Thoughts of Freedom Fighters and Robert Marley-Waiting in Vain?

This morning I decided to talk with Salome about the weight I carry. I continue to search for shared memory and interest in the residual impact of war atrocities on women's bodies, minds, and their right to make progress in peace.

So my question was vague. I asked about any memory handed down by grandparents, family, or just people from Kiambu. Her response made me sit up in amazement. 

She told me that she had read my book, Inappropriate Medley, and shared it with her older brother. They had had a long discussion about similarities in the violence meted out to women and children. To people who suffered during the war. In detention camps. People who lost control over their bodies and lives. She told me that what I shared about Liberia resonated with her brother's experience and the memory she carried from the oral history of the pain of her people. It was moving. We had never discussed this since I gave the book to Salome two years ago.

We stopped everything and watched an Al Jazeera Witness episode on Kenyan land and freedom fighters seeking justice at the Royal Court of Justice in London for violence and torture they experienced during the emergency. We also watched the BBC's documentary, Liberia, An Uncivil War.

When Salome attempted to explain details about the emergency and background music to the Al Jazeera documentary,  she spoke in Kikuyu. I almost seemed invisible. She narrated that haunting 'never again' sermon to herself. I understood her words based on emotions of anguish, she exuded. I did not understand all of her words. And when they spoke  Liberian English in the BBBC film, Salome repeated what they said in standard English. She interpreted and was perhaps holding the pain of language that she knew I could not bear this morning.

In the end, she said, people suffered. I said yes. She said I see why you watch these documentaries and wrote that book. I said yes.

I have known Salome for four years. She is a domestic worker, a friend, and a sister. I am happy I share this Nairobi City with this brilliant and compassionate woman.

War Stories: Checkpoints in 1990 and Rape in 2022

 

This story represents my recollection of going through the checkpoints in August 1990-from Bardnersville, Dried Rice Market to Cuttington University Campus. I wrote, using a mix of Liberian English and actual English, intentionally. The emotions associated with these events flow seamlessly with this hybrid. Please request for translation, if necessary. My motive for publishing this story as International National Women's Day comes up is to highlight sexual violence and brutality at checkpoints and the residual impact of these actions on the Liberian society today.  Rape is one of the most reported crimes, with limited access to justice for women and girls affected by this crisis. This journey connects the reality of sexual violence in the Liberia's civil war and how we lived for almost 15 years with teenagers  and armed men (fitted in a violent system of war), controlling our bodies, choices and lives. My interest is to join other voices and call for the integration of history, healing and mental health into access to justice approaches. The story starts one morning in early August 1990.

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Aye mehn...I know the war stories can be sad o but let me tell your about the rebel that kissed me-full on the lips and saved my life. We had walked from Bardnersville to Fendell junction with many stops along the way. First one I really remembered, and this is when I came to my senses, was when we got to the first real checkpoint.  My sister was the oldest-senior in the group. I was junior in the convoy of scared people. Our ma was sick, paralyzed, so we put her in the wheelbarrow and moved through Dry Rice Market on to Johnsonville Road. My brothers, younger than us, kept repeating the story that we were told. The rebels were going to see us, feel sorry and find a car. Oh, and they had money so they would give us money and food.

Nyensua, take control! When we saw the first group...fear curled in my body to the point that I must have lost something. All I remember was, my lappa that I had put over my jeans dropped. All my ground peas that I had packed in the lappa to eat, until the rebels got us to safety or give us money, dropped right there in the Johnsonville sand. They yelled at me, you scared? No o, I yelled back. First strike. We got to another gate after moving for what seemed like ages. The rebels yelled above our fears-everybally bring your national ID card here. Take it out quick. These ones who were yelling were known as G2 people. Hmmm...you know na---card and identity; life and ID card...you had to be damn careful. Then we heard the second part of the order. If you don't have it, we will give you 25 lashes on your bare back. I turned to my younger brother Karmu and said, you think we can take the 25 lashes? We did not have id cards because my sister’s surname would have warranted instant death to the entire family, as commanded by the rebels’ laws. Krahn and Mandingo people were the enemies. Any way, by the time we reached upfront, they had beaten so many people, they forgot the order--talk about attention deficit disorder. We moved and moved.

Then what I expected to be the most fortunate situation happened. We heard sirens, and someone said Charles Taylor was coming. Major Taylor, our leader! Commando, brave, strong intelligent, the rebels yelled in every space they occupied at that checkpoint.  Da wa na small chaos.  People running---yelling--shooting. I think my oldma blanked out. In my naïve and stupid mind, I assumed that there would be some semblance of normality as he passed, and it would give us an opportunity to walk across safely. I said to myself, leh Charles Taylor jes come and see ha these people acting wicked. He will deal with them. He came, saw, and drove through like Jesus going into Jerusalem. Damn, we were our own. We moved and moved again. Someone asked if we needed help when they saw us with our ma in the wheelbarrow. Before we could lay our burdens at his/her feet, a woman standing near us said, say no. We said no automatically, not understanding why she advised that. As we walked away, she let us know that if we had answered otherwise, they would have shot our ma to help lessen our load. Nyensua!

Then we got to this spot and were on a line. It was a small house before the last checkpoint to Fendell. The questions kept rolling but all within the frame of wha your tribe. Hmm, I called my name and the female soldier said, but your own, I way na even ask you for tribe. Ehn you Kpelle? I said yes. Speak Kpelle na. She said hello. I answered. Wha your name? I answered. Then she went to the third level and thought I seemed blank and did not know the answer. It was reason for her to kill me. You say you Kpelle and you can't speak it. Your dey asses da wa sitting in Monrovia acting kwi? I will kill you.

Hehn?! This could not be true.

I was almost at Fendell---pseudo-safety. I could not afford die. Who would look after my brothers? Oh, I did not want to die. The war was going to be a temporary thing and I would reunite with my boyfriend. I did not want to die. I am standing in a damn daze and out walks this young rebel, lanky, dirty, and moving with one thing on his mind. He walked to me and kissed me on my lips and turned to the woman. This fine geh lek this you coming kay her. You geh go yah. You can be somebally wef. In hindsight, I felt zero violence, invasion of my person because my spirit had left. I was standing there with the resignation of a person soon to be dead. I remember taking in the surrounding. The color of the house. The flowers around it. People presenting as blurred movement and, in some way, I consoled myself with the thought that if she shot me, I would drop to the earth, but my spirit would rise.

We got to Fendell and met what I would call hell on earth. Fear was palpable and friends could become enemies in seconds. Death was the most lenient form of punishment and in most cases, the ammunition was too expensive to be used on enemies. Knives took the place of guns. Imagine the tragic and brutal flow. The only comfort was the layers of sugar cane trash that served as fodder between the tarmac and our fears. Hmmm...so we walked into Fendell and realized that everyone had a territory-office space, porch, whatever belonged to someone, some family. We had no territory, but we were travelling with our paralyzed mother, so we grew up by at least 10 years in a few days. Da wa na small thing. As we tried to find space, we saw one of our friends from college, Toh A. Boker. He acted as a sort of dorm counsellor/RA and taught us the ropes in minutes. We found a space for our ma and two younger brothers to sleep. As far as I was concerned, I wasn't closing my eyes any time soon. Fear da something o.

