A Tribute to Margaret Emily Lake-Young

Margaret and my family had this special relationship. Her untimely death on February 26, 2010 devastated our spirits. This is my tribute to her. She was buried in Careysbyrg, Liberia on March 20, 2010.

Recently, I have had a serious problem with the Latin saying: Homo proponit, sed Deus disponit, the meaning of which is Man proposes and God disposes. I just wish when Psalms 90:10 says that “The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away;” I wish that the Man upstairs would keep His promise to us mortals. Any of God’s children who fly away before the age of three scores and ten leaves with us a strange feeling of disbelief and unbelievable sorrow.

I got a call at 4:12 a.m. on the 26th of February, 2010. I saw the name on the caller ID and refused to immediately answer the telephone. My friend had been sick for a while; her health was deteriorating rapidly, but I always felt in my heart that she would make it through. The call that came in that early morning had an ominous ring to it. I preferred to listen to the voice mail rather than talk live to the person who was about to give me some sad news.

It did not take long before I finally decided to listen to the inevitable. I dialed *86 and put in my pass code. The voice was that of Korto Lake, Margaret's sister. This is what I heard: “Cooper, your sister passed away to be with the Lord at about 3:01 a.m., New Orleans Time.” Korto Lake was sobbing as she left the message. She had been crying from the time my friend, her sister stopped talking two days earlier.

How I got to know Margaret Lake

I was driving from the Harbel Supermarket one evening in late 1984 when I saw a car parked in the middle of the road. The driver was still in the vehicle trying to get it started. The engine of the car had apparently stalled. I parked on the side of road and walked to the car to see if I could help to at least push it off the main road.

As I approached the car, I realize that it was a female driver. I volunteered to help by asking her to put the car in neutral and get down. She did as I told her. She helped me push as I steered her vehicle off to the side of the road. Happy for the gesture, the lady introduced herself: “I am Margaret Lake and I am a teacher at Staff School.” “Oh, I am Cooper Kweme,” extending my hand for a handshake. “Oh, are you Theo Kweme’s father?” she inquired. “Yes,” I replied.
After the short introduction I told Margaret to wait by her car. I ran into the Firestone garage that was nearby and told the garage Manager that a teacher from Staff School was in distress and needed help getting her car started. A mechanic was sent to help and Margaret Lake was able to do her errands that evening.

Two months after the encounter, I got a letter from Margaret Lake inviting my wife and me over to her place for dinner. She immediately found likeness for Yonger, and that’s how the friendship blossomed. Margaret's family and my family became very close after that. We had many dinners together at Sugar Hill and Center Site in Firestone.

Margaret and I always talked about the mystique of America. She was obsessed with Chicago. “Chicago, here we come!” We would hi-five each other. I had traveled to the United States, but the Windy City had not been my destination. I had gone to Los Angeles, and that place blew my mind. The cars I saw for the first time on Highway 101 as we drove from LAX; the road network and buildings I saw, made me to feel sorry for myself and for everything I had known or seen before then. I did not let Margaret know how I felt. We celebrated Chicago with glee and much anticipation.

The War Years

Margaret Lake left Liberia way before December 24, 1989. I lost contact with her but knew all along that she was in America, probably in the windy city of Chicago. War was coming to Liberia and many people took it for granted. We had not experienced war before. The coups of 1980 and 1985 did some damage to our psyche, but those were all we had to reflect upon. We had no idea that the war would be far, far different from the coups.

On May 8, 1990 I arrived in the United States. The same day or week, in Silver Spring, Maryland, I was told that Margaret Lake was getting married, with the reception being held on Rhode Island Avenue in Washington, DC. What a coincidence, I said to myself. Margaret did not know that I was in America and in Silver Spring. She was amazingly surprised when I greeted her at her wedding. She introduced me to her husband and the friendship rekindled.

Being in America involuntarily takes a toll on the faint hearted. I was no exception. I felt the walls of unfamiliarity closing in on me as I went around in search of jobs. One day I got a call from Margaret, who was now Mrs. Margaret Lake-Young. “Come tomorrow to my office in DC,” she told me. I had no idea what she was calling me for, but I found my way to DC the next day. She was on the phone all the while, directing me to where the train would put me and how to get to her office.

I had told Margaret during conversations that I always wanted to be a Medical Doctor, but did Forestry instead when Plan A appeared doomed. “Cooper,” she told me in her DC office. “I have put together some documents that would allow you to enroll at UDC, in the Nursing Program.” I was desperate to work, not to go to school. How would I pay the rent if I went to school? I thought to myself. I had refused going to Nursing School at TNIMA in Liberia. Margaret knew that. Yet, she was adamant in her desire to see me do Nursing. She was a patient and understanding Counselor.

Because I did not have a Green Card, any hope of going to Nursing School in Washington, D C took a southward dive. Without a Green Card, the Dean could do nothing for me. Margaret Lake-Young was visibly devastated and I went back to join the rat race in search of a job.

I did find odd jobs here and there, but I was getting depressed that the war in Liberia was not coming to an end. I desperately wanted to go back home. Then one day, I got another call from Margaret Lake-Young. This time the call came from where she worked in Maryland. She knew I was depressed; she knew the war in Liberia had traumatized many of her people; Margaret Lake-Young knew that many Liberians were going crazy from what was happening in their country.

In her office, this time, Mrs. Young wanted to know if I still wanted to go to Nursing School. I told her how I was at the brink of going mad and how it was difficult for me to concentrate or decide what to do. I finally told her that I wanted to go to computer school. She smiled and told me how smart I was and how she wished she had a tiny bit of the brains I have. Anyone who graduated from LTI, Cuttington College, George Washington University, and later Nursing School did not need any of my brains. Who was she kidding? I used to tease her. Going to Computer School under her guidance and patience and encouragement allowed me to take care of the responsibilities of life in America.

Mishawaka, Indiana, USA

Sometime in October of last year I got a call from Mrs. Young. Her sister, Korto had called me earlier to say that Margaret wanted to talk to me about something, but was somehow embarrassed to tell me. She finally called and left a long message on my phone, not saying exactly what the favor was that she wanted me to carry out. So, I called her. Margaret finally told me that she was in Indiana and that she wanted me to drive her car from Maryland to where she was. “So where exactly are you, in Indiana?” I asked her. She told me that she was in Mishawaka.

Our friendship was such that no matter where she was or no matter what help she wanted, I would drop everything I was doing to give her that helping hand. There was no reason to say no to that soft voice of hers. I was even willing to drive to California if that was what she wanted.

