Abdoulaye W. Dukulé

Meeting Wilton Sengbe Sankawulo: Literature, Dictators and Wars

Wilton Sankawulo believed in traditions. He was respectful of leadership. He was passionate about people and stories. He was passionate about food.  We met at least a dozen times in very different settings, each filled with symbolism of some kind. We had half-way conversations. As our paths crossed year after year, I found him embroiled in dramatic situations that seemed to be taken straight out of a novel. In some of those situations, he seemed to be clothed in great nobility; others made him appear simply quixotic. All in all, he believed in the goodness of human beings: a naïve concept, I thought, for the times we lived through.

It was 1980. I had just returned home, fresh from the University and was hired by the University of Liberia to teach French. I had been happy to interrupt my studies to go home. The man who hired me, Dr. Amos Sawyer, was part of a political movement that had decided to challenge the old political order. He belonged to the now famous (or infamous) oppositional organization MOJA, the Movement for Justice in Africa, which attracted students and many in the middle class. In the streets, Baccus Matthews, another intellectual protester against the status quo, had another sort of revolt going. His was bent on direct confrontation with the government. The old foundations of the oldest republic on the African continent were beginning to shake.

During a faculty meeting, it was decided that students would no longer be allowed to enter the faculty lounge where teachers relaxed, conversed and had their meals because of the political turmoil. One afternoon, I went to the faculty lounge for a soft drink between classes. Professor Wilton Sankawulo was there, involved in a serious discussion with Professor Manly. They abruptly stopped talking and Manly said to me, pointing to a sign on the door: “Can’t you read, young man? No students allowed in here.” I looked around, not sure he was talking to me.

Professor Alpha Bah, who was sitting at the other end of the counter, laughed and said, “Manly, you have not met Professor Dukulé, our new colleague? “Both Sankawulo and Manley looked at me with some surprise, and then Sankawulo went on with a hearty laugh, “Well, this means we are really getting old!” He extended his hand and I greeted him. He offered to pay for my soft drink and I thanked him. He and Manley carried on their conversation and I left for my office down the hall.

A few days later, I met Wilton Sankawulo in the faculty lounge again. He invited me to share his meal but I declined and offered him a drink. We ended up talking about literature. After he was through with his meal, we went to his office and he gave me a copy of his novel, The Rain and the Night.  That night, after football practice, I returned home and got totally absorbed in the story. The next morning when I saw him, I told him that it was an interesting story and that I would like to use it in my French class. I wanted the students to translate parts of the story into French for homework that day. I told him that I would like to translate the entire book into French if he allowed. He agreed readily and said he would sign a contract any time I wanted. A week later, I wrote to a publisher in Canada and told him that I had found an excellent Liberian novelist and was working on a translation of his novel into French.

Two months later, while I was in the middle of reviewing the draft of the third chapter, I suddenly found myself loaded with new responsibilities. Dr. Sawyer decided to appoint me chairman of the French department. Dr. James T. Tarpeh, Vice President for Academic Affairs, was skeptical. He asked to see all of my official documents, including my birth certificate, copies of my transcript and the phone number of my advisors at Binghamton.

The University President, Dr. Marie Antoinette Brown Sherman, asked Dr. Sawyer to bring me to meet her before she signed on to my appointment. I went to her office and sat in the waiting area. She walked by and Dr. Sawyer came in a few minutes later. He entered her office and I overheard her asking Dr. Sawyer where her new chairman was. He said something to the effect that I was sitting in the waiting room. She responded, “That little boy?”

Dr. Sherman signed on to my appointment, but I had to prove myself to a lot of people.  I was 23 years old. I put Wilton’s book aside, although the students in my class had enjoyed working on it. It was something novel to them, to use a Liberian text to discover their familiar environment in French.

A week after I was appointed chair, Monrovia was upside down. My roommate woke me up around 9:00 AM, yelling: “You are sleeping and the country is going to hell! Get up! They killed the president!”

One afternoon, Dr. Sawyer called me into his office to ask me if it was true what he heard, that I wanted to leave. Dr. Sawyer was then chairing a commission to write a new constitution, supposedly to ensure civil rights for all. Joyce Mends-Cole, who was there in his office, laughed and said: “How can you leave just when we put you way up there with the big boys?” I thought to myself, without responding, “Only those who are up there can fall . . .”,  but I told Dr. Sawyer that I didn’t feel secure with how things stood: “You know, this country does not need a new constitution, just a few amendments, and by the time you get through with this, you may be running for your life.” Dr. Sawyer took me to Dr. Sherman, who tried to convince me to stay another year, with the promise that the university would put me on staff training with a full scholarship. I declined the offer and left for America – without finishing the translation of Wilton’s book.