We were going to find a room when, in the hallway, we saw one of our cousins from ma side. He pretended like he never saw us or his cousin in the wheelbarrow. The man acted like we were invisible. Second shock after the kiss. We fix the place for the oldma and told our brothers to sit by her. We were going to look around and find food. Imagine. But I do not have to even say imagine—many of you were on Fendell. As we walked out of the room, someone came to us and said, da your Krahn friend, John Brown, is here o. Da one could not be true. I will get to that one later but in the meantime, we had to decide when we were getting out of this dangerous and nasty hellhole. Fendell was the first place I saw feces of all colors. This context put me in the situation of automatic constipation---add the damn fear.

How could we get out? My sister had a surname that easily aligned her to the Krahn tribe. She was staying put until God himself came to take her out. My brother and myself could move around but we also risked death if we were accused of being on reconnaissance! When we settled, we heard that you needed a pass to get out. Pure apartheid torture and tactics. Taylor and cohort were applying lessons learned from the Libyan base to our lives. 

Ah, to get pass da na anything hard, they said. So, off we went.  The first thing that made us do a 360 to run when we opened the door was the wig on the CO head. He saw us running and ordered the boys to bring us back. Wetin, you running for? Where your people? We told him our ma was sick. Then, whereplay your pa, eh? Chay, da me coming tell rebel ha my pa said your come to me tomorrow for your food and checked out of town without even a goodbye? We don't know whereplay our pa eh o. He said bring dey asses in. Your pa wor wekking with government. No o, our pa ain’t never wek for government before o. He used to wek with African Fruit Company (some kinda way we thought fruit would have sounded very safe). We knew the company's name was changed to Sinoe Rubber Corporation, but we had learned to neutralize every action to save one’s life.  The rebel yelled and brought us to the reality we now faced-but da wha I talking and your lying lek hell. Da na government there?

Hmmm...we were getting into a tight spot, and I knew not a soul was going to kiss me again. So, we tried a small tactic of just looking around the room and seeing who was in more trouble than us. And I say this in hindsight because there and then in that room, we were looking for a way to just be right back in Bardnersville. The major point of attention in the room was a British journalist who was tahbayed properly and sweating bullets. You from the BBC? The journalist said yes. Oh, so da your been lying that dey Doe soldiers winning dey war? Why your lying so? Dey man did not understand a damn word. He was tied and in extreme pain. We were watching. Then one rebel who used to live in Yekepa came in to question the man. So, what your name? You can't guess. The white man still had cheek in his mouth. Oh, Mr. Can'tguess, in Yekepa, my boss man wor from Bristol.

This was funny and sad at the same time and with many stories of the war, I have a memory block on what happened next. All I knew was God smiled on us and we got a pass and the CO with the wig, Simeon, made friends with my pekin and myself. They lived at the teachers' quarter on Fendell. I think it was in the Senwah's house. During normal days, we used to go there to spend time with Prof. Hunder children so that area was our terrain.  Remember now, we had the pass but had to be very careful how we went out of Fendell. We decided that we would only leave on a vehicle and the priority would be given to our ma and two younger brothers, Lemu and Winston. While we were waiting, we heard that the Phebe Hospital truck was coming to take some people, including my ma. It was the best day. We packed them and Boker pushed the faithful wheelbarrow to the truck at the junction. They got in and left. We had no idea whether they got there and what had happened on that road. We died many times during the war-worry, pain, fear. hmmm. Anyway, our mission, me and my pekin was to get to Cuttington campus-where my ma and brothers were.

The oldma them got on the truck-our most three precious persons getting on a truck to Taylor's territory where by now we knew murder, rape, death, and a cacophony of brutal and vulnerable, painful sounds had formed a forced marriage all along the road. Before we could wipe our tears and encourage our brothers (my ma had no idea what was happening now) that all would be well (oh yes, lying was allowed), a rebel walked up to us and pushed Boker in the bush and declared he was about to kill him-all in one breath. No explanation, nothing-just that we were about to lose a friend and brother. We just started screaming, and up to today, I still see the shock on Boker's face, his hands in the air, pleading for his life, and I am sure wanting to go back to our Black Sugar days---just dancing and trying to make a damn life. What the hell was happening?

The rebel changed his mind and we returned to Fendell. The truck-called Big Blue-left. To tell you the truth, at that point, the only thing we were sure of, my sister was not leaving Fendell. My brother had met some of his St. Patrick's friends and I miss woman was moving around Fendell with a spoon in my back pocket, scraping food when it was available. Then, I met a childhood friend. I will call him David since I know he is reading. We used to sleep in the same space on Fendell. I must have been 9 or 10 when I knew the family. He took me under his wings on Fendell. Again, I saw it as an opportunity to leave the main campus and go to the nearby village, sit in a kitchen, and do small errands right in kitchen space, while David cooked. I would eat and when my ma was there, he would keep a bowl of food for her. Hmmm...I have said thank you up to 2014 but I will say it here again. At the time, I was overwhelmed with greediness---today, it is gratitude.

Anyway, I keep jumping but all this is necessary. I remember that exact moment when BBC announced that Pres. Doe had been killed. We were lying on the floor in the room-about 50-75 persons when someone with a transistor radio informed us that Pres. Doe was killed by the rebels. Chay, the naked description of Prince Johnson's office and actions, I remember to today. Drinking Budweiser and ordering that Samuel Doe's ear was cut off; with a picture of Jesus overlooking the whole scene-while he reached for his guitar to sing 'by the rivers of Babylon'. Oh, in my mind, I knew we were in a very bad place. Budweiser and Boney M?

The plan was to leave and go closer to my ma. My friend was leaving too so he told me to stay put. Don't go anywhere. I will go to VOA-they say it is much better- and I will send someone for you. I agreed o but my heart was so heavy. My sister and myself were a team. We never thought there would be a day we had to part, or she would change her surname to mine. My pa was damn wicked to her but that different day story. I could not leave my sister. Not now.

Anyway, I remained on Fendell, connected to a group of girls and we did our Adam and Eve runs, came back in our room and voice out our dreams of returning to normal. On the way to take bath, we would stop at CO Samson's house. By this time, he was also a friend and he had introduced us to his wives. I have always been the person to make friends so I would tell my friends-let's stop to CO Samson them, I sure they gah food. :) On the days they did not have food, we would ask to use the bathroom. When some people went in the bathroom, we who remained in the living room, would steal small stuff, especially sugar cubes-good ole St. Louis. When hunger really attacked, you could put it in water and drink it. Fada have mercy!

One day we went there, and the people had cooked! Real country cook. Meat fighting each other in the pan. Da who wa going to take bath sef? We stood our ground and waited for the invitation to eat. When we started to eat, we realized that the meat was in huge portions. My mouth was sharp so I asked-da which meat here so? The rebel looked at me and said, da human being. Hehn! No mehn, ehn you joking? Yes, I joking. Your jes eat. We did and I na forgeh the soup, but it was so sweet. After eating, we left and went to Prof. Hunder's house. Mission accomplished. Belly full. We reached the yard and my friend/sister Yukhiko D'Lovette Amnon was besides herself with grief. I still remember her that day. Korto, these people wickay o! Hmm...do you know what the people in House 5 did today? We had just left the house. This is where we buss the chew. Wetin again o, Khiko? They killed Ms. Minerva’s German shepherd and ate it. If pin could drop! 

