rounded up thirteen of Tolbert’s cabinet and publicly executed them ten days later. Samuel Doe, a member of the Krahn tribe, became the leader of this illegitimate government, thus bringing an end to 133 years of Americo-Liberian rule. It would be an understatement to say that many natives ed the new government. They viewed the overthrow as deliverance from oppression. Samuel Kanyon Doe was born on May 6, 1951. He dropped out of school in 1967 for economic reasons and later ed the Liberian Army. After his initial training in Todee Military Camp and Camp Schiefflen, he was assigned to the third battalion of the Armed Forces of Liberia at the Barclay Training Center in Monrovia where he continued his education, taking night classes at the Barracks Union High School and Marcus Garvey Memorial High. Full of ambition, Doe moved up the ranks of the army and gained reputation as a sharpshooter and a hand-to-hand combat fighter. In 1979, Doe was selected for training by the United States Special Forces in Monrovia. He was promoted to the rank of master sergeant that same year, the military position he held until the coup d’état. With the execution of Tolbert and his cabinet, the inexperienced new government made its first major political blunder. Anger from their past experiences and a fear that Tolbert’s men would soon stage a comeback dictated their actions. They believed such a move would send a strong and clear message to their enemies to abstain from organizing any counter-insurgence. of

the True Whig Party fled. The message also went far beyond the late president’s ers. It showed the rest of the world that the PRC government was not only naïve; it was bloodstained. Foreign governments turned their backs on Liberia. The nation’s strongest ally and benefactor, the United States, wanted nothing to do with Doe’s PRC. Tolbert’s nine-year presidency and service as chairman of the Organization of African Unity had given him the opportunity to create friendships with other African leaders. They too refused to accept the new order. Doe found himself faced with countless obstacles. But these obstacles were just part of the problem. The new president did not have a solid educational background. It was even rumored that he told his counterparts who helped stage the overthrow that he wanted one of them to assume the role of president. His colleagues were no better. They thought that Doe was the natural leader and therefore should rule. He found himself stuck with the weight of an entire nation on his untested shoulders. be careful what you wish for. The country was bankrupt, another disappointment for the new government. Except to a handful of friends who knew him, Doe was a mysterious native leader who became a recluse to the world. Many people, even some of his ers and of the other Liberian tribes panicked and became cynical about the new government. People feared for their lives. Schools, businesses and other entities were temporarily shut down. But Doe’s tribesmen rallied around the PRC. With each ing day, many waited for some kind of counterattack or a fight within PRC. Nothing happened and people eased back into their daily routines and normal lives. Perhaps the PRC was there to stay after all. Christmas was fast approaching and there was no money to pay government workers who needed to feed their families and buy holiday presents. Relief for the new leader finally came in the form of Libya’s President Muammar Gaddafi. Gaddafi pledged to the junta istration. By doing so, Libya became the first country to recognize the PRC as a legitimate government. Gaddafi was a military ruler who had himself ceased the operation of his country’s government in a bloodless military coup in 1969. Always dogmatic in opposing Western influence in Africa, he considered the Organization of African Unity (OAU) a failure and proposed instead a United States of Africa. OAU wanted to keep African nations separate and independent, increase cooperation

among the nations, and limit Western dominance. Gaddafi’s idea was to unite all of Africa under one president and completely eradicate Western involvement and influence in the continent. At that time, he was trying to annex the neighboring country of Chad and make it part of Libya. African leaders feared that Gaddafi was asserting himself over them and would turn all of Africa toward Islamic rule. They resisted his efforts to control them. The Liberian situation presented Gaddafi with an opportunity to move forward his ambition and hinder America’s presence on the continent. He promised to finance Doe’s bankrupt government and solve the problems that threatened to obliterate the new Liberian leader. A December 1980 meeting was scheduled in Libya, just before the Christmas holidays. It was common knowledge that the Liberian president would return with funds. Doe was only too delighted to be recognized by the wealthy Libyan president who was willing to put his money where his mouth was. The United States did not want the meeting to happen and therefore could no longer stand back and watch. The Americans still had great interests in Liberia. US missions in Africa rested on Liberia’s well being. Although Washington had cut off all of its to the tiny African nation, it had no choice but to stop Gaddafi’s plans because the Libyan government was an ally of the Soviet Union and opposed the state of Israel. In addition to that, Gaddafi was known to terrorist operations and organizations. America intervened to stop Doe from making the trip to Libya. President Doe had then to make a choice between Libya, a new ally, and America, a long-time friend. He chose the United States and everyone was happy again—everyone but Gaddafi. With rapidity, the United States sent financial aid to Liberia and sealed the deal with Doe. Effects of that move went far beyond blocking Gaddafi’s gambit; it also meant that the United States now recognized Doe’s government. Other countries also stepped out in recognition of PRC. If America did, why won’t other countries. The money from the U.S. government was used to pay disgruntled workers. Liberians were elated that the United States was still on board. Doe’s meeting with the Libyan president was cancelled. Gaddafi felt betrayed and Doe would later pay greatly for neglecting Gaddafi. Ronald Reagan then became President of the United States. Liberia’s

relationship with the United States flourished during Reagan’s istration. Within a short period of time, Doe’s government, which had just recently seemed dead, was invigorated. The American radio station in Liberia, Voice of America (VOA), broadcast news in the nation. A military compound was used as a base for CIA operations in Africa. The Freeport of Monrovia, the nation’s main seaport, and the Roberts International Airport were once again opened to the world. Ships from everywhere, including the United States, Canada, and Europe, sailed into the country, bolstering Liberia’s economy. Doe also severed the ties that Tolbert had established with the Soviet Union and was now comfortably positioned. Doe’s ion for soccer gained him even more popularity in the country. He promoted sports in the country more than any other president had. Under his leadership, the country developed more professional players than ever before; the most successful of these players was George Opong Weah. A new soccer stadium was built and named in honor of the president, the Samuel Kanyon Doe Sports Complex. Everything seemed to be working well, for a while at least. A man’s motive for wanting to lead may be patriotic. It may even be divine. Yet if he is not careful in the process of leading, the man becomes corrupted by the system he once hated. Rather than bringing about the change that Liberia needed —equality for every Liberian, both natives and Americo-Liberians—Doe’s government slowly came to resemble the system that had existed before, full of division and corruption. According to a besmirched Liberian adage, “Wherever you tie a goat is the place it feeds.” Liberia was set on a fast track toward selfdestruction. If Tolbert had not been overthrown, I believe that change would have come sometime later and in a different form. Perhaps Liberians would have been part of the recent demonstrations that rocked North Africa, especially the Arab world. But Liberia had its own kind of uprising in 1980. Overthrowing any government, no matter how you view it, has great tendency to yield negative results. Tolbert’s assassination set in place a ferocious circle that Liberia could not break free from for many years. Once everyone saw that coup plotters got away with it and thereafter enjoyed the comfort and wealth of high government positions, it gave the impression, especially to the younger population, that coups are okay and rewarding. All the lunatics in Liberia wanted to do the same. Doe’s government soon suffered many coup attempts. His solution to this problem was swift execution of plotters and suspects. That resulted into the formation of even more oppositions.

