James V. Dwalu

May 2009 Fiction Contest Entry

One of the Strongest

The sun was just beginning to set, emitting brilliant colored rays from the coast. The  rays struck our temples. We had to bring our hands to our eyes to keep them from blinding us. The yellow ricebirds were returning to their nests in the nearby palm trees. Their sharp rhythmic chirps reverberated around us. Soon they turned the trees into skeletons, and it would not be before they left to perch on other trees.

There were five us young men looking at cars driving by. Three of us sat on old cement blocks on the grassy sidewalk of the Robertsfield Highway. The other two were left standing. Most of the houses around us bore the scars of war with bullet-ridden charred walls and broken windows. A lot of the houses were roofed with tarpaulins. During the rainy season, rain would pound the tarpaulins so hard the sound would hurt our ear drums. Behind us stood a gigantic structure of concrete and glass inside a high concrete fence. It was owned by a former rebel chief. The structure was in glaring contrast between those who persecuted the war and the victims of that war. The neighborhood was a vivid example of the disadvantages of the war on the common people. Those who risked their lives, sweated, starved and shed blood came out with nothing.

We threw jokes at one another and watched the cars speed by. I was always overwhelmed by the fact that just after years of a brutal civil war, some of the most expensive cars in the world could be seen plying the streets of Monrovia. Of the scores of cars that passed us, most of them belonged to the president, his family, his girlfriends, and former rebel fighters who were now government officials.

A gray eight-cylinder Nissan patrol jeep carrying a government license plate passed by with terrific speed, sending sand flying at us. The emergency lights blinked at us with arrogance. We winked back rapidly, not in response to the lights but to soothe the pain in our eyes. All five of us heaved insults on the driver. The most angered among us was an ex-combatant.

“I don’t blame them!” he shouted furiously. “We put them where they are so they have right to throw feces on us,” he yelled with a nasty expression on his face. He was a straddling young man in his early thirties, a sixth grade dropout before the civil war. Most of the teeth in his lower jaws were gone. His eyes were cloudy from constantly smoking marijuana, his face hard, a clear representation of hatred and frustration. He was once a rebel colonel in the  civil war, but now he now a petit carpenter, repairing market tables and stalls from which he barely saved up to five United States dollars a week. He had a wife and four children.

“Look Jallah!” I shouted at him, “I have always told you to stop all this stupid talk about the war that destroyed this country, killed lots of people and brought lots of suffering to us. You are an example of that war,” I told him angrily.

“No!” He shouted as if he had been hit by a bullet. He took a stand before us, the hot asphalt road a perfect substitute for a podium. He beat his chest and boasted about his deeds during the war.

“Look James! Don’t think I am suffering because you see me wearing old clothes. Let me tell you something about myself. I know you will not believe me because you don’t know me. But people who know me will tell you more about me,” he went on with his ranting, “Do you know how many men I use to control?”

“Where are they now?” I asked, furious.

“Ask the present Commanding General about me,” he said, avoiding the question. “Even the ministers know me. Some of my men are now government officials. In fact even the president knows me very well. He visited me many times on my guard post. But here I am now. God’s time is the best. Everybody has his own luck. We call it se-ke fo feh. What’s for you shall see your face.”

We burst into laughter. He was stunned. He just stood looking at us, especially me. He was our laughing stock for a while. He looked at me profoundly as if I was the cause of his misfortune, or the only one that was laughing. The more he looked at me the more I laughed, holding my stomach. Tears ran out of my eyes.

“Oh! You are laughing?” he asked. “I am not joking or lying. The president knows what I use to do. I was one of his strongest fighters. I was in the Wild Geese. We did not take side with anyone. People use to respect me like hell. But here I am now. They are passing by me like they have never seen me before, but anyway nothing spoil. We are still here.”

“No, just say people used to be afraid of you. Not respect you,” I interrupted. “Matter-of-fact the war did no good to this nation. It only brought us death and destruction. Mayhem! This country lost more than two hundred and fifty thousand people for nothing! Can’t you understand?”

He did not respond, but moved from one spot to the other like a monkey on a leash. Thin lines of condensed saliva streaked down the corners of his mouth while the scent of cane juice and marijuana followed his every breath.

“So don’t see me looking like this and decide to overlook me! I am sure none of you here have seen the kind of weapon I use to carry. Just wait until something happens. Your will see the kind of fire I can warm myself with. We will know who be who! We will see real men! When you see me performing, boy! You will be scared. We will enjoy ourselves again.” He smiled at that.

He was carried away. The fact that he had managed to capture the attention of people who otherwise would not have had the time to stop to talk to him got into his head. He completely forgot that he was on the road.

We, too, were carried away. Our eyes and ears were focused on him, all of us taken in by his performance. I admired his gesticulations but hated his incipience. The veins on his neck swelled as he became more melodramatic. He stopped only for a few seconds to wipe the saliva from the corners of his mouth.

None of us noticed a Toyota Land Cruiser speeding up the hot asphalt road. It happened so quickly. By the time we had time to warn him, we heard a loud bang. He was thrown ahead of the pickup truck. The tires screeched like a wild chimpanzee screaming in agony. The birds flew off in many directions. Thick, heavy grayish-white smoke rose from the asphalt.

The jeep reversed and a man  in the back seat brought his window down. He made a call on his mobile phone before turning to us. “Sorry gentlemen,” he said without remorse. He kept looking at his watch. “O, God! I am almost late.” He turned to us again. “Look, I just called the police. They will soon be here. I have to catch a flight now. I am on a trip abroad for the president.” He took two thousand Liberian dollars from his bag and gave it to one of us. “I will see you guys when I come back.” The window glass went up as the jeep screeched away.

Jallah lay trembling, his eyes wide open and still as if looking at something invisible to us. His mouth opened and closed like a live fish out of water. “I – I-die for not – nothing my people,” he muttered between breaths. Red bubbles formed between his lips. Instead of saliva, blood streaked out of the corners of his mouth. Finally, he stopped breathing.

Copyright © 2003 James V. Dwalu