In December 1969, sometime close to Christmas, my parents moved to Saigon. I was about a week old. We lived in a part of the borough called Lagoon. There was a diverse group of people from all income brackets, academic, ethnic backgrounds and interests. One thing they had in common or as seen through a child’s eye, was a sense of community and strength. Saigon is, to date, one of the largest slum communities in Monrovia.
Twice in the last thirty years, I went back to the house where I grew up in. Except for my memories, familiarity escaped me. I struggled to see those places as they were. Large, sprawling neighbourhood with unbeatable energy! I left each time and felt like, if my life ended then, I would rest in peace! My soul is buried somewhere in the sands of Saigon. This was my first love.
My love affair with Liberian English surpasses the deep connection I have to Saigon, called this way by several generations of Liberian; the borough to others; and New Kru Town to a few who never experienced the dynamism and drive that saturated the environment and mindset of 1960’s, 1970’s young people living across the train tracks. With an unapologetic bias, I always knew that Liberian English in Saigon sounded more original and hip than variations in other parts of Liberia. However, the duality it presented as a blessing and curse influenced the way I have communicated for the last four decades. Three years of learning in an environment marked by Ghanaian, Irish and English English did nothing to change the way I valued and used Liberian English. My English teacher from Liverpool, Tim Allen, reminded me in 2010 that in 1985, he told me to speak proper English, when I went in to ask for a college application reference. According to him, my written English and spoken one were like day and night. I thought that was normal! Leaving Saigon in 1977 and moving to Gbarnga in 1982 was not a strong enough separation to end my love affair with Liberian English, Saigon style.
Then life happened. College, the 14 year civil war, deep personal pain from loss of family and friends and the process of becoming a professional in spaces where this consistent and loyal love of my life was taboo. At USAID, they were sympathetic and diplomatic-Can you speak a little slower, I heard most of the time. In grad school, I felt tortured by the mandatory commitment I had to make to standard English; so o most evenings, I called my sister in Boston, two hours away, but in reality, the shortest distance to rambling Saigon and the sharp, sweet, fluidity of the way we talked there. Sounds could be translated to paragraphs of information; a smile, into a book. Chay! This was a connection to the two loves of my life-Saigon and the way it rocked my socialization and made me into the woman that I am; and Liberian English-the one that allows me to express myself in ways that both Shakespeare and Maya would envy. Now this is a joke and not the legislative kind!
Adult socialization to become a professional informed me that I had to commit and make a choice of a life time-I think they call that marriage. For me, it was a mirage. I could not hold on to Liberian English and expect to speak to high profile individuals at the Wellcome Trust Lecture Hall, Royal Society in London. That should be unheard of. Or speak to colleagues from 40 other countries in Bangkok or a smaller group in Accra. It did not work that way-so I broke up with the love that fuelled my spirit. Then boredom set in. I reached the period where it was clear that if I had to do something exciting and innovative as the lessons I learned in Saigon, I had to tie it to language, my love affair with it and still retain the broken and consistent expressions of the borough.
I recognized that the post war impact on language, although couched in a pseudo-violent frame, was definitely stimulating. For example, a work colleague from Kenya stayed in Liberia for less than a week and to him, Liberians used ‘kill’ as a verb as frequently as they went to the loo. A woman, who had stood in the queue at a local bank for hours screamed, 'I will kill myself before you stand in front of me', when she saw someone cut the line. My colleague assumed she was going to actually kill herself. No she wasn’t but after seeing killing relegated to a common form of punishment, even for those who warlords wanted to investigate the next day, it was a ‘normal’ thing to say in a crowded bank. Someone would say, we will die together today and actually mean-we will sort this out. I looking for it, means-I am trying to sustain a livelihood. Interesting and typical Liberian English.
So the evolution of Liberian English became a thing to watch, keep out of offices and New York meetings, until a few years back when I heard the exclamation-da small thing?! Eureka! This was the most effective phrase to describe the complex reality of a new Liberia. This is a country that struggled with identity issues related to various forms of colonization; and still claim that it is the only African country that had not been colonized. Liberia is also a country where, despite the murder and death of an estimated 300,000 people in a 14 year civil war, is still finding its way to recurrence of root causes of this chaos. Or a country that relies on warlords to resolve a conflict they started; and although we have a woman president, a patriarchal influenced development stifles all alternative options. I embraced the phrase. It supports the cumulative frustration I have, trying to explain and contribute to change in Liberia. It is Liberian English-sexy, no nonsense and groan-all in one heartbeat.
I believe that I can definitely use the phrase, da small thing?, to describe the massive resistance that women’s rights activists feel and see in the struggle for gender equality. In a search for the familiar many years ago, I used a biblical analogy to state that the fight is not one of ‘flesh and blood but of principalities and power’. Apologies to King James and bible loving Christians, I have major weakness memorizing the meaning of biology and it does not mean that I do not love life, so when I cannot quote this verse, I still love God. And if I have to move to the deeply familiar, I would simply say, da small thing?! Millions of Liberians (including 49% of the population) would understand this struggle, recognizing that a struggle that disempowers the privileged is not one that is fought easily.
To write on this medley of confusion, challenges and change-making that is typically Liberian, I will do a monthly column called, Da Small Thing?! This column’s purpose is embodied in those three words. It is a monthly update of a 10 year journey; and intends to highlight and simplify the complex nature of a struggle for rights that are inherent, interdependent and indivisible. It intends to align real life Liberian examples from our socio-economic and political landscape in personal and professional contexts-allowing the fuel of the system of patriarchy to fight no more that which is as natural as my love affair with Saigon and the words I learn to speak there. It will educate and build solidarity with diverse stakeholders to dismantle patriarchal influence in all spaces. Join me on this journey; one that proves that those three words are as powerful as the borough. We may get the opportunity to drive through Point 4 and meet the same group of singers/dancers I met on my last visit. They were dressed in red, yellow, black and green-showing off their athletic bodies and amazing locs. Someone waved and said hello sister, in a way that I thought I understood. Perhaps it was my locs, my Saigon spirit that empowered me to dismantle barriers and structures that fought against the marginalised; or perhaps the polygamous love affair we all had with the borough! Da na small thing!