I promised Wilton that I would complete the translation while at the University of Illinois. I told him that I would take a few independent study courses and use the translation as a project. On my way to the U.S., I traveled on the same flight as President Doe and his delegation. Doe was going in response to an invitation from Ronald Reagan, the American President. Reagan referred to him as Chairman Moe during a reception.

In 1985, after completing my course work, I decided to return home, take a breather, and also watch the elections that were scheduled for October that year. Laura, my live-in girlfriend, decided to travel with me. We flew through Paris and stopped in Abidjan to see my family. We arrived in mid-August and I went back to teach at the university. I met Wilton on my second day and he hugged me. He had gained lot of weight in three years. I told him where I lived and he promised to come and visit so we could talk about the book and other things.

One morning as Laura and I were having breakfast, there was heavy knocking on the door. Laura went to look and came back nervous: “There is a big guy at the door with a soldier with a gun behind him.” I knew right away it was Wilton. I invited him in. He told the soldier to wait for him in the car. We offered him some coffee but he asked for a cold, soft drink. It was early morning but he was sweating. Laura was nervous even after the introductions.

Wilton asked me how the translation was going, and whether my publisher had accepted it. I told him that I had not finished the translation because I had decided to do a second Master while completing my PhD course work. He said he had been expecting to hear from me. I then asked him, why was he, a college professor, walking around Monrovia with an armed soldier as his bodyguard? He told me he was working at the Executive Mansion with President Doe. I must have reacted visibly because he went on to say: “We can work with him, advise him, so he can do better, or we can call him names and our country will be in trouble. It is not about him alone.”

Wilton told me about the academic program tailored for President Samuel Doe that he and other university faculty members were working on, including Dr. Tarpeh, Asiedu Ofei and Momolu Getaway. They were teaching classes at the Executive Mansion for the President and other government officials. Doe had dropped out of high school and wanted to start at college level. I asked Wilton if the President was a good student. He responded that like every adult who goes back to school, he had his moments, but in general he was good. Before Wilton left with his driver and armed bodyguard, we agreed to meet for lunch and discuss the translation of his book and its publication. He was confident that friends would lend him money to distribute it in French-speaking West African countries. We would not meet again for many years.

A few days after that visit, General Thomas Quiwonkpa, a former colleague of Samuel K. Doe, attempted to overthrow the government. We woke up to gunshots and radio announcements by Quiwonpka that morning. Laura and I joined the celebrations on Tubman Boulevard at 13^th Street, where we had moved just a day earlier. We took pictures and headed to the beach. When we returned from the beach two hours later, we learned that Quiwonpka’s coup had failed and the security forces were rounding people up.

A group of police officers came to find Laura and me and demanded the film we had in the camera. As we talked, I opened the camera and exposed the film to the sunlight, destroying all the photos. We were taken to the police headquarters and the police insisted on transferring us to the Post Stockade. They accused me of being a rebel or a spy. One of them said I had come for “reconnaissance.” They asked me if I voted and when I said no, they said it meant that I knew about the coup. Luckily for us, the Peace Corps Director lived next door. He had followed us to the police station and called the US Embassy because Laura refused to leave me there. Someone at the police station asked me if I knew anyone in the government. I said that I knew Wilton Sankawulo. We waited while they made phone calls. We were released, but I never found out if they had contacted Wilton because he never mentioned it. He was the kind of person who help without expecting thanks,

When we returned home, we learned that the soldiers had not only killed Quiwonkpa, but they had also “eaten” his remains. Laura got sick. She said that if I wanted to stay in a country where they ate human beings, that was my business, but she was leaving. A week after she left, I boarded Pan Am for New York.

In 1989, I returned home and met Wilton at the Fendell Campus in the parking lot. We greeted each other with a hug. He said he was happy to see me and that it was good that not everybody was running away. A few years earlier, Doe and the university administration had run into serious differences.  Dr. Mary Antoinette Brown Sherman, the legendary president, had refused to confer on President Doe an honorary doctorate. She told him to go back to school if he wanted a degree. Students started to agitate as they had in the late 1970s. Finally, there was an explosion on the campus and every one fled. Those who left included Dr. Patrick Seyon, Vice President for Academic Affairs, and many others. My return therefore was not lost on Wilton. He gave me a ride, still with a soldier in the car. When we reached the Old Road, I got off on VP Road. We parted with plans to have lunch over the weekend.