Korto Lake and I took the car to Mishawaka, Indiana. For the nine hours we drove, we got a call every one hour. Margaret Lake-Young wanted to know the condition of the road, whether I was taking a short cut to Mishawaka from Maryland or whether I had eaten something or whether I was tired and needed to stop and sleep. Her concerns were just too overwhelming. No matter how many times I told her to go to sleep and leave the driving to me, she stayed up until we rang the door bell to her apartment at 4:30 in the morning.

Leaving Ohio, I was stopped by the police. The charge was that I was speeding 15 miles over the speed limit. I did not want Margaret to know about the speeding ticket. She was in Indiana to seek medical treatment. Telling her about the speeding ticket would raise her concern-level to the sky: She would demand that she pays for the ticket, and I did not want that. I was happy that she never mentioned anything about the ticket incident in Ohio.

Our Plans for Liberia

Margaret and I found out last year that we had purchased land opposite each other on Robertsfield Highway. One of our many plans was to contribute to the construction of a Pedestrian Bridge over the highway! We would use that walking path to come to each other’s place to ask for salt or pepper or cooking oil or even smoked fish. I would make the vegetable garden and she would bake the rice bread. Margaret Lake-Young was the best rice bread maker in the whole of Maryland. A party without Aunty Meg’s rice bread was no party at all.

Margaret encouraged me to go to Liberia. “Go and see for yourself whether you will like the place,” she would caution me many times. When I told her that I was finding it difficult locating the place I had purchased opposite her land, she promised to give me a place to build my house. When she saw that her sisters Dee and Judy Lake were trying to corner me as I narrated my story about Liberia, she gently kicked my leg under the table and said: “Cooper, please let’s change the topic.”

As I reflect and think about that last statement, I feel that Margaret wanted to make sure the two families remain friendly. She called me a day after the incident and asked whether I had talked to Dee Lake. She did not understand why her sister, especially Dee-Zoe was so upset with me. After all, Margaret told me, I was only expressing my feelings about what I saw and experienced during my trip. "Call Dee and give her your Resume," Margaret told me. That was the last conversation we had together. The day of the incident at Mr Young's house was the last time I saw the face of my friend and mentor and counselor, Margaret Lake-Young.

Goodbye, Aunty Meg

I try to compare our friendship with other friendships. I searched and searched. The feeling I have for Margaret Lake-Young is the same feeling David had for Jonathan. David lamented the death of King Saul and his best friend, Jonathan (II Samuels 1:19-27). Today and forever, I lament the passing away of Aunty Meg, Miss Lake, my friend and counselor. Just as the beauty of Israel was slain upon the high places long time ago, so it is that the beauty of Liberia, one of the country's best humanitarians was taken away by the Bayous of New Orleans in Louisiana, on February 26, 2010.

Let the soul of Margaret Emily Lake-Young forever rest in peace.

Over Land and Over Sea: Part V

I have spent a week in Monrovia. I have experienced a bit of disappointment in the police assigned around the Gurley-Street area. I have tried to drive from the corner of Broad and Randall Streets toward Waterside. The sea of people will not allow me to go at the pace I want, so I turned right on Sao Bosoe Street and head out of town.

I have visited the Urey Chicken Farm in Careysburg and have gone to Firestone to see the damage done to the place I used to live. I have left a note in Smell-No-Taste for the friend who encouraged me in 1987 to purchase a piece of land on the Robertsfield Highway. The first week of my trip to Liberia, after almost twenty years, is about to end. I need to get out of the city and see what’s happening in Kakata or say, Ganta, in Nimba County. Let’s see what the second week brings.

I gave the truck a final check. I wanted to make sure the tires had the required air, even a bit more. I filled the tank up to the brim with gas. Gas is L$225 or $3.25 a gallon at Total Gas Station at this time. TOTAL seems to be the new rooster in town. New gas stations are springing up all over the city and suburbs. Soda, snack, anything you want is sold at TOTAL. The setup is just like Exxon or Shell or a 7-11 gas station in America. I called one of my business partners who is presently in Monrovia to let him know that I would be picking him up at 5:30 am on Tuesday, December 15, 2009. We are going to Nimba.

It is pitch dark at 5:30 am, especially in an area like Brewerville. For some reason, I forgot that I was in Monrovia, where street lights are not common. What is common is the people’s good sense of direction. To find a place in Liberia, a deep curve, a cotton tree or a yellow gas station are some of the landmarks you must remember when trying to find a home or a spot of interest. This has been the way Liberians locate each other from the day I was born.

So when my business partner directed me to pick him up from Brewerville at 5:30 in the morning, I said fine. On my way, I missed the deep curve, I missed Lott Carey Mission, and I missed the VOA Junction. After I had crossed two single-lane bridges built by the UN, I felt somehow that I had gone too far. If there were signs to VOA, or Lott Carey, I didn’t see them at 5:30 in the morning.

I finally located my partner near a long fence by a school, about a quarter mile from the main road. He walked to the truck using a flashlight. It was about 6:15 am when we left Brewerville for the trip up country.

It was easy at this time of the morning to drive through Duala, New Kru Town Junction, and Red Light. At a market after Soul Clinic, we bought a pack of many little plastic bags of water. We changed about $40.00 to L$2640, a huge bunch of money to me.

Driving to Kakata, my mind took me way back as we passed Number 7 or Kingsville on the long stretch of road to Number 8. A lot of well-known people used to live in this area long ago. Further on that route to Kakata, we entered the part of Firestone where I was born and where I was assigned when I first got employed by the company! There is an area called Freeman Reserve, opposite Division 20. I remembered how as kids, my friends and I would walk to Freeman Reserve on Firestone paydays to have fun. We would dance until our parents came and whipped us away.

As we passed Zoevahn or Todee Junction, I thought of Todee Mission, Nyehn Public School, and CLG Mission where I began my early education. As we drove toward Kakata, I tried to locate the spot in a deep curve where Tommie Bernard was killed in a traffic accident. I couldn’t remember the place anymore.

We passed Cooper Farm and then entered the area of Morris’s Farm where Keith Jubah met his untimely and horrible death. As we crossed Du Bridge and began to enter the vicinity of BWI, I remembered how I used to spend a lot of time at this place; not as a student, but as someone who had an interest on campus. The woman I would later marry spent four years at BWI.

I always wanted to attend the Booker Washington Institute. I wanted to become a mechanic. That was my wish when I graduated from the eighth grade. But my father had a different idea. He refused to even allow me to dream of becoming a Tiger. The news that students died during initiation on BWI put fear and a special stereotypical hunch in the mind of my father.