So, we ate the dog and so what-frankly that was my position then. Growing up in New Kru Town, my first relationship to dog was linked to food and not food for the dog. We kept going back and forth but never to CO Samson them again. They were brave enough to feed us human being-I thought. I was waiting for my friend to send for me to go to VOA. Then bam! One day, my brother (RIP Karmu) came running to me. We knew a guy (rest in peace, Hilary Dennis) from Bardnesville, and he was all overlooking for me. We tried to check out why and realized that it was time to leave. I was going to VOA-closer to Gbarnga. Closer to my ma and my plan was I would go and get my sister and brother at VOA-then we would go to Gbarnga.

Anyway, I left-hugs to my sister, brother, Boker and our Krahn brother that Boker was keeping in safety. Difficult day but I am a trooper (I will say so and get many confirmations). We started the walk to VOA- Hilary and me. Hilary was quiet and reliable. You saw him and knew you could depend on him. Every gate we reached, they asked--whereplay your going? He would say, I am carrying the CO woman to him. We passed. You see, Hilary looked Congau and spoke with some kinda authority and knew back roads.  We made it to VOA-the main campus that night. Safe and not actually sound. A crack in my mental stability was setting in slowly even though I did not recognize that until years after. Just knowing that I left my sister and brother and walked through those damn checkpoints and bush to get to VOA makes me believe that I died or got raped and don't remember. I saw Hilary in 2012 for the first time after that walk. I asked him if he remembered me-he had to look twice but he said he remembered my smile. I was so happy-gave him my number, which he did not take. Wanted to say thank you 50 times but he said...it is fine, and he walked away! Selfless, kind.

So when we gah to VOA, lights say leh me. The place was clean o. See cars. My whole hay buss like looter. Chay. I asked Hilary, but where is David, na? He said you will go there in the morning. They live up the hill and we can't go there tonight. Hmmm...what was going on? Anyway, I was ready for anything. I needed to get to Gbarnga to my ma. We went to this house-huge in size and occupancy. He went to the woman who was 'controlling' the house and asked her for me to sleep there. She said no! The house too pack and we don't want strange people here. Plenty people hiding here. No, leh her go somewhere else. At that time, it was too late so Hilary took me to this gray car. He said, you way sleep here tonight. In the car???? Yes. He did something, opened the door and told me to sit and rest. Then he went and got toothbrush and toothpaste. He told me he would come back in the morning. Nyensua! Na batay mu o!  I slept in the car. When I saw morning, I remembered God and his mercy.

Hilary came and brought a cup of water. I brushed my teeth and washed my face, and up the hill we went to meet David. We were so happy to see. See--the place was jamming. They had washing machine and air conditioner. Most of the staff who worked with VOA were in that building. We were in heaven. I was there for a couple of days and sent a message for my brother and sister to try to come. As far as I was concerned, this is where we would stay until we returned to Monrovia.

My brother managed to come, with two of his friends-Ghanaians. When they told me that someone was at the gate that night and I saw him, I could have placed him on my back. Karmu was a trooper like me, but he was the kinder version of me. He had to save some people, so he brought his friends who we had sense were in danger or were going to be in deep trouble with the growing anti-ECOMOG/West African countries sentiments. Bosco man and Jasper. So, it was David, his pa (RIP, papa); Karmu, Bosco man, Jasper, and me. We were closer to Gbarnga.

Oh, but my heart hurt. My sister could not come. She looked Krahn, they said. So, we left her with the consolation that she would cover ground in Monrovia while we went to the oldma and our brothers. Then that night, as we got used to being together and feeling safe, Isaac Musa attacked and took over the compound!

Oh geh! Geh waylapeah!  By the time we heard the shooting and knew what had happened, everything was upside down. Whereplay we were going again? By morning we heard the order, everybody geh out. Chay, nyensua! We gathered the little we had and were told we were about to walk to Kakata. Truth is that my mouth was sharp but lazy was my middle name. In any case, I could walk but my fear of checkpoints had na registered deep in my soul. I could not survive another one, even if I was not the one being killed or flayed or raped. I could not.

God answered my prayers. The next order was that we were getting in the yellow school buses and riding to Kakata, and they would give us a group pass. Someone in NPLF must have done a stint in South Africa in Botha's days-I swear!  We got in the bus. I say ‘in’ because we were like cargo! David's pa put me and my brother right beside him. When they ask your any question, your say I your pa (oh how I am struggling to write this part. RIP, papa). We sat near him. My own pa had run off and was on the other side of Liberia. It did not take a lot of effort to get used to David pa as mine.

Hmmm... The bus started moving and we got to the first major checkpoint-still in the VOA compound. The rebel entered the bus. Hello everybody. I think we said hello right back. Fear covered us. He spoke. I want to make an announcement. We have a special flight for our brothers and sisters from the sub-region. If you know you from Ghana, Guinea, Sierra Leone, jes take yr things and get down. Damn, at that moment I wished my ma had met a man from Ghana and had me, instead of my Kpelle pa. Special things were rare during the war. A few people, not thinking through anything, 'advanced to be recognized' and even presented their passports and other documents. They took them behind the checkpoints, within hearing distance and shot them. Done. finished.

The guy came back. So, any ollor person? It was like a freaking restaurant---anyone cared for water or more salt? Of course, no one said fwehn. They decided to check themselves since the voluntary spirit had died-literally and figuratively. They went from seat to seat. Remember na-my brother Karmu had brought his two Ghanaian friends and they were on the bus! Fada, be merciful! What is yr name? They had reached our first friend. My name is Boscoman. You would have thought we were in Kumasi. Oh! Buh you never heard the announcement about the special flight. Oh sir, I am not Ghanaian o. Ehnnnn? Yes o, I am not Ghanaian. Then why you talking lek this? Please, we were the last group of Liberians who were repatriated from Ghana. My people are from Grand Kru. The rebel looked at him and smiled. You know what? I am an educated man. I go to LU so I will na kay you, but I can assure you, you way die before you reach Kakata. Now what I want you to do for me is to identify all the ollor people who were repatriated with you that time.

He did not know if he should point to his brother or just say I do not know. By this time, we knew the erratic nature of the fighters. Don't be too quick to volunteer info and people. He said, no, sir. I do not see anyone. Hmmm... leh me go back smor. His brother Jasper had facial markings and had begged David's pa, a medical practitioner, to make an incision on the mark so that people would assume it was a fresh cut and not part of his Ghanaian identity. Lawd have mercy. The papay said no. God will protect you, my son. I cannot do that.  So, after more interrogations, they reached Jasper. He had a towel around his face. The naked jerk they jerked it; we would have laughed under normal circumstances. But wait now? You na make me damn vess. Why you hiding here and lying? Geh down for the special flight. Chay! The boy said, no, I am not Ghanaian o. We were the last group that they repatriated to Liberia. My people are from Grand Kru. The rebel sucked his teeth (the long, loud type). I really ain’t feel lek killing today. Your go in front. Da really you were repatriated.  Hmmm...we were free to go but only after they had killed close to 50-100 people at that checkpoint. Our friends were safe but for how long. We left knowing that our group/lives were threatened.

When we got to Careysburg, right where Andy White's house is now, was where Isaac Musa had his checkpoint. The arguments went back and forth about individual or group passes. In the end we won. We got a group pass and that meant the luxury of not getting down at the checkpoints but the torture of looking thru the windows literally seeing people losing their lives, remained. We saw this at 15 gate where this guy accused of being Krahn was 'being shaved'--his beard was being plucked one by one-tweezer action. See the blood. I hear his screams to today. They said he was making too much noise, so someone shot him...right in the middle of the group. We drove on until we got to Kakata.