In August 1981, Thomas Weh Syan and four other of the PRC government were arrested and executed for an alleged conspiracy to overthrow the president. Internal rifts within the PRC worsened, and Doe feared assassination. The Liberian president became suspicious of Commanding General Thomas Quiwonkpa, a member of the Mano tribe who also was involved in 1980 overthrow of President Tolbert. Quiwonkpa and his close friend Prince Johnson left the country in November 1983. Both men sought refuge in the United States. Their ers, fellow Mano and Gio tribesmen went to neighboring Ivory Coast. Trusting no one else to protect him, President Doe surrounded himself with his own Krahn tribesmen. The conflict was slowly becoming a tribal one. On the morning of April 1, 1985, news circulated that Lt. Moses Flazamington, deputy commander of the Executive Mansion Guard Battalion, had fired a .50 caliber machine gun at a jeep in which the president rode. Doe was unharmed, but one of his guards was fatally wounded. However, the president’s opposition doubted the report. They believed that the lieutenant had not shot at the president. Regardless, Flazamington was executed. President Doe was declared the winner of the October 15, 1985 presidential election. Observers reported fraud on the part of the government. There were also reports of human right abuses by Doe’s government. Doe further angered people when he declared citizenship to of the Mandingo tribe who until then were considered foreigners. The Mandingoes were merchants who had migrated from other countries in Africa and settled in Liberia and soon became vital contributors to the nation’s economy. They owned a large portion of the small businesses in the nation. Some lived in the country illegally. The problem became even more complicated because some Mandingoes married citizens and raised families. Many of their kids knew no other country. Doe argued that the Mandingoes were already woven into the fabric of Liberian society and, with their contributions to the economy, it was only right to make them citizens. That discussion became another combustible subject and reason people wanted the president removed. His tribesmen ed the decision of granting citizenship to the Mandingoes and by doing so inflamed the already existing tribal conflict. On November 12, 1985, General Quiwonkpa returned to Liberia to overthrow the government. He nearly succeeded, but was arrested and executed. of the Mano and Gio tribes that ed Quiwonkpa’s attempted coup plot

were hunted down by soldiers loyal to the president. It now was full blown tribalism. When people are oppressed for too long, they react with violence. But violence really does not solve the problem; it only begets more violence. History is replete with such examples, but for some reason, Africa does not understand. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. understood that peaceful demonstration is the right way to go, and Nelson Mandela knew this too. Africans must realize this.

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62

CHARLES M. G. TAYLOR AND THE LIBERIAN CIVIL WAR

Charles McArthur Ghankay Taylor was born in Arthington, Montserrado County on January 28, 1948. His father, Nelson Taylor, was an Americo-Liberian and his mother Zoe a member of the Gola tribe. The name Charles McArthur Taylor is part of his Americo-Liberian heritage, and Ghankay is a Gola name that was given to him by his mother. Ghankay means stubborn. Taylor was one of the privileged few that had access to quality education. He was sent to the United States to continue his education and he acquired a bachelor’s degree in economics at Bentley College in Waltham, Massachusetts in 1977. While attending the college, Charles Taylor ed the Union of Liberian Association (ULA), a Liberian student political association in the United States. In 1979, President Tolbert made a diplomatic visit to the United States. Charles Taylor organized and led a demonstration of Liberian students against the president. He threatened to take over the Liberian mission in the United States and was arrested by U.S. security agencies for making threats against the Liberian president. The Liberian president returned to his country and decided to not press charges. Taylor was let free and he became even more involved in the politics of his country. Charles Taylor’s extreme stance against the Liberian president created animosity that kept him away from his country. However, President Tolbert invited his new adversary back home, probably to give Taylor a job and keep him close. Taylor accepted the president’s invitation and returned to his country in 1980, only coincidentally at the same time that President Tolbert was assassinated. His education in the United States and demonstration against the late president was well known in Liberia. These things gave him favor with the new government that so desperately needed educated people to get on board. He was made director for the government’s General Service Agency (GSA), a position that he held until fleeing the country in May 1983 after reports surfaced that he had embezzled $900,000, which was said to have been deposited into a U.S. bank

. Meanwhile, Liberia and United States had an agreement to arrest and extradite any citizen who committed a crime in his country and fled to the other to evade justice. This led to Charles Taylor’s May 1984 arrest in the United States by two U.S. Deputy Marshalls in Massachusetts. Charles Taylor hired the legal team of Ramsey Clark to represent his case against extradition. He cited a fear of being killed by the Liberian government if the United States returned him to his country. Ramsey Clark is an American lawyer and activist who served as Attorney General of the United States under President Lyndon B. Johnson. Taylor’s lawyers argued before U.S. District Magistrate Robert P. DeGiacomo that their client’s actions in his country were not criminal but political. He was detained in Plymouth County’s House of Correction awaiting extradition. On September 15, 1985, two months before Quiwonkpa’s failed assassination attempt, the Boston Globe reported that Taylor and four other inmates had escaped their prison. According to the report, the men sawed through window bars, tied sheets together, and lowered themselves twenty feet onto the ground. The four inmates were later apprehended, but Taylor was not. Four years later, on December 24, 1989, Taylor returned to Liberia with a band of Libyan-trained militiamen and attacked the Liberian border from the Ivory Coast. His rebel group was named, The National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL). Others who had received military training in Burkina Faso also ed the rebellion. Taylor’s U.S. prison break was met with suspicion not only by Liberians but by the international community. The United States is known for its tough security and unmatched surveillance. For an international prisoner to escape all of these measures and successfully flee the country did not seem likely. Therefore, Liberians came up with two theories about Taylor’s escape. Theory One: The Americans arrested Charles Taylor because they intended to extradite him to Liberia. After considering Taylor’s argument and Doe’s solution of executing his enemies, the government decided to not extradite Taylor but saw no reason to keep the man detained. US let Taylor out. Still, some explanation was needed to maintain the extradition agreement between