We stopped in Kakata near the Bong Mines-Kakata Highway Junction. My business partner wanted to make sure he had breakfast before going any further. As I stood outside, my friend went through a tiny door and came out smiling. The next thing I saw was a lady coming out with a bowl of steaming cassava leaf and rice. I am not used to eating rice anymore at 7:30 in the morning. So, as my man enjoyed his meal, I bought myself few bananas and ate them for breakfast.

The road through Kakata is also crowded with sellers of all kinds of stuff. Relocating these people, I felt, would be much, much easier than relocating the thousands and thousands of marketers at Red Light or Duala or the congregation near the SN Brussels office near Front, Ashmun, and Randall Streets.

As we passed Konola Academy, I thought of the agony I went through while in America in 1990. The surge of the “freedom fighters” toward Monrovia meant nothing to most people, including me in early 1990. I left two of my kids on Konola as I travelled to the United States for vacation. For years I did not hear from them. I was devastated.

Twenty years is a long time to be away from a place. As we drove on, places that I thought I knew went by either too quickly or it took forever to reach them. For example, I thought for such we had passed or reached Tubman Farm. When I later saw a sign that read: Coo-Coo Nest, even though I had a black-out for a minute, I knew then for sure that we were now in Totota.

I had run out of bottled water, so we stopped at the shop on Tubman Farm to see what was in there. I used the bathroom which was well maintained. An old man who sat in a chair wanted his Christmas after I asked him about the zoo and all the animals that were there. Most of the animals were killed and eaten during the war, he told me. I looked around and was saddened by the fact that without vision, a people and institutions do really perish. Across the street from the stop stood a hotel-like structure. That must be the Nest, I figured.

Even though we had to dodge a few pot holes every now and then, the Kakata-Gbarnga highway is fairly good. I remember when I used to drive on this road to Ganta in about two and a half to three hours. Sergeant Kollieta, Suakoko, Phoebe Hospital… all of these places, I recognized as we drove through. Two places I passed without noticing were Gbatala and Gbonkonima. I remembered how often I used to stop at the latter town to purchase buckets of bitter balls, corn, and fresh deer or groundhog meat hanging from cross bars made of sticks.

Entering Gbarnga, we had to slow down to go through the UN and Immigration Check Points. Gbarnga was not as crowded as Kakata. We drove through with ease, forgetting that a place named Red Light even existed.

Gbarnga was a well-known enclave during the war. It was known as the Capital City of Greater Liberia. With all the mining and logging activities that occurred in Greater Liberia, I expected to see some high-rise buildings or a complete transformation of the Capital City of Bong County. Since I did not drive all over Gbarnga, it will be preposterous for me to say that nothing of substance was done for that city during the years of war.

If I am not mistaken, the sign in Gbarnga tells motorists that the distance from there to Ganta is 50 miles or 80.6 kilometers. Going 50 miles per hour should take the slowest driver about 70 minutes to reach Ganta from Gbarnga. For us, it took forever… at least two hours.

After four dry seasons, the condition of the road to Ganta from Gbarnga is unacceptable. We were driving a truck that had not seen a gravel road in its life time. Besides potholes, we were dodging or driving into craters in order to reach our destination, 50 miles away. It was amazing and refreshing to encounter or come across very few cars on the road. Apart from that luxury, the entire trip was back-breaking. Every bone in your body felt the beating from the road condition on the Gbarnga-Ganta Highway.

I did not forget to pick up students as we drove toward Ganta. I did one pick up between Weala and Totota and another between Kpein and Nengbein. The great promise I saw for Liberia was the students. They were well dressed in their school uniforms, walking to school as I did many years ago. Who knew I would be writing something for others to read? Who knew that a poor student walking to school in Todee District would one day be brave enough to tell the government that the pace of development in Liberia was too slow? I saw hope in these students who take dust into their lungs everyday as I did. It was my responsibility to shorten their trip to school or home as Oldman Taylor did for me, many years ago.

We reached Ganta at about 3 p.m. on December 15, 2009. Ganta looked different to me. The immigration Check Point where I used to work when the death of President Tubman was announced was far away from its original spot. The Mobil Gas station I used to visit when I courted the girl that would become my wife is now hidden from the main road by make-shift homes and market stalls. The war created a new headache for mayors of cities like Ganta and Kakata and Paynesville.

The trip up country was to confirm that the project my business partners and I were trying to setup between Saclepea and Tappita was doing fine as we were told. We wanted to reach our final destination, but the experience from the road condition made the trip a bit sour and discouraging. We had invested a lot in the project, but we had not physically seen what had been done. It was therefore imperative that we keep going, even if we had to sleep on the road.

The road from Ganta to Saclepea is much better. The news is that the Bangladeshi Unit of the United Nations assigned in Ganta is the entity that’s maintaining this portion of the road. The road is nicely paved from the Ganta-Saclepea Junction up to the UN Compound, about a mile away. As soon as one leaves the compound, it’s déjà vu all over again, but with less stress.

Driving up country, rubber farms dominate the topography of the land. Nearly everybody seems to be mesmerized by the notion of owning a rubber plantation. As we drove toward Saclepea I could not remember the location of Cocopa, the largest rubber plantation in Nimba County. I saw Flumpa and Kpetuo and Graie. There was not much to be happy about, as I saw the same huts and the same conditions that were there 20 years earlier.

From Saclepea to our destination should, all things being equal, take about 30 to 45 minutes. The road condition is similar to that of the Gbarnga-Ganta Highway, bone crushing. After 4 dry seasons, the main roads in the country should be better than what it is.

We called our contractors. They did not sound receptive at first, but when we told them that we were coming to the site and that we had their one month’s pay, the tone changed. They called us every ten minutes after that, wanting to make sure that we were safe! My business partner and I did not know the specific spot where the project had begun. The contractors told us that they would be waiting to take us to the place we hope would one day have an impact on the people of the area.

We saw two men waving cutlasses as we approached the town where our project is located. We knew immediately the gesture and waving were genuine. In earlier times, that would mean something else. We made a right turn into what we knew by now was our property. We got down, hugged and introduced ourselves. We were shown the work that had been done which was the foundation of a processing plant we hope to establish in a little town far, far away from Monrovia.

After inspecting the place and taking some pictures, we were taken to the town where we were introduced to the town chief. Before leaving the site, I had observed a cola tree that had cola nuts hanging from every branch. I told one of the contractors to pick me some cola nuts. My craving for anything natural and Liberian was a feeling that only I could experience and boast about. Those fresh cola nuts and the fresh, succulent pineapple that came later were the only food I had eaten the whole day, besides the bananas in Kakata. My business partner thought I was insane and going nuts by starving myself. To tell the truth, I was never hungry.

