For almost twenty years I have lived out of Liberia. America has been good to me: I am healthy, my family is fine, and I am not in the street, homeless. Yet, I keep dreaming about a place that has seen devastation and carnage for fifteen long years; I keep wanting to go back to to the land where my mother and my father are buried; but more importantly, I want to go and see where it all began for me. Here is my journey:
I sat down one day and I began wondering: It’s almost 20 years since I left Liberia; there is relative peace; a lot is happening in that country; sometime in 1987, I purchased two lots of land, the location of which I can’t remember; the friend who took me to purchase this piece of land and who also bought some land in the same area, is alive and well; why not take a trip to Liberia for once and experience for myself the situation, the condition, the everything. After all, Liberia is the country of my birth; I did not harm anyone while I lived there and those who did some horrible things to people, are all there, having a lot of fun, living with unbelievable consciences intact. So why sit here in America, the land of paradise and listen to rumors about the land of my parents, the land where my navel string is buried.
Because I am a terrible traveler, I emptied my closet into a garment bag, a suit case, and an overnight bag and took off for Liberia on December 8, 2009. Why am I a terrible and unusual traveler? Take for example, this weird characteristic of me: If I am visiting friends for the weekend say in Philadelphia, two hours away from where I live, I would fill my garment bag with a suit, about six pairs of pants, five shirts, nearly all of my under clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, towels, shaving materials, just anything I can put my hands on. I pack as if I am leaving Egypt for the land of Canaan, never to return. That’s how bad I am whenever I try leaving my house for a two-day or two-week trip.
After talking and putting off, talking and procrastinating, turning over possibilities and impossibilities in my mind, I decided that no matter what, my calling at the moment is to take a trip to Liberia and the time was now…this December…this year of our Lord, 2009!
My children were excited for me, but their mom, my wife, thought I had become obsessed and possessed. She took me to Dulles Airport in Virginia and without even giving me a hug and a wifely blessing, she drove off to Maryland while I ran with my belongings to the United Airline International Check-In counter.
At about 6:15 pm Eastern Time or about 11:15 pm in Liberia, on December 8, 2009, I was in the clouds, 36,000 feet, with about 250 others heading to Brussels where I, along with other Liberians and Ivorians and other Nationals, would later on be heading to Africa.
The Boeing777 United Airlines plane did not miss a beat. We landed in Brussels about 5:30 am local time. The flight was smooth, the food was fine and the individual movie sets were just new to me. I listened to music and watched a Martin Lawrence movie and a few other movies. I slept for a while, but it is never normal for me to sleep in any plane for more than 20 or 30 minutes. I am not afraid to fly, but I sometimes ask myself whether it is right to be so close to touching the hand of God?
At the SN Brussels Terminal, I did not see anyone I knew. I did see someone who resembled someone I know. I walked up to the person and asked: “Are you Fatu?” “No, I am not, but Fatu is my sister.” That person, from photos I have seen, is a Minister in the Liberian Government.
Checking my overnight bag at Dulles Airport was tough for me. Things that could not make the flight in my suitcase of 50 lbs had to be squeezed among my under clothes in my overnight bag. That was not a good move. Security at Brussels is tougher. Two packs of brake shoes I was carrying almost got trashed. I could see them on the screen as my bag went through the monitoring machine. You need to tell just one Liberian that you are traveling and your life becomes miserable. I remember the dried monkey meat, bundles of bunnies and art work that burdened me when I arrived at JFK almost 20 years ago. The freedom to enter Liberia in 2009 with only my personal belongings was not to be.
The flight to Ivory Coast and then to Liberia began at about 12:30 pm Brussels Time. As we crossed the Mediterranean Sea into Africa, a feeling of anticipation began to eat into me. I could not imagine what to expect when I finally arrive at Roberts International Airport, which, according to my itinerary, would be at 8:30 pm, Liberia Standard Time (or is it GMT?)
After about six hours, SN Brussels #247 landed at Abidjan Airport. My seat was located in the center isle, so I did not get to see the beauty of Abidjan from the air. I could not leave the plane when it landed, so I did not get to even see what the inside of the Airport Terminal looked like. The story of the beauty of Liberia’s neighbor to the east as told by thousands of Liberians, who lived in that country during the war years, was a sight I wanted to experience. Anyway, Liberia was my destination, not Abidjan!
The one-hour wait at Abidjan Airport was short. The plane was no longer packed and as we waited, Liberians were now leaving their seats greeting each other and making friends. I started a conversation with a Missionary couple who were visiting Liberia for the 5th time since 2005. I also saw a classmate from Todee Mission whom I had not seen in more than 30 years. He remembered my name and I called out his at the onset. From then on we immediately clicked and sat together en route to Monrovia.
Jonathan Morris and I were schoolmates for years on Todee Mission. I was one or two years ahead of him. He was a smart fellow. On the plane to Monrovia we reminisced about those tough days when we could hardly afford two cents or five cents to buy peanuts or Ma Ruth’s kala. We talked about and tried to remember all of our school and classmates: Emmanuel Bowier, Francis and Dorothy Taylor, Eugenia Simpson, Clara Bass; Afi, Aku, Mary, and Kofi Amet; Joseph Barr, Irene Jensen, Joseph Siakor, Robert Kamah, David Smith; Prince, Lincoln, and Amy Porte; Varney Boima, Teacher Lemgo, the PE teacher, and Monsieur Berry, our French teacher; and finally, we could not end a Todee Mission conversation without mentioning Francis R Ametowobla, the Principal of Todee Mission. He was a man of his time.
As the SN Brussels plane flew over Sassandra and nearing Buchanan, there was silence in the plane. Someone wondered whether there were lights at RIA, whether we would be landing on a tiny strip of airfield with dimmed lights. As we approached Monrovia, as the flight map showed, Jonathan Morris, my old Todee classmate, suggested that we sing the Lone Star Forever. Without hesitation, others joined the chorus as we floated over land and over sea.
We landed at Roberts International Airport, Margibi County, Liberia, at exactly 8:20 pm on December 9, 2009. We clapped and cheered. After 19 years and 7 months, my feet touched the soil of the land I kept dreaming about while living in the most powerful country in the world.
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