the two countries. Prison break was a logical excuse. That would also exonerate the U.S. government from any blame for whatever Taylor did with his life from that point on. Liberians also believed that Washington was aware of Charles Taylor’s intention to return home and unseat the president. Theory Two: The Liberian president had become paranoid. It was time for a regime change. With Thomas Quiwonkpa dead after his failed assassination attempt, Taylor was the only qualified person to rule. After all, he was educated in the United States and understood Liberian politics. Yet methodical preparation was needed to assure success, especially after Quiwonkpa’s failed coup attempt. That’s where Libya comes in. Muammar Gaddafi had become Doe’s worst African enemy after the Liberian president chose the Americans over him. Taylor would get everything he needed from Libya for his Liberian mission. But there was also an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. Since the CIA kept an eye on Gaddafi, who was known for sponsoring and ing terrorist operations, Taylor could serve as an informant for the U.S. government as well. This was even more reason to let the man go. Let the Africans fight and let the U.S. take no risk. But Taylor liked Gaddafi and thus lost from the U.S government. As I said, those were the two common theories in Liberia. There was no proof to back them up. Whatever the case, both Liberians and the outside world remain convinced that Taylor was released from prison. In a narcissistic speech to his ers, Taylor always boasted about having from powerful and foreign governments. “I have connections in high places,” he would say, and Liberians assumed that the high places Taylor boosted about were the United States and Libya. It would take many years later for Charles Taylor to tell the Special Court for Sierra Leone that the alleged prison break from the Plymouth jail in September 1985 was not a prison break after all. He claimed that two men who worked as agents of the U.S. government awaited him in a car outside the fence that surrounded the jail. They then drove him to New York where his wife awaited his arrival, money in hand, and they fled the country. “I am calling it my release because I didn’t break out. I didn’t pay any money; I did not know the guys who picked me up. I wasn’t hiding afterwards. My name was on the port. No one asked me any questions.”

He said that he traveled freely in the U.S. and Mexico and finally returned to Africa. “I am 100 percent positive that the Central Intelligence Agency armed Liberia’s Thomas Quiwonkpa in his attempt to overthrow Doe’s government,” he went on to say. No one knows for sure if what Taylor said is true. After all, Taylor was on trial and later found guilty of murder, conscription of child soldiers, sexual slavery, rape, and selling of weapons for blood diamonds. No matter how you view Taylor’s prison episode, what remains real is the horrific war that took 250,000 lives and brought a nation to ruin. While Liberia’s war was fought by its people, three African presidents contributed greatly to the destruction of the country. They are Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi, the Ivory Coast’s Felix Houphouet-Boigny, and Burkina Faso’s Blaise Compaore. For some reason, these three leaders were never held able for their roles in arming, training and ing in many ways Taylor’s juggernaut National Patriotic Front, which was anything but patriotic. Now let us consider why those three leaders hated the Liberian president so much that they helped kill hundreds of thousands in order to kill one man. Gaddafi’s motive has already been explained. He was angry that Doe betrayed him and chose the United States, even though the Libyan president was the first to recognize Doe’s illegitimate government. The Ivorian president’s step-daughter, Daisy Delarosa-Tolbert, was married to A. B. Tolbert, the son of Liberia’s late President William R. Tolbert Jr. Doe’s coup plot did not only kill President Tolbert but A. B. as well, who also was the sonin-law of Ivory Coast President Felix Houphouet-Boigny. Helping Taylor’s rebels was a way to please his step-daughter and avenge his son-in-law’s murder. Blaise Compaore, President of Burkina Faso, married Daisy Delarosa after her first husband was killed. He too became involved in the Liberian conflict, either to show his love for his newly-wedded wife or because she dragged him into it. Compaore and Houphouet-Boigny were more than just in-laws; they were friends and they put the lives of their citizens in danger because of personal grudges. Doe’s biggest mistake was surrounding himself with enemies who wanted him

dead right from the start. When the war began, the Mandingoes found themselves in an unfortunate position. Whoever was a friend of Doe was an enemy to the rebels but only the president and his Krahn tribesmen advocated the Mandingoes well being. They ed forces with the president and his tribe. Charles Taylor and his men age through the Ivory Coast to reach Liberia had a strategic benefit. That way brought the rebels into Nimba County, the territory of the Gio and Mano tribes who had become Doe’s most ardent and fiercest enemies. The Mano tribe had lost its most influential leader, Thomas Quiwonkpa after his failed assassination attempt of the president. Mano and Gio men were ready to avenge. Taylor did not only received a free through Nimba County; he was welcomed and many of these men ed the rebellion. Soldiers disbanded the Armed Forces of Liberia and ed the NPFL. Others leaked sensitive military information to the rebels, including a planned attack date, attack routes, the number of AFL soldiers expected, the uniforms, the kinds of weapons that were going to be used, and sometimes even the details of how many Krahn soldiers were in the group. Truckloads upon truckloads of AFL soldiers fell into NPFL fighters’ ambush. “I will not die for any Krahn man,” Armed Forces soldiers who were from other tribes said. They went AWOL. Such betrayal in the army caused an influx of young Krahn men to the Armed Forces of Liberia. The AFL soon became dominated by of the president’s Krahn tribe, while Taylor’s NPFL was dominated by the Gio and Mano people. A formal AFL soldier who fought in Nimba County at the beginning of the war told me about his experiences. He and his comrades fell into an ambush along the way. Some of his friends were killed when a volley of bullets rained down on their truck. The driver sped on until they had cleared the trap. Sometime later they stopped in a little village. The villages prepared for the soldiers food and water. They placed the food under a hut for the hungry soldiers to gather. That ex-soldier said that he needed to use the restroom just before the food was brought. He was inside a restroom built on the outskirts of the village, as is customary in rural parts of Liberia, when the gunfire began. While preparing the food, the villagers sent message to rebels hiding in nearby villages that Doe’s soldiers were present. NPFL rebels hid in the bushes and waited for the soldiers

to gather before attacking them. It was a slaughterhouse. When the shootings finally ended, the soldier removed his military uniform and sneaked out of the toilet in shorts and a T-shirt. Wherever the rebels went, they knocked on doors in search of Krahn and Mandingo people. Krahn and Mandingo tribesmen did likewise to Gio and Mano tribesmen. Liberia sank to an unimaginable depth. Friendships were broken, intermarriages fell apart or both partners were persecuted. Still, everyone thought and hoped that the war would end soon. It was only the beginning of a fourteen years conflict.