That cola tree will remain where it is. It will be there as we strive to make a difference in the lives of people who have seen nothing but a hard life. That cola tree and the people in the town survived the war. We must all look forward, rejuvenating the potential in all of us. That cola tree is far ahead of us.

We arrived back in Ganta at about 9 p.m. As we drove back, a sign near a bridge in one of the towns caught my attention. It read: Caution, this bridge was locally constructed! There are one-lane bridges all over the country, constructed by the UN. I saw them in Brewerville and on the road as we drove through the interior of the country. Why was this particular sign so interesting? Did the people of the town single-handedly build this bridge to standard? Was it risky for motorists? What was this sign telling me and others about this bridge that we were about to cross?

We were accommodated in Ganta by the wife of our main contact. He had traveled to Monrovia to attend graduation ceremonies at the University of Liberia. Because of our host busy schedule and because we did not inform her of our trip in advance, she put something nicely together for dinner. No GB, no rice; but it was just a nice dinner.

The heat was not nice to me in Liberia. It was just embarrassing to see myself sweating so profusely among the people. Most thought I was sick, I believe. Trying to sleep in Ganta was tough. The generator refused to come on. By 2 a.m. I was wide awake, fanning myself with whatever I could lay my hands on. At this early time of the morning and surprisingly, I heard a rooster crowing. There was something wrong with the timing, I thought. Roosters are supposed to crow around 3 or 4 o’clock in the morning. It is the rooster that tells the dawn of a new day.

As we left Ganta for Monrovia on December 16, 2009, I wondered whether the war had anything to do with the timing system of the offsprings of the roosters that survived.

A Letter To President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf

My trip to Liberia after 20 years gave me a glimpse of the situation in my home country. What I experienced added more bile to my gall bladder. I had to spill some out, especially to the woman I admire so much:

Now that Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf has made her intention known by announcing her candidacy for president of the Republic of Liberia in 2011, and as a staunch supporter of the President, I want to express my feelings about a few things that have gone right and a lot of things that have gone totally wrong since she took over the helm of the ship of state four years ago.

It is good to sit in America and write and criticize what is going on in Liberia. It is also good to go to Liberia and see for oneself what is actually going on in that country. In America, we constantly hear that people who have been selected to serve in the Liberian government are continuing the legacy of those who came before them. That legacy is stealing and misappropriating development funds. We continuously hear that when this happens, a state of sorrow immediately consumes the president. She will replace these crooks and reassign them as advisors. Advisors of what? Only God knows. This behavior is a big negative.


With apprehension and trepidation, I flew to Liberia and spent two weeks there. With the same feeling, I drove far into the interior of the country. I went as far as Zuolay in Nimba County. Besides the check points, no one stopped me, and I did not encounter any problems. This is a huge positive. Stability and security are important for growth and progress in any country. I met people from Canada who had traveled to Ganta. They told me of the exotic experience they had had. They were beaming with smiles when talking about the beauty of the country.

I also visited the Headquarters of the Unity Party on Broad Street. There were a lot of young people there. They were visibly upset about not having jobs. They talked of the “importees” who were given preference for government jobs and how these “importees” were stealing government money. They were frustrated that the president was no longer listening to them.

As these young people vented their frustrations, I asked them: “Let’s just suppose the election for president were held today, will the oldma win?” They looked me in my eyes and said without a lot of hesitation that the oldma would lose. These are the people who make things happen...these are the grass roots. They were genuine in their assessment, I felt; and I was not happy about it. This one is a monumental negative that must be change to a tsunami-type positive before October, 2011 arrives.

Ellen Johson-Sirleaf lived in Wisconsin and Virginia, USA; after four years as head of state of Liberia, I did not expect the streets of Monrovia to look that awful. The lack of order among motorists is insane. If the government cannot afford traffic lights, the least that can happen is to install 4-Way stop signs at the various intersections in Monrovia. It is a big shame that Liberia even has a police director. I wonder what motivates the chief as he enters his office each morning. As regards the chaos in Monrovia, this is a huge eyesore.

I saw that it is impossible to drive normally through the Red Light area of Paynesville. I also came to the realization that the marketers at that junction of the Monrovia-Kakata Highway are Liberia’s hope for the future. They are the best entrepreneurs in the whole wide world. They begin selling at 5 a.m., endure the blazing sun, and quit at about 7 p.m. With small loans from the government, these people could become economic bread winners for thousands of relatives.

Since the Red Light area is now known as Liberia's largest commercial district, leave these sellers alone. Redirect traffic to Paynesville and Free Port by constructing new roads to bypass Red Light. If the vision for resolving this headache is not in the pipeline, then someone is not paying a lot of attention to reality.

I used to drive from Rockville, Maryland to Houston, Texas. It is a 1500-mile distance. It used to take me about 23 hours of smooth driving. To drive to Zuolay, in Nimba County, it took me about eight hours. Distance: About 225 miles. If it is going to take a businessman eight hours to travel 225 miles in Liberia, then it is not worth the effort. The government’s priority at this time in the country’s history should be good roads – paved roads – period. After four dry seasons, the road condition in Liberia is a major problem and a big negative for the Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf administration.

Like Port-Au-Prince, Haiti, there are too many people in Monrovia, Liberia. With no public toilets and running water, I wonder how these people deal with hygiene and sanitation. By a lay man’s estimate, I think out of the 3.4 million people in Liberia, 1.7 million of the population resides in that small town of Monrovia. The countryside is virtually people-free. There is serenity and tranquility as one drives away from Monrovia. A plan to encourage citizens to return to where they lived before December, 24, 1989, must be in some government pipeline.

Election year 2011 is not far away. If Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf can change course by ending the recycling of failed ministers, listen to the people who voted for her in 2005, create jobs for the million or so unemployed, and hire more young people who hate sleeping in the dark and in the heat; if the president bring in real patriots who hate driving on pot-hole roads, then the vision to have pipe-borne water and electricity in the whole of Monrovia in a short period of time, will be a reality.

If these burning issues are adequately addressed, if family manipulation in government can be curtailed, then there is no reason why the Liberian people will not give Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf another chance for a six-year term, according to the constitution of Liberia.

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part IV

Wer place we will walk eh nah?