They took us to a school-I think St. Christopher’s. Oh, for my brother and myself who read everything available and were on top of things related to Hitler (da our pa’s name too-he was born in 1939 and his Bassa/Kpelle pa named him according to history in the making), by the time we reached the school we could clearly see the Nazi/apartheid links. Who knew we would be in this situation? We were still romanticizing this BS around us. Anyway, we looked around and David, my friend was smart so he told us that we should leave. Just walk out like you did not come on the bus. We all did so and walked into Kakata street. Neebay! Guess where we carried our trouble that night with no idea that we were getting into deeper trouble. I am not sure who directed us to the 'empty houses'. We found one. Door ajar, windows open, with dust settling on the floor as evidence of the flight of its residents a few months back. We took the biggest room and spread our lappa, bedsheet and slept. The house was in Mandingo quarters (did not know it was Mandingo quarters) and with our Ghanaian brothers, we slept on the dusty floor like we were in a Sheraton!  

When we walked out of St. Christopher compound that night, the space we left behind us was like a refugee camp and I remember that buckets, water, and space were luxury. Silence too. People tried not to speak in case someone identified them as non-Liberian. Truth is, security did not seem so tight, but mayhem ruled the night.By morning, David went to town to check and get food. Bongoman and Jasper were still in shock. My pekin and myself-we were closer to Cuttington-to our ma. I think days passed but the first major interaction we had with the outside world was when we found out that we had something that 'Charles Taylor did not like' and when we knew that we were living in Mandingo quarters and could be killed like chickens by any fighter who assumed that we were Mandingo. I had gone to town and was walking on one of Kakata's dusty roads-one which I am sure in normal times held love secrets, gatherings, politics of the day---off the main street-the public space. Someone called my name. I turned because at that time, you never knew a thing. Enemies and friends made a big mixture of stuff you had to deal with. I turned and it was a friend from Cuttington whose parents or family lived in Kakata. I was cautious (somebody lor spell it corshurs). :). We talked for a short time and made a valuable exchange. From him, I got to know that we were in Mandingo quarters and should leave immediately. I also learned that people from the West Africa sub-region was what the papay did not like and did not want to see. These words had weight, my people. If the papay had passed order that he did not want to see you-all units stood ready to eliminate you-steal your life away...all based on the whims of one man--maybe more than one.

So, the plan was put in motion. We needed to leave and by moving, we needed to get our friends out safely. David and Karmu found out that one of the boys has a girlfriend (old one and that could be extremely tricky) who now fought with the NPFL. Norh kpa nii wha! Did we engage and get her to help, or do we hide them and wait out? David made the call, went to find the girl or a connection to her. He was successful and our friends were taken out of Kakata to Danane. As simple as scrambled eggs!

We were left in the struggle to move out of Mandingo quarters and find a new place to stay. David knew a girl/a family and in a few hours/days (your forgive my memory block), we had a place, right on the main road of Kak City. The things we saw and heard. Young men (today some of them in Pres, Sirleaf's government) going to Gbarnga to pledge their support to Taylor. They also came bearing news of which comrade had died and who remained in Monrovia. I had no idea of this marriage of student life and politics. Our one attempt to be political on CUC was supporting Herman Brown to run for the student government. Where did this breed of politicians come from and within the context of war, guns and instability-again, all this same as a great adventure that would end as soon as possible.

Oh, from them we also understood that one of the worst gates was Salala checkpoint-controlled by Paul Vaye. Women and girls were raped in continuous motion-a few were spared but the predictability around sexual violence was almost 90%. David made a call. We were not going until we found a car in which we would be protected or found one that would leave at midnight --when they were asleep, spent (yes from raping) or they did not have the power to check the car.

The rest of the time was spent trying to find a car, a living and listening out. In one of our conversations, we heard about a commandant at the NPFL base, Mabel. Little did we know that the base was on Cuttington campus where our ma and brothers had been dropped off.

We had two things on our hands-we needed to get to our ma, and I needed to become 'invisible' at Paul Vaye's gate. As we heard, no one had recognized why women and girls were being raped. We were all in a united form of trauma as a country and did not stop to think and analyze why all this public sex was taking place-sexual violence. Or was it an extension of the normalization of sexual violence that occurred in private spaces pre-war? Young boys, some below the age of 14, sat in groups at some checkpoints, 'reading' pornographic magazines. They would laugh and when they saw a woman or girl who they said ‘made their hearts jump’ or provided an erection-or both.  They would call her to come and 'read' with them. Rape, murder, floggings, theft-all happened with no singular or collective physical resistance. 

So back to the story. David went to the road one day and saw some of his friends-UL colleagues. They were linked to one of the big men in NPFL. They had a truck and a mission. They had told David that they were going to loot Firestone and would come back late at night to go to Gbarnga. This was our ride! However, the erratic nature of the rebels pushed us to ask to go with them to Firestone, and when we returned, we would pick up my brother (who had all our bundles). We would then go through Paul Vaye's gate, with some veneer of protection. They agreed after much convincing. David was from Nimba but like me-he did not speak his language well and, in a way, was seen as an outsider.

We got on the truck and in my mind, and to today, I cannot imagine which sort of bravery allowed me to get on that truck with soldiers and guns, speeding into Harbel. David and I did not talk much but we made eye contact a lot. We finally got to Firestone and the looting started. Everything! Furniture, cassettes, clothes, everything. We found a chair and sat to watch. This was a movie in the making. Disturbing as it was, we sort of connected to things we were used to before the war-for example, the cassettes, music, artists-and we started to just talk about this. The fighters had no idea what David and I were saying but they got suspicious. O, these people want to steal our things. Let's kill them. They don't lek good. We helping them then they want loot from us.

Hmmm...God is good. David could not speak his ethnic language, but he understood what they said and responded that no. We wanted a ride to Gbarnga and only a ride we wanted. They calmed down and continued to loot. We sat there quietly and when they moved from one house to the other, we moved with them.  After some hours, they were done and decided to go and say bye to their girlfriends' in Dolo's Town, outside of Firestone. This may have been like 9 p.m. I am not sure. 

You see, love can be so sweet that when you are parting from your lover, your mouth can say things da na necessary. They hugged. We coming back soon. Your don't worry. Aye mehn, when na? We will miss your o. Hmmm...everything going fine. Then bam! One of the girls said, your know when your said the ceegaray was losting in the huss? dah dey boy who was helping your to loot used to steal it. The pekin them who had worked all night were in ‘duckfowl tabay’ before they could say aye! Then the brutality started. They beat them, asking them to confess. The boys refused and said they were lied on. By this time, I was not sure what we could do. We started calmly by saying, let's leave it and go....Lie man sef lie...the fighter (brother of the big man) took out his gun and put it in the boy’s mouth. whereplay the gross eh? Damn rogue! They went on. Blood, beatings, screaming, guns....and they put them in the car and drove towards Kakata. Jesus take the wheel (da time they had not made that song but in my future that I saw that night, I was screaming it). The brutal momentum did not end until a few minutes before Kakata or was it 15 gate (memory block), they took the boys out and shot them...right behind the check point. Hmmmm (may their souls rest in peace).

By the time we entered Kakata, we were in such a shock that we almost forgot to ask them to stop for my brother. We did and we were on our way to Gbarnga-through Salala gate. By morning light, we had reached Gbarnga City-this was our home, where we grew up---walked the streets and talked about basketball, boys, Michael Jackson-everything. The town was infested. Guns and fighters. Fear. They took us to Gbarnga because we did not want anyone to know where we were going, and David had family in Gbarnga. It was normal to want to go to a familiar place, get some briefing, then find our way to our ma. Before the truck dropped us, they took us up the hill where an Italian/Liberian family lived before the war. See the yard. So looted stuff. Living room chairs sitting in the rain...what the hell was happening?!