The political atmosphere was very tense. On more than one occasion, I caught sentences here and there that sounded like open threats against “those who think they can come here and disturb the peace.” One day after class, Dexter Tahyor, a student I used to chat with, told me that he had heard my name mentioned someplace where somebody had asked, “What Is Abdul Dukulé doing here in town when all of his friends have gone?” Dexter Tahyor was connected to some of the security people. He told me to be careful. Ten years later, he would represent ULIMO on the Council of State of the first transitional government formed by the Sawyer government and the warring factions.

I had lunch with Wilton at the Dragon, a Chinese restaurant on Broad Street. We talked about the book and I promised to finish it before the end of the semester. He suggested that I come to the Mansion to pay my respect to the Chief, Samuel Doe. “The young man,” he said, “has evolved a lot.” I promised that I would go with him at the end of our classes on Wednesday. “Nothing official,” he said, “you just come in and I will introduce you and you can talk. I think you should consider teaching one or two courses there.”

On Wednesday after my class, I hitched a ride with the sculpturer Vanjah Richards, who was one of our greatest artists. Vanjah Richards would soon become one of the first casualties of the war in 1990. Suspected of being in contact with rebels, he was arrested with some family members and beheaded.

Vanjah dropped me off on Broad Street. I walked into Ethiopian Airlines office and bought a ticket for a flight that same day for Abidjan. Before taking off for the airport, I called Elsie Dossen and told her that I was leaving, and asked her to meet me at the airport. I did not have an exit visa, mandatory in those days. When Elsie arrived, she told me my name was on the “blacklist” – just for being a friend of Amos Sawyer.

I left Liberia and went to Abidjan with no real intention to return to the U.S. I found a job publishing a newsletter for the American Chamber of Commerce, and later worked with President Houphouët Boigny’s last campaign. I traveled through Cote d’Ivoire, hearing echoes about the war at home. Refugees were pouring in every day. One day, a dry-to-the-bone woman I did not recognize walked into my office. She looked like a ghost. It was my good friend Bloh Sayeh, a once plump woman who had walked from Monrovia to the Ivory Coast through the bush.

Bloh told me how she and her group had walked through checkpoints, sometimes going for days without food. She asked me if I knew what was happening in Liberia. I said no but she hardly believed me. When she left, I went inside a bathroom and cried. I thought about a day in September, just a week before I left. We had been watching television at Dr. Ofei’s house when Doe appeared on the screen, coming from the stadium where the Lone Star had defeated the Egyptian soccer team. Doe lay flat on his stomach in front of the Mansion and kissed the ground. Without thinking, I blurted out something that everyone in that room would remember for a long time, and was probably what Bloh was referring to when she said she didn’t believe I didn’t know what was happening. I had said, “This man is going to die soon and he will take lot of people with him and I don’t intend to be around . . .” Nobody said anything for a few long seconds. Then I got up and went to the restroom and sat there for a few minutes thinking, “How stupid . . .”

On September 9, 1990, I was in Yamoussoukro with Alpha Blondy, Nyanka Bell and Aicha Konneh. We were awaiting the arrival of Houphouët Boigny for a campaign speech. My company, Media Stars, had brought the musicians from Abidjan for a two-night concert. George Ouegnin, Boigny’s Chief of Protocol walked to me, and very casually said: “Your president is dead.” That is how I learned that Doe had been killed. I listened to the BBC later and heard the “official” story. I thought, very wrongly, that the war was finally over.

A few months later, I learned that an interim government had been formed and that my friend, Amos Sawyer, was interim president. He led a delegation to Yamoussoukro for the ECOWAS peace talks, chaired by President Houphouët Boigny. I called the Palace and Ouegnin connected me to Amos Sawyer. We spoke for a few minutes and he asked if I would consider going back to Monrovia to help with the negotiations process. He said nobody in the government spoke French

besides Ambassador Peter Johnson.

Under pressure from Joe Wylie, and after Bloh, who had almost died found the courage to return, I packed a valise and got on Air Guinea heading for Monrovia, leaving my small firm and walking out of a management contract with Alpha Blondy. We had just released his hit song, “Peace in Liberia”. I was supposed to be away for only a few weeks, just for the duration of the peace negotiations. Before departing for Monrovia, I saw John Tubman. He tried to convince me to go and work with Charles Taylor. I told him that I was on my way to Monrovia for a short trip. Nineteen years later, I am still on that trip.

When I arrived in Monrovia, I booked a room at the Ducor Hotel after spending three nights sleeping on a mat in Bloh’s room. I soon fell into the routine of politics, peace negotiations, speech writing, extensive travel and elbowing my way to find space in the entourage of the president. I learned many hard lessons about the trappings of powers and the dangers of working so close to the center of power, but I developed lifelong friendships with patriots such as Tiawan Gongloe and Brownie Samukai.