I know Liberia was in a war that lasted for almost fourteen years. I know that many, many of our people vanished in a senseless and useless carnage. I say senseless and useless carnage because, had the war been because we wanted change in mindset and attitude, it did not happen and it has not happened. If the war was because we wanted good roads, more hospitals or safe drinking water, these things are yet to be realized. If this war in Liberia was intended to stop corruption and build new infrastructures; if the war was ever intended to put a hold on nepotism and cronyism, bring in pipe-borne water, some street lights in Monrovia and electricity in an area that covers 43,000 square miles, I was not able to lay my hands on any of these things in a substantial way while I was in Liberia, from December 9-23 of 2009.

For the fifteen days I was in Liberia, I was a victim of a police rampage. Police in downtown Monrovia went around deflating the tires of any and every vehicle that was parked on Gurley Street near a Money Gram office. Their contention was that I had parked my truck on a very busy portion of a street that had zero no-parking sign and where none of them was present to direct traffic. Tickets and citations were out of the question, as far as making money for government or the city of Monrovia was concerned. A strange kind of police justice pollutes the air around Gurley Street and probably some other areas of the city.

Many of those reading this know by now that I was born in Firestone and that I worked for Firestone before the war drove many of us out of town. So when I was advised to have someone chauffeur me around Monrovia after being away for almost twenty years, I wasn't that excited, for I am not used to people driving me around. Driving me around has a funny feeling about it. It puts me in a different category…a category that does not pair up with the person I am.

You see, when you are a Divisional Superintendent in Firestone, the rubber trees greet you as you drive out of your driveway into the morning mist; you mingle with them the whole day while you are working, and they bade you farewell as you enter your driveway after a long day’s work. Driving recklessly on the rubber plantation of Firestone is not an option. And the twelve years I drove those Firestone pickup trucks among those thousands of acres of trees, I never had an incident. But since I was the new JJC (Johnny Just Coming) in town, I listened and heeded the advice of all those who felt in their hearts that I needed someone to drive me around.

Many drivers in Monrovia do not look out for pedestrians, even though crosswalks are visibly marked from ELWA Junction in Paynesville to Jallah Town Road Junction, near the Ministry of Heath. There are no traffic lights in the entire city. From Isaac David School in Paynesville to some part of Monrovia, there are street lights. It was depressing and scary driving through Monrovia, especially after four years of an Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf Administration. Another sore eye is the chaotic situation of vehicles competing with hundreds of motorcycles called pam-pams, driving on both the paved portion of the road and the sidewalks. The constant blowing of horns is absolutely annoying and ear-numbing. That must be the reason for the name, pam-pam.

As we drove through the sea of people and as cars and pam-pams left the main road to drive on the sidewalks, and as humans scurried for safety, I overheard a lady asking: “so wer place we will walk eh nah?”

After a day or two of complete madness, I decided to take the steering wheel and drive myself around. Varney could not understand why I was not tooting the horn more often? He was shocked that I was so easy-going with these people, whom I knew, were desperately trying to make ends meet. I was in no rush, especially in a city with no traffic lights. I immediately got conditioned to limiting my driving to 20-25 MPH, even in places where I could have gone a bit faster.

One of the reasons why I wanted to travel to Liberia was to find out what happened to the two lots we purchased on Robertsfield Highway in 1987. What made it more difficult for me was that I had forgotten the location where the property was. The deed for the place was in my possession. And one person I did not forget all along was the friend who took me to purchase the two lots. I had written him on many occasions inquiring about the place. I never got a response. I was determined this time to find my old workmate from Firestone and the place he encouraged us to purchase. I was not deterred by the land-snatching news I kept hearing about while in America.

I also wanted to visit and see the Urey Chicken Farm in Careysburg. I would use that time to travel onward to Harbel, the last place I resided before boarding a KLM flight for America, many years ago. I would use that time also to visit the airport where I learned, my friend had a business entity.

Except traveling via Schefflin, taking any other route to Careysburg is a daunting task. If you decide to take Somalia Drive, from SKD-72nd Junction to Soul Clinic, for example, the challenge is huge. There are about five to six thousand people that have taken over this portion of Monrovia. It’s like China Town without the cars and motorcycles. Driving through here is a nightmare. If, however, you decide to take the Congo Town-Duport Road route, you will encounter another three thousand people on a daily basis, blocking traffic and selling all and everything you ever laid eyes on. This major highway in and out of Monrovia has been taken over by people who are determined to remain there until Judgment Day. In fact, the area is called the largest commercial district in Liberia. With all this commotion, I decided to take the latter route to the chicken farm in Careysburg.

As I drove away from the nightmare at Red Light, I began to recall those places I could remember. I did not see Parker Paint but there was the Coco Cola factory on my right and Mount Barclay on my left. I came unexpectedly upon Fendell, where I spent two years at the College of Agriculture and Forestry. I did not turn into the Fendell Campus of LU, but I did see some serious construction work going on there. The road was so, so, for I had to dodge potholes every now and then. They came upon me from nowhere. As I drove on this Monrovia-Kakata Highway, I kept wondering why in God’s name Government Ministers were given 1000 gallons of gasoline per month. I wondered which parts of Monrovia or Liberia these honorable people drove to. I also wondered whether these were the same people who, twenty five years earlier, were vehemently preaching against government waste, nepotism, sectionalism, and all the corrupt activities known to mankind. I wondered whether the Liberian government was just this big, corrupt shoe that a few people crave all the days of their lives to jump into, while poverty and destitution suffocated the air around them. Each generation despises the generation before it. Yet, there is not much the people can boast about.

It took forever to reach Careysburg. I drove to the Urey Chicken Establishment, saw the wonderful setup and asked some questions. If in the not-too-distant future I wanted to become a farmer, purchasing the chicks and feed and utensils and medications would now be easy. Before now, chicken farmers had to congregate at RIA and wait for KLM or BCAL to bring in chicks from Europe.

As I left the chicken farm I saw a familiar face...someone whom I had worked with in Firestone. “You’re familiar,” I said to him. “What is your name again?” After almost twenty years out of Liberia, I was able to recognize some faces but names were difficult to retrieve. “Oh, boss man, my me is Moses Kaine,” the familiar face lit up.

Moses Kaine was one of those workers who followed me everywhere I was transferred to. From Divisions 18, 20, and 21 to Divisions 2, 3, 5, and 7, Moses Kaine was always there. We hugged and snapped fingers and this man, whom I had not seen in almost twenty years, began to narrate the story of my departure from Liberia for America. He knew the day, the month, and the year I left Liberia! What a funny world, I thought.