Anyway, we went to David's family. They were so happy to see him but also concerned that he had come alone. Where were the other family members? They also told us that we could not go to Cuttington. Only soldiers and those who wanted to join the NPFL went to the base so we would have to live with them and could not go to see your ma and brothers. I looked at my pekin, my brother, with all the strength God gave me and said, we going to join today. We cannot come here and not see Sister, Lemu and Winston.  We did not tell the family or David, but we went to town where the trucks were waiting for those interested in joining the NPFL and told them we came to join. We were ready to fight for our country. They told us to get in and we did. We were on our way to the base in a few hours and there, we would join and be able to see our ma! 

We got on the truck headed for the base. We were going to join the NPFL-this is what they knew. My brother knew that also and today when I think about it-he trusted me. If I said we were joining, he followed. On the truck, it was not easy. People were asking. Why your ain’t come ever since mehn? Your were going to school? I told them that I was in college. Da wor big talk. You were in college and you jes coming? If you had come ever since then you big woman mehn. You think they way put yr in company B or C? Oh, maybe D because the place pack o. All that talk happening, I am planning how we would connect to my ma and brothers. For people who know Cuttington campus, there is a town between Cuttington and Sinyea-Plato town. My aunt and uncle had their home there. This is where my ma and brothers lived. The people who worked with my aunt remained there with their family, but we did not know all that. We also did not know that no living being in their right mind would be walking around the military base if you were not a member. Aye Charles Taylor. He put devil bisness in the military o-right in the university setting. Da wor na smor mixture.

Anyway, my trump card was a story I had heard-a name--when we were in Kakata. Some of the people going to Gbarnga had mentioned the name of one of the commandants on the base-Mabel (may her soul rest in peace-she passed this year or last year). My plan-and the truth is, I was planning as the truck reached closer and closer to Cuttington. By the time we jumped down at the gate and were asked to do single file, I had my damn way out. Right on my tongue. I asked the person who seemed to have the most authority or perhaps it was the assumption that he had the capacity to inflict harm on my body for the lie I was about to bring to life-whatever, I was going to see my ma.

I said, when we were coming to join, the commandant saw us in Kakata, and she said when we get here, we should ask for her immediately. He gah vess fwes. But wait na-da trouble you want put us in? Dey commandant said you should ask for her then you gah in truck? Oh, we never knew. By that time, I na pull my brother right beside me. He was confused. (Aye Karmu-we went thru plenty). Dey asked only two questions. Wha her name? Mabel. You know her house? Yes. Then your go and she way bring your back to join.

Cuttington was our terrain. I started spending time with my aunt when I was 10 years old. I lived there and went to school in Gbarnga. We got down and before they could form their single file to walk on campus, we were at our mother's room door. We never came out again for three months and until Taylor disbanded the base. But going through, we saw things. The halakha was the one I never forgot...complete Libyan set up right on that Cuttington field. I think Karmu and myself were going to die if I we had not found a lie to get out. In any case, we landed right where we wanted to be since that day at Fendell Big Blue left- with our ma.

 

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2021-A Year of Games, Gratitude and Grounding

 You are the one that you are looking for. ~ Audre Lorde

January was framed by Bob's I Shot the Sheriff. In fact, it was a remix whose production had started in November 2019. As a part of the takeover, the coup makers set an agenda to discredit and gnaw away at the integrity, professionalism, and decades of sacrifice to an organization we called family, home, a feminist space. Let's just say, Bob's lyrics played around in my head as an influencer and confirmed that my feminist analysis of this power struggle in a sea of whiteness was on point. At some point, I needed to get the deputy as well. February was difficult. The contradictions, resistance, and the learned socialization to keep my body, mind, and soul intact while smiling created toxic layers around me. I needed a break and a platform to speak. Funny thing, there was a growing success in manufacturing artificial divisions and silos -a dismantling of a powerful feminist collective-to ensure that we re-enact the Hunger Games. The games had begun, and roles were emerging. Burna Boy kept me going at the gym and home. March was a month of joy. I got the call for an interview. Yale World Fellows Program. It was surreal and I tried to align it with my previous wins-a a round trip ticket to the World Cup in Brazil, a Digital Satellite TV system + a generator, and that chocolate-covered cake at the school bazaar when I was 9. At that point in my life, a prestigious Ivy League fellowship was bigger than the chocolate cake, and I spent the next few weeks on a binge of the Gilmore Girls, an introduction to Yale as recommended by Koc Nyema Williams. April took me to my roots, and I was able to have discussions about Inappropriate Medley in Liberia. We centered on storytelling. Young women representing new generations shared their position, poetry, and platforms of resistance on navigating the Liberian society. It was mind-blowing and cathartic. I realized that the book was the first step in a long conversation on the healing value of storytelling. By May, the Hunger Games had intensified. Parallel universes were created to shock the daylight out of people’s souls. I had my visa and made peace with the fact that I was choosing Yale. The pause would save my sanity and expand my current understanding of the world. At this point, I was wading through murky waters each day, dealing with the higher-ups and custodians of whiteness. It was painful and disrespectful. I was in the doldrums and questioned my every move. Imagine this breakdown and the demand to be prepared for a Yale fellowship. I write this to highlight how institutional racism, power plays, and toxicity can affect our mental health in spaces that are meant to be safe and feminist. I write this because many women let it go despite the impact of this culture on their bodies and minds. Letting go and speaking about this taboo in many settings is difficult. I write to demystify this taboo. May-all framed in Redemption Song. My anthem of calm and resistance. By June, I spread out my earthly belongings on an apartment floor on Othaya Road and invited friends of goodwill (pun intended) to come and make purchases. As the time narrowed down, the most important parts of my life were my sons, cooking jollof rice at Njoki's, and straightening out the kinks of my life. The most important priority was getting my Kitengela glasses to Liberia, where I daydreamed of using them one day. James graduated from Riara University, and again registered that unique determination to achieve. We ate jollof rice and drank champagne at Njoki's house to celebrate him. July was the rush month of goodbyes and hellos. I needed to know where I would live in New Haven. I was not sure why that was so important to me, with my history of living in a three-bedroom zinc shack. In hindsight, I think I had subconsciously associated a living space with safety and comfort, and I needed loads of that after the Hunger Games reenactment. Everything came to a grinding halt on 30 July. I became infected with the coronavirus and could not make my flight to the US. Additionally, I had resigned from my job and given up my apartment. Believe me, you do not want to live with young men who are so cautious about bills that they ask you to cut off the television if you do not give it your undivided attention. On a serious note, it was one of the most challenging 14 days of my life since we had limited information on covid guidelines. I tested negative on the morning of August 14th and was on the first flight that night to New York. August exploded excitingly. I pinched myself to confirm that I was at Yale, living in the historic Chapel Street District. I had access to everything I needed. There were some shocks, but I was glad to be away from the battlefield-fighting for my peace and sanity. I eased into August with gratitude, recovering from covid, ready to join an awe-inspiring cohort of individuals representing 15 other countries, and with the assurance that a safe space of care and love was mine. August to December-the best five months of the year. I learned so much about myself and how my socialization as a feminist guided my interactions. Sometimes, it was about self-recognition and self-awareness. Many times, it was about patience and the capacity to love and work for love. It was about unpacking excess baggage that I had carried consistently and realizing that in many cases it was about sitting outside on a cold day in Sheffield, MA, reading Dr. Jessica Harris’ High on the Hog. That simple life. I gave and took and loved. I entered unknown spaces with humility, and loved my Neoliberalism, Queer Feminism and Social Responsibility seminar. I postponed learning to use the washing machine and dishwasher. The world was not going to end if I did not use them. I cared for myself in such intentional way that I was profoundly proud. My sons made me happy every day. The distance was challenging but we made it! My family and friends were present. I unlearned rigid rules, and gradually accepted kindness and support. I made playlists that I enjoyed and made food that started great debates. And, as I learned new perspectives, some controversial, some fascinating, I did what my friend, Laura Alonso said some time back, I got reintroduced to myself. And on this last day of December, I got the gift I have been looking forward to for the last two years. I met my niece, Avery. My heart is full and my knee hurts from sitting on the floor to make food, check her patients and try to get to the moon, all in 15 minutes. The year 2021 was one that you either wrote a lengthy piece on or just said bye. I chose the long piece because 2021 needed that sort of goodbye and 2022 will be a better year. 2021's losses (friends and bell hooks) confirmed that time is not a luxury. We must use it. Wisely. Friendships nurture us. Do not instrumentalize it. The feminist journey will benefit from our authenticity and love. Love actively as you seek the truth and justice! Thanks to everyone who is present in my life. I remain grateful. Thanks to Yale University (Yale World Fellows Program) and Emma Sky and her team. You helped me keep my sanity. To the universe-your kindness and lessons remain constant! Happy New Year, everyone!