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PART FOUR

FACING THE FACTS ABOUT AFRICA’S PROBLEMS

63

AFRICA’S PROBLEMS

I have a question. What comes to mind when you hear the name Africa? I asked this question to twenty random people. It is very likely that your answer correlates to theirs during a quick survey I made before writing Part Four of this book. Of those twenty, five were customers whom I met in a Wal-Mart parking lot; five were students from Glendale Community College; another five people at a bus stop; and the last five, Arizona State University students on campus. Nineteen out of twenty equated Africa to negativities such as poverty, war, corruption, destruction, hunger, diseases, hell, evil leaders, and killings. Only one guy mentioned something positive. He said that whenever Africa is mentioned, he thinks about an opportunity for great change. Frankly, his answer surprised me since I have never heard anyone say that about the continent. Now was your answer among the above mentioned? Was it something positive? I doubt that. Then again, you may be the person that will surprise me. The fact is that there are more reasons to view Africa through a negative scope than there are about which to be positive. But have we taken time to study and know why Africa is plagued with wars and sufferings that kill so many women and children every year, not even to mentioning innocent men? Do we just cross out Africa as a continent full of savages that will not change and therefore can not be helped? Do we care about the lives of children who are not ours? Are we so contented with the comfort in our environment that we just do not pay attention to what’s happening outside of our worlds? I have always blamed only Africans for every problem the continent faces because I believe in taking the plank out of my eyes in order to see clearly before seeking to take a speck out of someone else’s eyes. However, that does not negate the reality that some of Africa’s disasters are not self-inflicted, but instead they are driven by greed from external forces. We can therefore say that the

continent’s problems are dual-faceted. Let us face some facts about Africa’s problems.

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64

SELF-INFLICTED DESTRUCTION

Corruption, poverty and wars are only Africa’s secondary problems. The reason that the continent remains underdeveloped has little to do with how divided its people are. Although all of these factors contribute to its continuous disasters, I believe that the underlying factor that destroys Africa is the mentality of its people. Every battle begins in the mind and must therefore first be conquered in the mind. If Africans can change their mentality, corruption will be subjugated, poverty rate will drop, and development on all fronts will begin to surge and wars will be prevented. Let us do some mental check up.

DEPENDENCE ON FREE STUFF:

Taking charity and donations from foreign governments has affected us in two major ways.

1. It has made Africans lazy. Rather than dedicating time and energy to profitable and permanent undertakings, many Africans have come to the conclusion that we are entitled to free stuffs.

I knew two cousins who never had jobs. They struggled daily to feed themselves and their families. One day, the cousins decided to ask for assistance from a

friend who held a managerial position at the Liberian Petroleum Refinery Company (LPRC). After explaining their conditions, one asked for money and the other asked for a job. Both requests were granted, but the guy who took the money soon needed more money, while the other man generated an income and maintained his job for many years. What they both needed was a permanent solution, not a quick fix that after a while would need to be undertaken time and time again. Unfortunately, many African leaders and their citizens prefer temporary solutions over permanent achievements. Rather than developing the innovations that will make Africa self-dependent and lift its countries from poverty, our leaders ask for charity and borrow money that they cannot repay. This solutions first implemented by our forefathers have never worked. I cannot understand why Africans keep using the same methods that only their problems on to future generations.

2. Dependence has held African leaders captive. Most if not all of foreign governments’ so-called charities to Africa are used as baits. I sometimes hear people talk about how much their governments give to African countries. What they do not know or refuse to acknowledge is that these funds are never free. They are used by foreign governments and big corporations to buy African leaders who then become more concerned about getting approval from their financial patrons than they are from the people who elected them in the first place. Our government’s decisions, rules, and regulations have less to do with benefiting their nations and more to do with pleasing foreign sponsors.

THE MENTALITY THAT AFRICANS CAN ONLY SUCCEED OUT OF AFRICA:

While it is true that location is important to success, positive mentality coupled with wisdom and dedication ensures success. Migrating to the United States and other developed countries present certain advantages, but it does not secure anybody’s future. Countless Africans have lived in the United States for decades

but have made very little or no progress at all. Certain people, however, have advanced greatly. The difference between the two groups is the right mentality. Those who prefer to live on government benefits go nowhere in life, while others who find ways to apply themselves move up the ladder. Hear me out. I am not talking about people who cannot help themselves, but those who will not. Listen, there are wealthy and successful Africans who have never left the continent and there also are very poor Americans who have lived in the United States all of their years but have never succeeded, despite the privilege of the land. This means that being in the United States is worthless if I do not apply myself to something worthy and profitable. I will continue to live from one paycheck to another and die a poor man, no matter the length of my stay in this great nation unless I apply myself. Here is another question that I cannot help but ask. What do you think would happen if it was possible to move the entire African population to the United States and have all Americans taken to Africa, governments and all? I will tell you what I think. If the African mentality remained unchanged, they would destroy America, while the Americans would develop Africa over a period of time. My reason for saying this is not out of hate nor is it to trash the continent. It is to show how a positive mindset makes a great difference. My heart cries out every time that I read the news, hear discouraging reports in the media, and see the destruction of innocent lives, children especially. Oh, how I wish those calamities would stop and all Africans would stand united to change the course of history. How I wish that thousands of children who lost their lives in all of these conflicts did not meet such dreadful ends. But wishing cannot change anything. It is time for tough love and tough actions. The Americans believe that they are born to be exceptional. For this reason, they achieve whatever they set their minds to. They strive not only to be the first but to be the best. When they see their flag raised or hear their national anthem sung, they are immediately transported to such inexplicable heights that they give it all they’ve got, even if it means death. On the contrary, many Africans think defeat and therefore their minds are transported into survival mode. That hinders an individual from achieving his/her maximum potential. We just try to get by; not to be triumphant. Our flags do not move us, and our national anthems are no more than meaningless babbles. Our leaders are not willing to sacrifice anything for their countries. Their

personal well-being trumps national security. We are more concerned about individuality than collectivity.