Leaving the chicken farm I saw the Careysburg Police Station and a Patrol Car parked near a small Check Point. I remember those days when drivers feared the Careysburg Police. Entering Careysburg then was like leaving the East Coast and crossing over into, say Alabama or Mississippi. No one wants to be pulled over by the police in these Southern States. As I left I wondered whether people in Careysburg still “got those razors bottom their shoes.”

As I drove toward 15 Gate I remembered Phillips’ Farm and old man Taylor and his family. Old man Taylor had a truck that he used to pick up blocks of rubber from Goba Town to Firestone. Every Monday Moring we students from Division 21 in Firestone would get up early and wait for that ride to Todee Mission. I remember no Monday that old man Taylor hesitated to give us a ride. He was kind to us.

A feeling of nostalgia came over me as I turned right at 15 Gate toward Harbel. 15 Gate, the junction to a completely different world in Liberia was said to have a story of its own during the war years. As I drove up, a chain was let down by a guard who manned a check point into Firestone. I drove through, passing Division 15 and the bungalow where ETH and Zoegar Reeves used to live. I passed Division 11 where John Kaykay, Roland Massaquoi and I did our internship under the watchful eyes of SS Allison. I tried going to Division 11 bungalow where I lived when that famous announcement was made on April 12, 1980. The road was muddy, so I changed my mind and decided instead to take a peek at the Duside Hospital, a quarter of a mile away. I saw a lady carrying a bundle. It was her young child. She must have just been released from the hospital and was walking toward the main road to catch a ride to one of the many Divisions on the plantation.

As I drove away from the hospital and passed the road going to Division 10 School, I thought of the Otto’s and the Crabbs and the Karmohs and the Wonlahs who once lived in this area. I also thought of Charles Mayah and the many others who lived at Division 10 Light Camp but who never got to use the light. I drove passed Division 4 and thought of Nettie and Victoria Peters; I also thought of Brown Poure and Alfred Kargbo, my Group Managers; I thought of Jensen Bowier and Bill George and their families. Brown Poure and Bill George will not be able to read this.

I was now approaching Division 4 School and the place I used to live with my family. In this vicinity also lived the Kruahs, Judge Hall, Henry Dennis, GI Sirleaf, Lionel Kennedy, the Elliotts and the Gears. Even though erosion had damaged the road going to the house where I lived, I could not visit Firestone without seeing the damage that was done to Center Site. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me as I realized that the place I once lived was no longer there. High bushes had now taken ownership of Center Site and Honey Moon.

I left Center Site wondering whether the 14 years of war was even necessary. I drove and passed Bondiway, where the Stipendiary Magistrate of Firestone settles disputes. As I approached Du Bridge over the Farmington River, I thought of Isaac Collins who was the Manager of the Brick Plant near by for so many, many years. I thought of Overseers Gbollie and Tommy and Tamba whom I had worked with. I thought of headmen Luogon and Yahkpawolo and the many other headmen that I promoted. Bedell, the Divisional clerk, came to mind along with the hundreds of employees who had shared the rainy and sunny days with me as we tried to make our latex budgets to keep alive.

At Division 2, I stopped for a group of people who needed a ride to Harbel. “Oh, de other man got good way, O,” I overheard some of them saying. I wish these people knew how I had craved for years in America to come back to Liberia just to do something like this. I find a lot of satisfaction giving a helping hand to the needy, especially when I am driving a pickup truck!

As I waited at Division 44 for some of my passenger to disembark, I thought of Victor Bestman and Pinko Lardner; I thought of Gabbidon Cooper and AA Padmore; Aaron Smallwood and John Rivercess; John Teamah, Keith Jubah, the Seikajipos and Oldman Pencil; I thought of Mr. Freemantle, the fire chief. Most of these people no longer live or work on the plantation, but I had to mention some names to give me that solace of knowing that I was back in the place I born and knew best.

Driving toward downtown Harbel, I missed the Community Church where I got married and where, I heard, a lot of death and destruction occurred when the NPLF occupied the area. I saw Harbel Gardens but did not see the General Market behind the Oriole Store where school uniforms were sold and where a boy about fifteen years old, ran up to me one day in early 1990 and told me that some people were asking for me. I did not know this boy and never saw him again, afterward.

I stopped at the Harbel Supermarket to get me some bottled water and a roll of paper towel. Even though the paper towel had 79c written on, the actual selling price was $2.60 (about L$172). I thought that was too much for such a Dollar-Store size product. As I drove toward Central office and the Post Office and toward Fish Creek and out of Firestone, I thought of Ashley Rennie, Nathaniel Reed (who worked in the staff mailroom), Henry Dennis, Sr and Mrs. Jallah; I thought of CJ Whisnant, PJ Bracewell and Stephen Snoh; I remembered Ed Morgan and the Varfleys and the Korvahs and the Vanis...all people that I had lived and worked with in those days on the plantation.

As I crossed the Farmington River and entered Smell-No-Taste, I thought of the citizens who had complained about the pollution that Firestone had caused to the water they drink and use as a source of income. I thought of all the memories of Firestone when I was there and realized that for sure, time had passed and that the war had left many of us employees scarred and helpless and still wondering: whether Firestone had any kind of Severance deal or compensation for those employees who, not of their own accord, went into exile to live and to see and fight another day; whether there was a provision somewhere in the company’s policy handbook for Liberians who become victims in the time of war or during a disaster.

At Smell-No-Taste, I found the business spot of my friend’s at the airport toward what used to be called EXCHEM. I left a note and my cell phone number with the attendant, hoping to get a call from my friend…a call that ultimately would lead to us getting together and finally finding the location of the two lots we had purchased many years ago.

As I drove on the Robertsfield Highway for the second time in a week, I had that strange feeling that I would get that call and that I would definitely find the only property we possess in Liberia. I glued my index finger to my middle finger as I drove pass Marshall Junction, toward Schefflin and onward to ELWA, the Total Gas Station, Golden Keys Hotel and finally, the SKD Sports Complex.

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part III

Tie your seatbelt, my man.

I lost contact with the outside world when I boarded United Airlines 0950 for Brussels en route to Liberia. Access to my cell phone was unavailable, lost...zero service! My computer was of no use to me even as I sat at the African Terminal at Brussels Airport. My plan to travel to Liberia had not taken into consideration a global air card for my computer or a special chip for my cell phone. That was one of the many reasons why I could not wait for day to break. It was extremely necessary that I get a telephone as urgently as possible.