Review of Inappropriate Medley: Intersections Between Patriarchy, Pleasure and Redemption by an Anonymous Reader

 

Introduction: I was introduced to Bai T. Moore’s Murder in the Cassava Patch in Junior High school. Mr. Moore’s ability to tell a (Liberian) story with not-so-fictional characters was enthralling. In high school, we read Chinua Achebe’s No Longer at Ease, Arrow of God, and A Man of the People; and Wole Soyinka’s The Interpreters and Season of Anomy. In college, we deliberated on (amongst others) Stephen Crane’s Open Boat, an omnibus of man’s inhumanity to man in a seemingly disinterested universe; Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations, a study of the role of language in knowing; and Bernard Lonergan’s Insight, a study of how we know what we know. Korto Reeves Inappropriate Medley is a brilliant read; it provided for me an insight into the social psychology of Liberians, with specific reference to the   Liberian civil war, all the time bringing to the forefront (Liberian) feminist thoughts.      

 Excursus

In one of my infrequent Facebook meanderings, I learned of a Liberian author who had just published a book. On further investigation, I respected her scholarship. Korto Reeves's works are not so much in the tradition of Betty Friedan’s Feminine Mystique or Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex but rather in her own right as a thinker and observer of human narratives and deliberations. My decision was inevitable: Ms. Reeves's book was going to be a part of my summer reading! As usual, my summer readings are done in no order. One night in early summer, I got up around 3:30 am to use the restroom (some old folks like me know what I am talking about). Breaking my summer reading rules, I opted for ‘just’ reading the inscriptions on the back. Then it was the acknowledgment. No sooner I was looking at the introduction; and before one could say ‘skip to the Lou’, I was reading the last section of the book. Oh my: I had read the entire book unintentionally! Wow, and what a good read it was. I cried. I laughed. I got angry. I got puzzled. I got amazed. I learned a lot. I admired. I reminisced. I did not go back to sleep as it was time to get ready for work. And I wasn’t even tired! 

 Inappropriate Medley: Intersections between Patriarchy, Pleasure, and Redemption   

Liberia was the haven of Africa, ye the third world; at least according to some of us Liberians: despite our difficulties and challenges, we knew we were different – and in a lot of respects, we saw ourselves as those to whom real bad things generally do not happen to. We knew that we were better and above certain things. We knew that we were not like some developing nations. A quick review of our pre-1980 international profile would demonstrate this easily: Liberia was intentionally involved, however minuscule, in the World Wars; was present at the birth of the United Nations and was instrumental in seeking the independence of several African Nations. 1980 gave us a rudimentary awakening that this line of thinking was inaccurate, and the 14 years’ war provided the empirical data. In the Introduction, Korto Reeves provides a periscope of this scotoma: Liberians committed unthinkable atrocities en masse to some of their fellow Liberians - atrocities that only a few decades prior was far removed, if not virtually absent from our spaces. She resounded an unmistakable optimism: we will rise: the agenda must be taken away from the ones who manned the checkpoints – All checkpoints, be they physical, psychological, or sociological - now and in the past. And she vigorously echoed: The war secrets cannot continue to be an inheritance – we can extricate the bad genes. This book tells the story of our resilience and the strength behind our smiles. Our Sweet Land of Liberty!!!    

 Section one explores the reality of being in a civil war in one’s homeland. 

Freud postulated that to deal with anxieties, the human subconscious tends to develop defense mechanisms. These mechanisms work by subconsciously altering the perception of an individual’s reality. Two examples are denial – incapacity to concede anxiety-provoking information and undoing – neutralizing unacceptable actions or thoughts with personably acceptable actions or thoughts. Then there are the evasive two: rationalization – reasoning with socially suitable concepts; and displacement – meeting out arrows toward less threatening individuals and or targets.  A peripheral reading of section one would quickly raise an overarching query: how could we do such terrible things to each other – and still maintain our psychological coherence? Ms. Reeves, from a point of knowing things on the ground, introduces into our social anthropology a seemingly apoptotic narrative. Pipeline Road was very scary to read: can one truly see into the future? Are there historical markers for all to perceive? Is it true that history repeats itself? And then there were 13 counties. Ms. Reeves and contributor, Marvin Davis do not offer an explicit clarification; but instead points us to the self-evident results: spaces, broken and pulled apart, tend to … fall apart easily.     

“Many more people died at the rebel checkpoints”. We were not attacked by another country or people. It was Liberians against Liberians. Or was it? Korto Reeves teases out some of the causal ingredients. The unconcealed right answers were couched in belonging to the right tribe (which also implied speaking the right language), and or school and or job. Did Korto and Marvin skirt the casual edges or was some version of Freud’s defense mechanisms at play – both by Ms. Reeves (e.g., sublimation) and or those who manned the checkpoints (e.g., rationalization)? Can in-group and out-group scholarship shed some light on the why? Perhaps I am looking for logic, or maybe a cigar is just a cigar. Oh, how I wish Ms. Reeves would take my hand and lead me from my slumber! But then that would be lazy. 

Thomas Szasz once opined that psychological or mental disorders were just other means of seeing, understanding and being in the world in the here and now; they (psychological disorders) were other dimensions of human existences. Korto Reeves’ Woman on Carey Street is Liberia’s King Lear. What a life! The civil war in Liberia was about our family relationships breaking down and falling apart - while yet attempting to hold it together. Trust and mistrust, adherence to duties and relinquishing of responsibilities, were all wrapped up in one basket; and permeating throughout this basket were issues of love and violence, care and indifference, and virtue and vice, amongst others. She is a testimony to human strength and brokenness. She, like King Lear, reclaimed her space and peace by existing in her own Szaszian dimensions, despite the observations of others. Korto Reeves's runway narration should be our own cry ‘never again’. The march to Gbarnga’s 100th checkpoint was laced with several distinctive sights and experiences. The fashion of this runway succinctly captures Liberians’ inhumanity to Liberians. It was not sufficient to kill a person – and at times pregnant women – but individuals had to undergo a ritual of actively engaging the stench of mutilated bodies.