A MENTALITY OF LOW ESTEEM:

So how did Africans come to have such mentality? I know that my answer is controversial. Some people may even take offense, but it is true and therefore must be told. Poor mentality usually comes from low self-esteem, and low selfesteem is very often associated with living under abuse, fear, and oppression. Words are very powerful and can linger for generations. Words of hate and intimidation that were spoken by slave masters and colonial rulers, plus the overall conditions of slavery had great psychological effects on our forefathers. Even after slavery was abolished and imperialism gave way to struggles for independence, our forefathers did not overcome their feelings of worthlessness. High standards were inconceivable, and they remained complacent as long as there was little provision to take care of their families’ needs. Owning a home, no matter how dilapidated it looked, was considered a very high achievement. That spirit was ed on from one generation to another. Today, some Africans around the world are transforming their mentalities and awakening to the fact that they too can flourish. However, that does not negate the fact that African countries still remain attached to their formal colonial rulers. Liberia cannot stop looking up to the United States for everything, even though the country gained its independence in 1847. The Ivory Coast, Guinea, and other French-speaking African countries remain dependent on the French in many ways. Sierra Leone and other former British colonies still adhere to Britain’s every word African leaders are afraid to relinquish these connections even though there is only very little or nothing beneficial to show that such connections are necessary. After decades of submission it is time to break new grounds.

RIGGED ELECTIONS AND MANIPULATION OF CONSTITUTIONS:

As if these negative impacts are not enough, African presidents are known to rig elections and change constitutions in order to extend their unscrupulous and fruitless rules. President Yoweri Musveni of Uganda came to power in 1986, amended his country’s constitution in 2005 to give him the chance to remain in power. Tunisia’s President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali took office in 1987. The constitution was also amended for him to win a third term. Other presidents who have changed their constitutions include Gnassingbe Eyadama of Togo, Abdelaziz Bouteflika of Algeria, Blaise Compaore of Burkina Faso, Paul Biya of Cameroon, Idriss Deby of Chad, Omar Bongo of Gabon, the late Lansana Conte of Guinea, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea, Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, Jose Eduardo dos Santos of Angola, ousted Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, Libya’s Muammar Gaddafi, who ruled for forty-two years until he was killed in a civil war. Nigeria’s President Olusegun Obasanjo and Zambia’s Frederick Chiluba attempted to change their constitutions to allow them to further run for office but failed. Rather then conceding power gracefully, many African leaders kill their own people and allow civil wars to plague their countries. That is why it was so refreshing to see President Rupiah Banda of Zambia quietly step aside after his loss in the 2011 presidential election. He not only acknowledged that his opponent won, the man encouraged his ers to remain peaceful, which is uncharacteristic of African politicians. “Now is not the time for violence and retribution,” he said. “Now is the time to unite and build tomorrow’s Zambia together.” Unlike the Ivory Coast’s Laurent Gbagbo, however, who ordered his soldiers to kill the opposition and held his country hostage, Banda represents a drop of water in the ocean of Africa.

ABSOLUTE POWER AND CORRUPT GOVERNMENTS:

The next setback to progress on the continent has to do with governments that have absolute power. Power by itself has the potential to be corrupt. Imagine how much more unlimited power does to tyrants. If a government becomes more powerful than its people, a nation is doomed. African governments possess unlimited power. They have the power to kill anybody at any time and face no consequences. Some of our leaders think that they must not be challenged. They will do anything to remain in power, even if it means killing half of the population. Any form of opposition is met with a violent crackdown from soldiers who are loyal to the leaders. Although it is not an African country, the Syrian government is the present example of such abuses of power.

REBELLION AND ILLEGITIMATE GOVERNMENTS:

Coup d’états or rebel movements are another setback on the continent. Coups shut down all function in a country. The military goes on the rampage to arrest suspects. Fear-stricken civilians flee and are killed or wounded when they are caught in chaos that lasts several days. Other coup plotters succeed in toppling their governments. They send their countries into disarray. These new, illegitimate leaders become worse than previous rulers. Coup d’états in Africa are usually orchestrated by military officers whose lust for power is far greater than their oaths to defend their nations. They preach respect for the electoral process, but they do not practice democracy. I regret to it that while coup plots are evil, they are better than rebel movements in that they occur unexpectedly and last for a short time. Some may even last for only a few hours. They target a very specific group, a president and his cabinet. Rebel movements, on the other hand, can last many years. Liberia’s war lasted for nearly fourteen years and claimed a quarter of a million lives. The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), which operates in Northern Uganda, South Sudan, the Central African Republic, and the Democratic Republic of Congo has lasted for twenty-five years and is ongoing. Joseph Kony, the leader of this militant group,

is believed to have abducted or recruited as many as one hundred thousand teenage boys to become underage soldiers as well as girls to be used as sex slaves. The LRA rebels disfigure many of their victims by cutting off their ears, noses, and lips. Rebel leaders and their followers believe that their fight is for justice, but their actions prove otherwise. Africa has many unelected presidents who have no clue about running a government and no direction in which to take their countries. Their in office are characterized by stagnation or deterioration. The inexplicability of Africans allowing rebel leaders and other notorious individuals to be placed on presidential ballots is another problem. Even more shocking, people actually vote for these leaders. Charles Taylor ran for president in 1997 and won overwhelmingly, despite the atrocities he caused in Liberia and ed in Sierra Leone. Sierra Leone’s RUF rebels put their victims’ hands on chopping blocks, asked what shirt sleeves style they wanted, and cut them off with machetes. Long sleeves meant that arms would be cut off at the wrist; short sleeves, at the elbow; and muscle arms represented the entire arm taken out at the shoulder. During the presidential campaign, Taylor’s ers paraded the streets of Monrovia and chanted: “You kill my ma, you kill my pa, still I will vote for you!” Liberians thought that by electing Taylor, the war would quickly come to an end. That was not so. Opposition groups launched new waves of attacks. The already fragile nation continued down the path of death and destruction, and the rebel president’s rule was highlighted by continuous war. He was forced to step down and was flown to Nigeria where he was arrested. Taylor was eventually judged in the International Criminal Court in the Netherlands, where he was sentenced to fifty years in jail for war crimes. In the 2011 Liberian presidential election, Prince Johnson, another notorious warlord who was known for singing church songs while he killed innocent civilians who sought refuge in church buildings, was on the ticket. His party was the National Union for Democratic Progress. Although he was never close to winning, I could not help but ask why he was allowed to be on the ballot. It is true that forgiveness and reconciliation are significant to the healing process in

