When I think of the corruption in Liberia and how ordinary Liberians are making it in America, I feel sick to know that the leaders of the country will continue to dupe our people and allow a few to remain rich off the country's resources to the detriment of the masses. It is this frustration that keeps my guts boiling with words of disgust:
It is so good for Liberians to come to America to tell their fellow Liberians how well development activities are proceeding in our native land. What is not good at all is for those coming with such a lovely message to have clouds of financial discrepancies hanging over their heads as they land at JFK Airport in New York. All good news or projected efforts that should be wonderful to the ears become overshadowed by news of massive theft in the home land.
Many of us Liberians who work in America have no way of stealing money at our work places as many Liberians do at their work places in Liberia. The consequences of even thinking about stealing or giving dubious accounts to assigned responsibilities are too grave for the honest person. I am in no way saying that theft does not occur in work places in America.There are so many processes one goes through to even cash a check here in America that sometimes one wonders whether the whole thing is worth the effort. Even if stealing was a way of life in America, just look at the roads and infrastructual setup; look at the hospitals and pipe-borne water system; look at electricity and the malls and the parks and waterways; just look at the place Liberians in America wish Liberia could take development cue from.
No one carries blank, signed checks in her or his pocket even if the checks were their own. That is why it hurts the heart to hear that Liberians, most of whom were in the United States or Europe struggling to make end meet, and who vowed to go home to bring a positive difference in the lives of a dirt poor people, are the same ones in the news everyday accused of stealing or misappropriating millions of dollars.
I was in Liberia in December of 2009. I am still depressed from what I saw: the terrible road condition, the filth at Red Light, Waterside, New Krutown Junction, West Point. Why should the rich think that they will continue to prosper and enjoy life more abundantly when the number of poor people in the same area continues to climb? How does a country prosper with such horrible road condition? How can a people be healthy with no safe-drinking water?
If this stealing of our resources does not stop, if our people are not given the God-given right to expand their horizon and to equally enjoy their birth rights, the rich or rogues can not expect to do well in such a society. If my sister-in law, who has a six-grade education from Liberia can own a home, have a car and can transact her own activities here in America, why can’t the same opportunity be available to Liberians in Liberia? How do people feel stealing from Liberia to build or to buy houses in America? Why are Liberians going to Ghana or Ivory Coast for medical treatments. Why is there one old x-ray machine in the entire country? What kanda thing is that?
The way things are set up in Liberia and the way majority of the citizens continue to be treated, I see why it was so difficult for me to afford a pair of sneakers when I was going to school. I used to use flip flops or slippers to school. When the part that goes between the toes severed, I used safety pins to keep it attached. If the pins got loosed, as they always did, they ended up in the flesh of my big toes. It was a shameful time in my life. In America however, where I am but an ordinary person, my 15-year old son refuses to believe my story as I tell him to pack the mountain of sneakers he owns piled up in our jacket and coat closet.
Those in government need to stop the fleecing of our resources and misappropriating development funds and open avenues of progres for all Liberians. Let’s change from stealing and misappropriating to building a country we can be proud of. The country will soon be 163 years old, you know.
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