Anyone who has been absent from Liberia for a protracted period of time gets an advice: She or he must be accompanied through the city of Monrovia or the country by someone who knows the town and its many intricacies. The exchange rate and how to handle the bunch of Liberian dollars when, for example, $100.00 is converted to L$; such confusion, I must admit, does need someone who knows the town and all its bargaining techniques.

So on December 10, 2009 at about 9 A.M., I was on Tubman Boulevard along with Varney, the friend who voluntarily agreed to be with me. We were waiting for a taxi to take us to town to get me a cell phone. We stood on the sidewalk for awhile, for it was rush hour and getting a quick ride at this time was not easy. Finally, a taxi that was letting off a passenger, pulled up. “Run to the other side,” Varney shouted to me.

There were three other persons in the back of a 2000 Toyota Corolla-type vehicle. I am not a small person. I tried to squeeze myself into the car but half of my body was still outside. The driver got down and forced me in by pushing on the door. Varney was also struggling to get settled in. By the time we took off, a passenger was sitting on Varney’s lap and I was resting on the door knob.

As the taxi merged into traffic, I heard the driver saying to the lone passenger in the front seat: “Tie your seat belt, my man.” Without any hesitation or argument, the male passenger complied. I also observed that the driver in this jalopy had his seat belt securely clicked around his waist and chest. I was impressed. I was indeed impressed, for the argument I hear from some is that Liberians in Liberia are not law abiding. For example, I was told that cars do not stop when students are getting on or off school buses in Firestone. I was adamant in arguing that if a law demanding drivers to stop for school buses is passed, Liberian drivers would surely follow the rule. The seat-belt-episode in a beat-up taxi closed the deal for me.

We got down somewhere on Carey Street and walked to Randall Street, between Benson and Broad Streets, where Varney did some hard bargaining that finally led to the purchase of a Nokia phone from Lone Star. For $40.00, I was again in touch with the world. There was no contract to sign, I did not need a credit card, and the process was just that simple. This was the first time in almost twenty years that a bill won’t be in the mail for such a major transaction!

There was nothing else to do after the phone purchase, so we went to the corner of Broad and Randall Streets to get a taxi out of down town Monrovia. Rehabilitation work was in progress on Broad Street near the Ministry of Education. The chaos I experienced trying to get a taxi was unbelievable. There was a sea of people and the place looked like an outside mall with goods of all types: sellers, buyers, huge bales of L$ on tables of money changers, taxis and loaders, wheelbarrow pushers, regular cars and drivers, ordinary passersby and visitors like me; helpless policemen, bankers and depositors, interns, etc. I tried to capture the moment on camera but was advised to back off. My camera would be snatched away, I was told. I took the advice. Besides the huge crowd and and the madness that engulfed this section of Monrovia, my first 24 hours in Liberia was uneventful.

Your head too hard

A call came in from one of my business partners in America asking me to pick up some money from Money Gram for his family. By that time, I had taken delivery of a pickup truck we had sent to Monrovia. Because of the driving condition in the city or in Liberia as a whole, I was advised to have a “person of the town” chauffeur me around. Who best to do this but my man, Varney? We took delivery of the truck from a friend in Bardnesville, who was kind enough to keep it safe at his place. The friend also went out of his way to register the truck for us. As for the tag or license plate, he told us before hand that after four months, the government entity responsible to issue license plates had not done so. In America, we did not buy his story. We could not imagine a vehicle plying the streets with no tags or with a four-month temporary tag. Not only that, in Liberia as I write this, the owner of a vehicle is responsible to print or manufacture anything for a temporary tag.

I get depressed to know that people in power easily forget the simple things that make International Standards pleasant for everyone. I wonder how difficult and tedious is it to order or make license plates for vehicles in a country like Liberia. There are more cars in Montgomery County, Maryland than there are cars in the entire Liberia. How does a government monitor or track down potential terrorists or law breakers in a society where license plate information is hand written by the owners? What is wrong with Liberians who are paid to think for the ordinary of us?

In Bardnesville, we asked for a sheet of plain paper and printed the tag information from the registration document. We then drove to Red Light to an Internet cafe to get a computer-generated printout. I wanted the temporary tag on the truck to look decent. It was a damn shame, I felt, that after four months of paying for license plates, I had to improvise in such a way in a country that was 162 years old. (I was told that there were vehicles plying the highways of Liberia carrying temporary tags for a year or so.) Blaming the war for the lack of progress in such a tiny area of government responsibility can no longer stand as an excuse.

The money at Money Gram had to be picked up. So at about 10:00 A.M., Varney and I drove off to the Money Gram office at the corner of Broad and Gurley Streets. By this time the road rehabilitation on Broad Street had crossed Randall Street and was approaching Gurley Street junction. Coming down crown Hill is scary. The pot holes are like craters and controlling the traffic jam at Broad and Johnson Streets is obviously a stressful assignment for the two policemen stationed there.

We parked in front of the Money Gram office and I went in to get the money. Varney followed me. When we came out about 30 minutes later, I saw that the four tires on the truck were flattened. I was shocked and confused. I immediately called America to tell my friends what I was seeing. All kind of things were going through my mind. Was this an introduction to any ordeal I might face while in Liberia? Having one tire flat on the streets of Monrovia is one thing; having all four tires completely out of air is quite a strange thing to think about.

Still on the telephone to America, I approached the watch sellers and money changers that were stationed were the truck was packed. “Do you guys know what happened to my tires?” “Do you know who did this to these tires?” I bravely asked. “The police did it; they came around and deflated your tires; they said you were not supposed to park here,” I was told by the bystanders who obviously were not as stunned as I was. “What do the police expect me to do with all four of my tires flattened?” I inquired of people who seemed sympathetic and willing to help.

There were no No-Parking signs and there was no police officer telling drivers not to stand or park on Gurley Street. I did not believe the police would do such a thing. I was a bit skeptical. A ticket or a citation that would generate some kind of revenue for the government was, I thought, the right thing to do to drivers who broke the law. As I stood there befuddled and sick in the stomach, I saw four policemen approached an SUV parked on the opposite side of the street. In less than 30 seconds they had taken the valves from the tires of the SUV. The owner had gone into the Money Gram office to do business. Before I could bat my eyes the police officers had disappeared around the corner unto Broad Street where the road work was being done.

About five minutes after the incident and as Varney and I stood beside the immobile truck wondering where to purchase valves for the tires, a boy about 15 years old approached us with tire valves for sales. How did he know we were in distress? How did this young man know exactly where to come to sell his ware? I was beginning to put together a serious hunch, but I let it skip my mentality. We bought four valves for a dollar each, took off one tire and put on the spare that had not seen service since the truck was purchased, brand new, 8 years before December 12, 2009.