Liberia and both are initial steps toward progress for the country, but that process is being abused. No warlord or notorious ex-fighter must be allowed to occupy a position in the government. Let them be forgiven for the lives and properties that they destroyed, but they must be automatically disqualified from holding any public office. If Charles Taylor was president of Liberia for six years, but was haunted by his crimes and could not travel around Africa or leave the continent, why will a Prince Johnson presidency make any difference? How will he represent his nation? What value will his words have among people who know of his unsavory reputation? Even if he could pull a rabbit out of a hat in Africa, since some of the leaders there have similar notoriety, he could not represent the country before foreign leaders. What does that say about Liberia, that it is a nation of hooligans? Instead of setting a new paradigm that is suitable for development, we continue to make the same mistakes that threaten to destroy our countries. Our mistake started when ex-slaves forced their agenda on native Liberians. It progressed to wars between the two groups and separation of self made elites, the Americo-Liberians who constituted five percent of Liberia’s population, oppressed the natives for one hundred and thirty-three years. The problem worsened with the assassination of president Tolbert and the public execution of his cabinet by native forces. This created the notion that anyone can overthrow a president and not only get away with it but become a president himself. Among other things, this has contributed to the many overthrow attempts and executions that have further eroded unity among the natives and eventually propelled Liberia into civil war. Still, we refused to learn. In a rushed presidential election and with more than a one-third of the population scattered around Africa in refugee camps, we elected Charles Taylor as president. We thought that by choosing the godfather of rebel operations in Liberia and Sierra Leone, the war would end. Our decision proved to be what it was—insanity. Ensuring wars in the city pressured Taylor to leave the country. Now that the war has ended and wounds are beginning to heal, we accept warlords to run for public office in the name of forgiveness and solidarity. Injecting a false sense of spirituality into politics will not help us to get over the past. This only shows our lack of insight. The fact that Prince Johnson is running for president is just another dangerous precedent that will tell young people that, even if an armed rebellion to overthrow a president fails, they can still run for

public office. Liberians must stop promoting these ideas. We elected President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf in the 2005 general election and again in 2011 to serve a second term. Some have reservations about her leadership because she once ed Taylor, but we can all agree that peace has returned and that she is giving it her best. , she is a post-war president. The country is a mess and it will take everyone’s to get back to where we were and want to be. Patience and dedication is the key.

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65

DESTRUCTIONS CAUSED BY EXTERNAL FORCES

People usually do not want to acknowledge that Africa’s biggest calamities come from foreign agents. Some foreign governments and big corporations promote chaos in Africa to exploit the people. Although there are many incidents that prove this, the news media do not broadcast such stories. Foreign journalists travel thousands of miles to the continent only to focus on issues that will not implicate their own governments. They show the world how Africans kill one another, but will not provide in-depth scrutiny about the roots of the fighting because scrutiny would reveal big governments’ clandestine operations that lead to the death and destruction of many. The world has come a long way from the times when slavery and inequality were openly practiced. There is no doubt about that. But we have not arrived at the point where injustice is no more. ing chaos in Africa and sponsoring totalitarianism while preaching democracy is not just hypocrisy; it is injustice against a particular group of people. I know that this is a highly sensitive topic. Others may complain about pulling the race card. Most people use that excuse because they do not want to be reminded about the past. I do not like to dig up dead bones either, but sometimes it takes going back into the past to correct the present and protect the future. My hope is that some, even if only few, will have the maturity to handle the truth and the wisdom to hear my heart. Before you put up walls or begin to throw stones, please understand that this is not about you. It is about millions of children that suffer and die in wars that have been orchestrated by people who are suppose to protect them.

Dear God,

I pray that my intention in writing this will not be misconstrued as radicalism; for we have been predisposed to consider as an enemy anything that challenges or questions our characters. In our world, the word extremism is easily used to mean what it is not. If anybody reads this part of the book, let him or her be mature enough to do so with an open mind. Help us to overcome self-righteousness and see through the eyes of millions of suffering and dying children that are caught in conditions imposed by their leaders; conditions of poverty, insecurity, and war. Let the readers understand the pain and emotions of kids who do not understand why there is no hero for them. Overwhelm us with the hurt of kids who question why they were ever born, why the leaders of the world care less about their lives and why the whole world seems to be against them. Let us feel the pain of children who for the rest of their pathetic lives will grow up to know only violence and the language of war. Perhaps if we feel like they do, then we will work to bring about change in their worlds. For so long we have neglected the truth because it hurts. But only the truth can set us free. We have conditioned our minds and hearts to be immune to the realities of the problems that we help to bring about, either by our actions or by our silence. Help us to have the courage to take responsibility for what we do, even though we fear that in doing so we will undermine the superiority we so revere. Help us, Lord, to be strong enough to face our fears and weak enough to do what is right. And then maybe we can truly help the world overcome one of its last major battles, the battle for justice to all mankind, the battle to do unto others as we would have them do not only unto us, but unto our children. amen.

The end of the slave trade ushered in another era of destruction for the African continent. In 1884—1885, European countries held a conference in Berlin to divide Africa among themselves before waging wars on people who could not defend themselves. Greed for African resources and the quest to rule the world was the main purpose of the so-called Scramble for Africa (1880—1900). Europe’s well-equipped military experienced very little resistance from the African population. In no time, the conquest was complete and new territories

were established. The African political and geographical map today is a permanent liability that resulted from this scramble and the covetousness of Europe’s search for both minerals and markets. , Great Britain, , Portugal, Belgian, Italy, and Spain were all major players in this scramble. Their brutal reign over Africans killed millions. In 1905—1907, the Germans succeeded in killing more than 250,000 people through murder, disease, famine, and forced labor as they suppressed the Maji revolt in Tanganyika. also reinforced its hold on several African colonies; German East Africa included what is now Tanzania, Rwanda, Burundi, and parts of Mozambique, and German Southwest Africa included Cameron, present-day Namibia, and Togo Land, which is now divided between Togo and Ghana. From 1924—1934, more than 17,000 people died in the construction of the Brazzaville Ocean Railway because of ’s policy of forced labor. When Belgium ruled Congo as the result of the scramble, they carried on the barbaric murder of 15 million Congolese during the first 30 years of rule in their quest for rubber and ivory. Belgium’s King Leopold II became known as the “Butcher of Congo.” In 1960, when Congo won its independence (which is quite recent if you ask me), only thirty Congolese people had graduated from university. Many of the wars and catastrophes in Africa today can be traced back to this imperialism. Let us consider some of the more actives wars and catastrophes in recent history.