Korto’s angst, Chay Nyensua, analogizes Christ’s Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani. Jesus, the Man, after all, He had done for His people, found Himself at the mercies of Buber’s others, whilst His own looked on helplessly and helpfully. Captured in both experiences are two complaints – what did we do to deserve this and where are you our Omnipotent Father - and a resignation – God Almighty and the God of our ancestors, we surrender for we trust in your sublime teleology. The latter, the resignation, maybe due in a large part to two factors: we have been raised to do so or our options are none – a kind of Pascalian wager. This leads to a convergence of some of Freud’s defense mechanisms: denial, displacement, reaction formation, and undoing constructs whose prime directive is the reduction of anxiety and the survival of the psyche, ye the individual. Ms. Reeves takes us by the hand and leads us along with this sugar cane covered road; and points us to a brighter tomorrow.

How does splitting the womb of a pregnant woman to see the sex of the child provide an avenue for playing Blackjack at the casino? Talk about a different kind of (psychical) logic! What do the two have in common? Chance of survival? Luck of one’s station in life? Then there are the demographics: what is your tribe? Where did your pa work? Seriously? Is it possible that the perpetrators of these inhumane acts were humans seeking rationalization for their heinous acts as a survival defense mechanism? That may sound like a weak argument. We would however dare to proffer that more than meets the eyes was going on, however melancholic. Korto is acutely aware of this dynamic and echoes an existential query: Wetin we did o, my people: an inquest where we both know and do not know the answer; where we both understand and do not understand at the same time – talk about rendering impotent the law of contradiction! Ah, the allure of temporal mechanics where it is possible for effect to follow a cause.    

Like Vigil and Dante at the fifth level of the Inferno (where the nature of wrongs, personal and national, are subjected to intensive self-scrutiny), Korto leads us to the abyss of the Liberian civil war. ‘Death where is thy sting’, the apostle Paul once existentially queried. There is a finality about death that tends to leave several unanswered inquiries. It can be argued that to die in faraway lands minimizes the pain of loved ones at home. A contrary argument is that there may be unfinished emotional and filial businesses to yet attend to. The Secrets of September advances such a script. There is an affluence of information embedded in nonverbal language. These externals speak to our comprehension and feelings. She becomes still. For Ms. Reeves, this stillness is a coming together of thoughts, feelings, and behavior. There is the desire to scream coupled with the desire to just disappear. There is the yearning for it all to end embedded in the hope that it is all a big dream. But then “she stops …. And resigned to the reality”. There is the desire that all would just leave but there is also the need to have people around. And then the apathy arrives: there isn’t any pain that I haven’t known. But is it apathy or resignation in the face of learned helplessness? Ah yes, we do die every day to save ourselves. 

 A brilliance of Ms. Reeves is to tender solutions of light and hope amid apparent darkness. War Time Stories provides a convergence of (human) sufferings and solutions: in this labyrinth of human anguish sandwiched between individual and communal responsibilities, some should intervene and bring relief – be they the ancestors, the God of the Christians, or our friends; but such relief and assistance were not for all. At least Pontius could submit that his hand's washing was due to Claudia Procula’s oneirologic cogitations. A good maxim at times is to be both interested and disinterested at the same time. Ms. Reeves does this routine in We, the Colonized.  There is a thinly etched aphorism in intergroup scholarship that suggests, giving time and space, (the) victims have a strong propensity for becoming (the) victimizers. History is laced with anecdotal exemplars. Did the great, great, great-grandchildren of the oppressed become the oppressors? Is there a possible pragmatic exit here? Korto supplements with a rejoinder as she invokes that great Liberian paradigm shift and butterfly effect: 13 sons of the settlers were executed by orders of the indigenous leaders. Yes, following rainy season is dry season and the promise of a better tomorrow for all Liberians.  

Sections two and three deliberate on the intersections of physical attractiveness and its changing seasons with the accompanying inferences.     

Korto Reeves paints an intricate mosaic of Liberian social life. Liberians always found time to plejae. The regular spots were opened, and people dressed up. Make-up, perfumes, and the likes.  In her rendition of the gathering at the Carlton Disco, Ms. Reeves offers an insight into the intricacies of attending to human sensuous needs. Do you know who it is that is turning you on? Embedded in this quandary is an existential dialectic: is your desire to attend to your amatory needs cognizant of the humanity of the individual or individuals whom you are lurking after and or who are lurking after you?   

Intersections tend to provide space and opportunity for recalibrations. Korto is fully cognizant of this dialectic as she narrates an observation: to be our authentic selves, we must be real; an offspring of our co-creator, our Ma, that feminist nurturing space from which we come, the one who made us. But she hastily inquires: did the making of each of us necessarily include the others? This is a challenge to the dominant narrative of people’s sexuality. Did our psychological birth accomplish an adequate symbiosis and individuation from our mothers? Margaret Mahler would ardently proffer an obligatory dichotomy. We stand on the shoulders of our omnipotent and omniscient mothers. Intertwined within this articulation of who a woman is, are her propagative potency and willingness to embrace or take in the child/children of the breadwinner and or protector. 

And once again, we see the virtuoso of Ms. Reeves: Eggs, sun, and commodes bring this dilemma to the forefront: she had no clue that there were two eggs – she knew they were not hers. How is a woman cogitatively reconciling (fidelity and) infidelity with issues of miscarriage? Using the Vagina Monologues as a beta test, Korto tenders an examination into the question of both the power and societal control over women’s bodies.  Liberian women are forced to protect the secrets of the culture and the impact on their bodies and minds, creating taboo spaces that are not public and visible. Ms. Reeves employs a theistic foothold and ponders ‘how is the omniscient overseer reviewing these events throughout the book. 

Holy Ghost Fiya not only calls into question the male patriarchal dominance but also recognizes Ruth in the fields of Boaz: women are here and have individual and collective needs and strengths. The Beautiful Ones envelopes the intersection of Horney’s response to Freud’s penis envy with her (Horney’s) own womb envy: my foundation is my body… that has no need for studio fixes. One of the wisdoms of Dante’s Divine Comedy is the case of the lukewarm soul: the individual wants to eat from both sides. This dilemma results in the contrapasso - you get what you deserve – the punishment that fits the crime. The case of Alighieri’s lukewarm individual is one of liberty; more specifically, (one) of selecting a path and staying on that path. Korto immediately sees an enigma: doesn’t the very nature of a civil war webbed together with the will, especially for a female, to survive in a patriarchal system, posits a fluidity in decision making - a circumstance of not so random convergences. O what a Mirage to live within! And yes, I withdraw my heart but need you! Not attempting to delve into this complex psychosocial biological construct, Ms. Reeves explores an ontological reality – your love is not mine. Should the physically agile and socio-politically connected partner, albeit most likely the male, intentionally attend to the sexual satiation needs of the other partner, most likely a female? If he doesn’t; and when a wave presents a favorable surf for the female, if she yields to said trajectory, is that payback or being true to herself? Sartre would suggest the latter: being authentic to oneself. And yes, my spirit wakes up and it wakes up for me! But what is a woman to do if she has a “providing” partner who is not meeting her amatory needs? Should she engage her authentic self? Can she do both? Should she do both?