One particular fellow was very helpful to us. He helped with removing the tires, taking them somewhere on Carey Street to be pumped and to put them back on the truck. Varney had some Liberian dollars for me so I told him to take care of our man. I felt somehow that the “man of the town” would not be kind and gentle to this guy who had been so helpful. While Varney wasn’t looking, I slipped $5.00 into our good friend’s hand. I didn’t care how much he was given later, but I felt good that he would be satisfied.

Before I left the scene, all of us who had been immobilized converged on PATROL 1, a police car that had just pulled up. We were furious and talking all at once. Why were our tires flattened? We wanted to know from the five policemen that were sitting in that vehicle, why tickets weren’t issued and how did they expect us to get out of the place? “Do you need help?” One of the officers in the front seat asked. The question was sarcastic, for we knew that the policemen knew exactly why we were fuming. “Why did your men take the air out of all the tires on our vehicles?” One of the infuriated owners asked, with fire in his eyes. “Your head too hard,” one of the policemen in the back seat shouted out. “Your Liberian people, your head too hard.” A mob was beginning to gather around the police car. Without further explanation, PATROL 1 sped away, leaving us standing in awe, with gaping mouths and rolling eyes.

It was obvious that the police knew they had done us wrong. The big, fat chief who sat in the front seat had some tire valves in his hand that he apparently wanted to give back. That was one reason why they returned to the scene of the mischief.

One of the guys who, obviously, was also a victim of the police raid, walked over to me as tension subsided. “These are some of the things we will have to put up with if we decide to come to live in this country,” he consoled me. He too must have been a visitor who had been victimized by the police whom citizens depend on for protection of life and property.

I thanked the brother for the comforting thought. As I got into the car to leave, a vehicle pulled up as the driver tried to disembark. “Don’t park there; the police will take the air out of your tires,” I warned him. Both of us took off, he turning right unto Benson Street and I going left in the opposite direction.

As we drove out of town, rocking and rolling from the terrible road condition in downtown Monrovia, I kept wondering why there were no signs to warn drivers that parking was not permitted on Gurley Street.

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part II

After living outside of Liberia for almost twenty years, I decided to visit the country and see for myself and feel for myself what it is like to return to the place that carries the scars of war. I wanted to see some of the places that were well known and often mentioned during the war years. I wanted to hear more stories of what happened during those many years of my absence. The saga of my trip continues:

The plane carrying me landed at Roberts International Airport on Liberian soil at about 8:20 pm local time on December 9, 2009. When I left the same area on May 8, 1990, a lot of family members were visibly on hand to wave me good bye. As I came down the steps of SN Brussels I did not see a lot of people anxiously waiting. There were two persons waiting at the end of the stairs as passengers disembarked. There were also some airport personnel on the tarmac. I said hello as I passed them and headed toward a building that looked to me like a refurbished warehouse. I needed to readjust my sight; I needed to readjust everything about me; for the building I was heading to, houses Immigration and Customs.

The advice I got from the few friends that knew of my trip was that I needed to have some small denominations of US Notes. I heeded the advice, even though, at first, I wanted a Rocket Scientist to lay down the logic behind this simple and clear-cut warning. Before leaving America, I asked my bank teller to change two-twenty dollar notes to one-dollar bills. My wallet was pulling me down before I even boarded the plane for Liberia!

At Immigration, I encountered nothing out of the ordinary. My passport was inspected and stamped. I did not see a lot of attention paid to the Yellow Book. The next stop was at Baggage Claim. Anxiety of lost bags took over the atmosphere at that moment; especially when workers who were supposed to be watching or serving as security, as visitors took possession of their suitcases, etc., were themselves busy taking bags off the carousel. I don’t know what the deal is at Baggage Claim, but the experience was weird.

As I waited for my bags, a fellow with a cart approached me and volunteered to be with me until I was through with Customs. The place was getting really crowded. My overnight bag, winter jacket, computer, and the one-dollar bills in my wallet were all contributing to the uneasiness I was beginning to feel. And the rumors of theft and other hear-say and they-say did more to raise the temperature of fear that was slowly beginning to overpower me.

I identified my suitcase and garment bag, placed them on the cart, and was directed to the Customs officer. The young lady was pleasant and did not give me hard time. I unzipped my bags, she took a quick glance inside, and said to me, “Welcome to Liberia and Merry Christmas.” “Thanks and Merry Christmas to you,” I replied.

The fellow with the cart and my bags did not let me down. He was with me until I got outside into the hot Liberian night. As I climbed into the car that had come to pick me up from the airport, I realized that I had spent about an hour and a half in the country of my birth and that my wallet was no longer one of the heavy items I was complaining about a few minutes earlier. After all it was Christmas Season.

All of my previous trips to America before the war, when I returned, I went straight to where I resided in Harbel, Firestone. As I left the Airport this time, hitting a few pot holes here and there before reaching the Smell No Taste-Firestone Junction, I realized for the first time in almost twenty years that I was not heading to Harbel but instead, the car turned left toward Monrovia. Not many people in Firestone know me and the few who do were unaware of my coming.

The trip to Monrovia was smooth; the two-way lane is paved. I saw people walking in the dark and felt worried for them. My mind ran to the war years and what it meant to those who dare to walk these same paths. I wondered and began to imagine the fear and hellish condition these same people must have endured. I thought as I rode to Monrovia, about the many unemployed Liberians who could benefit from the generosity of the Ministry of Public Works. Robertsfield Highway is made narrower by bushes on both sides of the road. Why aren’t the people working on this highway? From Smell-No-Taste to Marshall Junction, the bushes need to be cleared from both sides of the road.

Besides thinking about the road-side bushes and the people walking those dark pathways on Robertsfield Highway, I was also busy trying to figure out at about ten o’clock pm, where on this highway did my family purchase two lots of land some 23 ago? All I could remember was that not far away from the spot where the land was bought, on the left-hand side of the road, was the home of E. Reginald Townsend.

If I thought the road to Monrovia was dark, if I felt the effect of a few pot holes here and there when I left the airport, the one dangling, non-functioning traffic light at ELWA-Congo Town Junction made it crystal clear to me that I was entering a city that had seen and was still experiencing tough times.

My first night was spent in a hotel. I did not miss much, for I had access to the Internet and I watched CNN International. I did not fall into a deep sleep, for I could not wait for morning to see Monrovia and its people.

My first week in Liberia:

Floating Over Land And Sea: Part I

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 5^th 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.