THE 1994 GENOCIDE IN RWANDA:

Of Rwanda’s population of seven million in 1994, 85 percent were Hutus, 14% were Tutsis, and 1% was Twa. The nation’s conflict began when Belgian rulers considered the Tutsis, who looked fairer in complexion than the dark-skinned Hutus, superior. Tutsis were given better jobs and educational opportunities because they were considered natural rulers and would extend Belgian rule. Hutus were used as the workforce. The Belgians issued different identification

cards to the three tribes. This racist ideology created a conflict between the Tutsis and Hutus and eventually resulted in the 1994 genocide in Rwanda. Eight hundred thousand people were killed in just one hundred days. contributed to the genocide by supplying weapons and training Hutu militias that carried out the killings. The French created a safe zone by means of “Operation Turquoise,” which helped save some lives but also gave safe age for the perpetrators of the genocide who also happened to be allies of . A 500-page report compiled by the Rwandan government in later years alleged that was not only aware of preparations for the genocide but actually contributed to planning the massacres and actively took part in the killings. Among the thirteen French politicians and twenty military officers who were accused of playing a role in the massacres, the report named former French prime minister Edouard Balladur, former foreign minister Alain Juppe, Dominique de Villepin (Juppe’s top aide before he became prime minister), and the late President Francois Mitterrand.

UGANDA AND JOSEPH KONY’S LORD RESISTANCE ARMY:

In 1894, the British Empire imposed a boundary around different tribes. The territory within these borders later became known as Uganda. Again, the well known method of divide and conquer came into play. The British gave the Bantu ethnic group in the south all of the educational, political, and economic advantages, while the Langi, Lugbara, Acholi, and other ethnic groups in the north were limited to serving in the military. When Uganda gained its independence from Britain in 1962, Milton Obote, who came from the north, became the country’s first prime minister. The ethnic divide continued. In 1971, Obote was overthrown by the notorious Idi Amin with the help of Israel and Britain. Amin’s oppressive military rule destroyed many lives until he too was overthrown. The division subsequently led to the formation of Joseph Kony’s Lord Resistance Army, which has recruited thousands of child soldiers and is now terrorizing people in northern Uganda,

South Sudan, the Central African Republic, and the Democratic Republic of Congo.

THE DARFUR, SUDAN GENOCIDE:

Today’s conflict in Sudan is the result of British rule. Arabs in northern Sudan and blacks in the south were part of independent colonies until the British combined them in 1956. This forced union created nonstop conflict between Sudanese Arabs and Sudanese non-Arabs (i.e., Blacks). The Arab-controlled government is constantly accused of drafting policies that favor Muslims and practicing apartheid against the country’s black citizens. People from Darfur complained that the government was not protecting them. Two rebel groups, the Justice and Equality Movement (JEM) and the Sudan Liberation Army (SLA), were formed against the Sudanese government. The government unleashed the Sudanese army as well as Arab militias called “Janjaweed” (Devils on Horseback) to squash the rebellion. As many as 400 villages in the area were destroyed. The Janjaweed militias still operate today and the genocide has now claimed more than 400,000 lives and displaced millions. This conflict led to the formation of the world’s newest country, the Republic of South Sudan, which became independent on July 9, 2011. The exploitation of Africans’ linguistic, ethnic, and cultural differences by colonial rulers has left the continent in chaos. Territorial boundaries that were forcibly established in the scramble for Africa created great divides in many countries. Seeds of divisiveness that were planted in each country and that considered one tribe better than another have grown into huge trees that can not easily be uprooted. Wars are the fruits of these great divides. See how bad they stink!

THE PROLIFERATION OF ILLICIT WEAPONS:

Then there are people like Victor Bout, a Russian arms dealer who is nicknamed “The Merchant of Death.” Bout supplied planeloads of weapons to rebel leaders in Rwanda, Angola, Congo, Liberia, and Sierra Leone. As a former Russian military translator, Bout had access to stockpiles of weapons from the Cold War. He propagated the deaths of millions of Africans in order to enrich himself. The Russian was apprehended in Thailand in 2008 and brought to the United States, where he was judged and sentenced to twenty-five years in prison; the sentence was a slap on the wrist. Russia still refuses to acknowledge his crimes and wants him released. Bout’s indictment was not a result of smuggling and selling weapons in Africa, but of agreeing to sell weapons to a Colombian terrorist group, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC). He would still be selling arms and promoting wars if he had not been linked to arming the Taliban regime in Afghanistan. As for what he did in Africa, no one cares. Many arms dealers from powerful countries are engaged in the illegitimate sale of weapons to dangerous men in Africa and other places. World leaders will do nothing to stop this multi-billion dollar industry. The five permanent of the United Nations Security Council—China, , the United Kingdom, Russia, and the United States—are the biggest exporters of arms. They profit from the proliferation of weapons, and cannot come to a consensus to establish international treaties that will help to regulate the global transfer of arms. Unless they are directly affected by arms proliferation, big governments will do nothing but let others die. There are more Victor Bouts out there, many of them top military officials in the most powerful armies of the world whose sole aim is to profit from death. What can we do about this situation? Who will stop them? Who will stand up if world leaders will not? Who will speak for the countless women and children who had died at the hands of these armed men? Do we consider their deaths collateral damage in yet more unfortunate circumstances? How do we judge people who supply weapons to warlords for blood diamonds, other minerals, or for personal interest? Is this a smart business practice? Do we consider such dealers opportunists or what they really are—terrorists? Any person who engages in the unlawful sale and supply of weapons to evil men promotes acts of terrorism and therefore is a terrorist. What does that say about the foreign collaborators in African terrorism? Are they not supposed to be

arrested and stand trial in the International Criminal Court? Is the International Court only intended for African leaders? If so, what’s so international about it? Who judges other leaders of the world who promote destruction and contribute to genocides? Do they have immunity because they are citizens of powerful governments? Where is the justice and equality for all mankind? The foreign agents and governments who are involved in dividing Africa in order to exploit the situation for self-enrichment would never allow anyone to do so in their own countries. Anyone who tries to destroy them and the future of their children would be dealt with immediately. Their governments would come against such a person with everything they’ve got, by air, land, and sea. Their enemies would be pursued like I believe they should be, no matter how far they ran and tried to hide; in mountains, forests, deserts, caves, or seas. If you will go to such extremes to punish those who want to destroy your own country, why is it okay to do these things to other countries? How do we reconcile these actions?