Yes, her Tobacco and Home.  Korto is a keen observer of the power and influence of intersections. Intersections are inherently human. They provide a physical space for finding oneself amidst a convergence of socio-religious and anthropological structures. They are an arena for the battle of values and self-realizations. Ms. Reeves vigorously engages this dialectic. A significant part of her goal is to explicate patriarchy, feminism, family, and an authentic self, all under the same dome? Ah yes, Jung was correct: mothers always win, and we follow (and recognize and gain) their strengths – and wisdom: and yes, I danced my soul into the strength of our cause – talk about dancing into a sea of cowrie shells! 

Section four explores the multifaceted role of Liberian males and the variable spikes within the Liberian his -story.     

Gbana man dem compressing – shout out to Lib men. A genius of Korto Reeves and contributor, James Williams, they paint a seemingly amoral mosaic explicating the complexity of Liberian men during the civil war - not lost in this mosaic is the convergence of religiocentric and socioeconomic covenants. One is apt to ask the somewhat moral question: how Liberian men can be so ostentatious and yet get away with it, as is evidenced by several females who ‘drank their cool aid’. I smiled to myself and silently whispered: they know us well – shoeshining, local starch making their dokaflehshirts to stand we say thanks to the Bassa papay across the road on Center Street. And then they rhetorically ponder: who made you like this? I also mused: Were they only talking about a special period in Liberia’s history; or about a covert exemplar that had always been prevalent in Liberian men’s social anthropology, and was now taking on a more overt posture in Liberia’s social relationship space? As Williams and Reeves matriculate between the sociopolitical spaces of Liberian men (during this period), they imperceptibly interposed a confederate: females had a passive, albeit a survival contrivance within this patriarchic system; they had a role in this bidirectional waltz. In this seemingly amoral reflection, they are aware that all is not well. Williams and Reeves periphrastically asked the obvious big elephant in the room question: “Da who will redeem Liberia”? Interestingly, coming to grasp with the reality on the ground, though the focus is on men, they are cognizant of the role played by women in this uneven arrangement. Martin Heidegger would be proud of this poem: Like most poems in the book, Williams and Reeves proffer a solution specific to everyone: redeem yourself. Be your authentic self in the here and now. But what follows has the potential to deny the assertion of one’s authentic self: join the struggle, something spoiled. Are they asserting that to truly find oneself, one must look to the others; or is the fulcrum of finding oneself intrinsically tied to the ontology of the others? This authenticity is also shown in the use of Liberian English and language to depict the complex lives of Liberians-politicians, media, women, child soldiers and others. Yes indeed: Gbana man dem compressing! 

During the civil war and its immediate aftermath, there seems to have been a heightened interest in bodybuilding and physical exercise by some men, especially the young (I was recently reminded by a friend from Plumkor that youth is from 18 to 54; I just replied OK Oh). Sparta would be jealous. And not unlike the women of Athens, the limbic system of ladies in Liberia was cautiously optimistic and selectively heightened. Occasionally the insula would unabashedly push the amygdala aside. Ahhhh … the one whose voice pours nectar, honey, strength, and sexy on my soul. The one who walk into the room, and I do a check. Ah yes, a woman can dream…. Male model with a body that sustains pleasure, passion, and the mind. But this was not global for all Liberian women or men during these trying times: some reverberated, not me. Evans Adofo’s I am Different provides an analysis so this as his contribution. I am not the one: I am different …. (and) I answer to my own emotions. Talk about an aide-mémoire not to generalize even when the availability heuristic seemed to flawlessly intersect with the representative heuristic. Evans passionately enunciates the differentness espoused by those Liberian women and men who sought to not go with the apparent zeitgeist. He unapologetically pontificates: I am different, I stand on my own… yet I am strong.     

In Dante’s Divine Comedy, Virgil posits that the souls entering the first circle of the inferno are hopeless and living in a state of constant desire. Amid Liberia’s inferno, Ms. Reeves argues on the contrary: things may be difficult for now, but there is always hope. She not only invites ‘the other” but posits a Copernican Turn: there is a space for you besides me …. Come to me…. begging for freedom to forget and to love again.  In the opera L'elisir d'amore, Donizetti explores the complexity and contradictions of being in love. Ms. Reeves explores, through her poetry, being in love with her social anthropology during a time of civil war and chaos in the land which she loves. I want to change everything; I don’t want to change anything. I want to tell you everything; I want to be silent. I missed you endlessly. I am very sure Percy, Diana, and Lionel can sit on Korto’s mat!  One of the most beautiful aspects of human existence is arriving at a point where one’s X-axis (e.g., relevant emotions) intersects with their Y-axis (e.g., appropriate behavior). Ms. Reeves explores a situation where this is (not) the case. This psycho-geometric origin takes on a colossal dimension as one considers the authenticity of self-preservation and socioeconomics being lodged in a patriarchal system during a time of civil war. Making love without passion is like an insertion…. Making love is like a run-on sentence…. making love with no passion is like a dangling modifier, misplaced and unnecessary. It leaves my passion hanging. 

The brilliance of Korto is reflected in her recognition that even with such an arrangement of parallel and non-intersecting parts, women still maintained their capacity – and rightly so - to enjoy sensuosity. They did not give up the need to fittingly enjoy the pleasures and joys of making love to someone that they were in love with; even if that ‘someone’ was not of their (i.e., the female’s) current full specifications. This has the potential to end in (a) confound. Ms. Reeve’s analysis: nope, it needs not – there is no confound for her here: it could curve and touch a g-spot … as it runs, your mind goes to perhaps a market list that includes juicy items not featured in the current activities.

To experience love, one must be willing to be subdued by her; or if you dare to enter her space, she will emerge and subdue you. Korto captures this experience within a Markov chain. Chay…. I grow to make you want me. The Chi-Lites understood Ms. Reeves as they reminisced: I see her face everywhere I go – I hear her voice as the cold winds blow. Korto meets Heloise: love has a way of (re) constructing a traversing conduit that people and the cosmos can bidirectionally do human business. He brings me balance, calm and plenty trouble. His arms carry me to the edge of everything. In the end: he is luxury and my comfort. Ms. Reeves, depicts a scene of the opulence of oxytocin, ups the ante through a pragmatic apprehension - you make music for my heart. Is this wanton pleasure – talk about screams, moans, and logical language. Korto efficiently employs the intellectus agens, as she narrates the convolutions of being a female with tangible needs (e.g., safety, social, personal, etc.), encapsulated in a particular system – a male-dominated system that had plunged the nation into civil war. There is an inclination to articulate this as only a function of sensuality: I watched you on the first day…like an erotic love affair.

Inappropriate Medley advances a reconciliation bathe in hope and love: and this too shall pass. There are certain constants (e.g., physical safety, social needs, etc.) that are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Ms. Reeves channels the Golden Siggie: Sigmund Freud had the propensity to clothe human conditions in sexual allegories. (Psychodynamic Psychology is also referred to as Depth Psychology.) Korto Reeves Inappropriate Medley requires (in) depth readings and triangulations amongst others for a good appreciation. It is fitting that Ms. Reeves ends with an entreaty from the doyen of Liberian culture: When the harvest is done, we will make a feast to you. How fitting for the Inappropriate Medley to end there – for now. Thanks, Korto. You are walking into the league of the greats. You take human conditions and explicate them in existential and pragmatic expressions whilst all the time telling factual life events through your poetry, fully cognizant of the roles and positions of women in a patriarchic world.