FOREIGN FOR AUTHORITARIAN PRESIDENTS:

Libya’s President Muammar Gaddafi was a tyrant and a threat to civilized society. We all knew that. He sponsored terrorist operations around the world. His involvement in the bombing of a Pan American World Airways flight in 1988 over Lockerbie, Scotland was no secret. World powers slammed him with sanctions and embargoes in order to prevent his accrual of weapons of mass destruction. Gaddafi promised to abandon this project in 2003, and the world was quick to accept him. Representatives from many big countries flooded into Libya to establish or reestablish diplomatic relationships—all for the purposes of oil. Gaddafi’s connection with the bombing that had left so many dead was suddenly downplayed. His oppressive government and the suffering of his fellow countrymen was no longer an issue. Within five years, Gaddafi the unpredictable had become Gaddafi the true ally. Former U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice said that Libya was “a model” for others to follow. Senator John McCain of Arizona called Gaddafi “an interesting man.” Europe’s Aeronautic Defense and Space Company (EADS) signed a contract to supply the mad man with antitank missiles, among other

things. Oil companies such as Exxon Mobil, which is known as the largest publicly traded international oil and gas company in the world, signed contracts to drill in Libya. In all of the trading and drilling deals that went on, nothing about the Libyan president had changed. He was as erratic as always, even when he attended the September 2009 United Nations General Assembly in New York. I thought, Is that not the same Gaddafi involved in the Lockerbie bombing, the worst act of airline terrorism ever against the United States? Did the incident not kill 270 people, many of them Americans? Libyans became tired of living under oppression for forty-two years. They rose up against their leader and he responded the only way he knew how—with more terror. His soldiers shot peaceful protesters in the streets. NATO became involved in order to stop the massacre and a full-fledged civil war began. In the end, Gaddafi was killed by opposition forces. He took a bullet to the head. Egypt’s President Hosni Mubarak, a dictator who ruled for thirty years, was also ed by the West. There also is President Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe, a man who is widely accused by international organizations for cracking down on the news media, perpetrating election fraud, and subjecting his people to ethnic cleansing. The United Nation’s World Tourism Organization chose Mugabe as the new international envoy for tourism, even though the man is under a travel ban. Perhaps the UN does not want anything done in the area of tourism. The other candidates lined up for the position included soccer star David Beckham, the American actress/director/model/screenwriter/producer Drew Barrymore, British actor Orlando Bloom, and the Puerto Rican pop singer and actor Ricky Martin. Syrian President Bashar al-Assad continues to enjoy the of Russia even as he kills his people every day. The Russians veto every UN resolution against the president and supply weapons to his government. Perhaps it is time for the UN to change the veto rule. You cannot publicly preach democracy and secretely promote autocracy. You cannot secretely promote wars in other countries only to give food to people seriously affected by your handiwork. That action does not nullify your participation. Your food supply is not the solution to Africa’s problem. stop the

hypocricy and get out! be genuine about helping the people or stand aside!

OPERATIONS CARRIED OUT BY FOREIGN SPIES:

Undercover agents from foreign countries swarm through every African country. They pretend to be from development agencies and humanitarian aids groups and say that they are there to help the people. All they actually do is to report on possible ways to cause more divisions and exploit the people of Africa. Since the time that Africa was discovered by explorers, its people have been deceived and brutalized. We have been used, discarded, reused, and thrown around by people who pretend that they care. With their boots on our necks and guns to our head, they lie about wanting to help us and we continue to believe them. We brag about being colonized by powerful countries that have never been concerned about our well being, and we worship in ignorance the very people that take us to our graves. Let’s face it, world politics has not changed. Its methods may have been altered, but the quest for dominance remains strong and the scramble for Africa is ongoing.

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THE LAST WORDS

TO AFRICAN PRESIDENTS:

The African Union’s (AU) indifference to the crisis that took place in Libya before Muammar Gaddafi’s death was shocking. There is no excuse for being spectators in your own house while people from foreign countries intervene to save lives. Then again, why would anyone expect swift and rigid actions from a union plagued with corrupt dictators who are themselves no better than the Libyan president? Besides, Gaddafi was a benefactor to some African presidents who found themselves unable to do the right thing. The AU must stop being a country club where our leaders meet occasionally to push their private agendas instead of issues that pertain to the well being of their people. Please show some backbone and do not disgrace us. Life and wealth here on earth are transient, but what we do affects many generations. Our ancestors did not establish a solid foundation for us to build upon. We too are falling into the same paths of destruction. Let us change the history of Africa and endeavor to build a legacy for our children to begin life at a higher level. You are in a position of great influence. The dreams and talents of many young Africans die and are buried without chance of cultivation and fruition. That is why many people prefer to travel to places that present them with the opportunity to develop their talents. What are you doing about that? How many lives have improved under your leadership? How many people are dying because of decisions that you make? What new ideas have your istrations come up with and how much growth has occurred since you took office? If there is not much to show for your efforts, you can do your country a great favor by stepping down. That would demonstrate the highest level of patriotism. The

office of a president is not your personal property; it is not family-owned. All of us will pay for our actions one day, in this life or later.

TO ALL AFRICANS:

We do not have to agree with everything that life presents, but we can definitely make the most of our situations. I had this in mind when I introduced this book with the thought that “life is a journey. Our places of birth and the families we are born into give us certain advantages or disadvantages on this journey. However, what we make of ourselves is what tells who we really are; how we endeavor to turn our trash into treasure, our tests into testimony; and how we treat people along the path of life.” I believe it is time for a new breed of young Africans to change the continent’s trajectory from destruction to development. Africans everywhere must form a movement for peace and stability that will sweep over Africa like a wind, from Mogadishu to Banjul, from Tripoli to Cape Town. For too long, we have allowed evil men to influence our decisions and we have killed our own. It is time for a new beginning. Hopefully, some of our leaders can recognize this and start to make changes in the ways that they do business. Hopefully, they can put their people before anything else. This new movement must be peaceful, and it must be armed with wisdom, knowledge, understanding, and comion. Please look forward to receiving more information from a website that will begin to bring together people of such ion. We have only one life to live here on Earth. We can choose to waste it on temporary or self-centered gratifications or we can use it to positively affect the lives of others. What are you going to do?

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