The country was divided between Greater Liberia, the ninety-nine percent of the country controlled by Charles Taylor, and Better Liberia, the one percent controlled by the Sawyer government under the tutelage of ECOWSAS peacekeeping force. Field Marshall Prince Johnson, who had captured and killed Samuel Doe, lived on a base in Caldwell surrounded by rebel fighters and a group of displaced people. Every now and then, Prince Johnson would drive his convoy in town and block traffic. He would harangue the crowd that formed around him everywhere he went: “The guns that free should not rule!” His words targeted President Sawyer and Charles Taylor.

One evening, as I walked down the hall from President Sawyer’s suite to mine, one of the security guards approached me and said someone wanted to talk to me. I followed him behind the staircase. To my surprise, in a dark corner stood Wilton Sankawulo, wearing oversized khaki shorts and a white t-shirt.

“Duke, I am so happy to see you. I need help . . . ”

“Wilton!” I said, in complete shock, “What are you doing here? Where are you coming from?”

“Long story and I will tell you later. It is very complicated. My wife Yata and I need safety,” he said, looking at the security guard. I turned to the guard and told him I would handle it from there.

Wilton and I walked to the rotunda and stood in the shadows overlooking the empty pool. He stood against the railing.  Behind him, I could see the beach at West Point and at the horizon, the Hotel Africa and its lights. Every weekend, people drove to the Bacardi Discotheque at Hotel Africa and danced the war away, drinking Club Beer and Stout as if there was no war. Throughout the war, the beer factory remained the only untouched factory in the country. Every warlord who occupied the area around it protected it.

“Wilton, I heard you are with Prince Johnson? What is happening to you?”

He looked at his sandals and shook his head. “It is not easy. My wife and I are running from Prince Johnson. I was in charge of publishing a book we worked on together and the printing was delayed. Someone told him I ate the money he gave me for the printing. He sent his commandoes to get me but news got to me in time. My wife and I left the house with the clothes on our back.  We need a place to stay for the night, and some food.”

“How did you know that I live here?” I asked, puzzled.

“Prince Johnson knows everyone who lives in the Ducor and he knows their room numbers. He has people among you,” he said.

I told him to wait. I went to look for Rufus Kennedy, head of the Special Security, but could not find him. I ran into Zado, a commander in the presidential guard. I told him about my unexpected guests. He said there was a room in the basement used for housing informants that came from the NPFL. There was a secret passage that allowed the guests who did not want to be seen to enter and exit Ducor behind El Salvatore.

The issue of lodging resolved, Wilton said he needed some food and some clothing for his wife. I went in and asked my wife Enid to give me two of her dresses and a lappa. I gave the clothes and two cooking pans, some rice, onions, tomato paste and sardines to Wilton, and then he followed Zado down the dark corridors, heading for a hiding place in the basement. I stood there for a few moments, looking at a literary giant fade into the shadows of war.

Charles Taylor launched his army of child soldiers against Monrovia. Prince Johnson, who had been at odds with our government for printing new currency while he was in possession of truck loads of looted money, made a deal with Charles Taylor. Just as he had tricked Samuel Doe by giving him looted rice from the port and later captured him after gaining his confidence, he tried to lure Taylor into Monrovia by providing safe passage for Taylor’s NPFL fighters in preparation for the attack on the city. Taylor was aware of the plan because Varney, Prince Johnson’s second in command, worked for Taylor. Prince Johnson fled to Nigeria, where he became a pastor and a born again Christian. Today he serves as Honorable Prince Johnson, representing the people of Nimba in the Liberian Senate.

After many peace meetings, Dr. Sawyer left power in favor of David Kpormakpor, whom I served as an assistant for one year.  The transitional government had representatives from the two main warring factions: the NPFL and ULIMO. Dexter Tahyor, my former student, became one of the Council members for ULIMO, and Isaac Mensah represented the NPFL. I developed a friendship with both men; Dexter for the memories of our past acquaintance, and Isaac Mensah because he spoke Bambara like me and knew my uncle Dramé who lived in Nimba. He used to consult me on every issue that was brought to the Council for discussion. I discovered that he could hardly read.

As time went by, it became clear that the two warlords-Alhaji Kromah and Charles Taylor-would soon come to Monrovia and take a seat on the Council of State. The other ULIMO warlord, Roosevelt Johnson, who had been fighting Alhaji Kromah in Bomi, was far from being totally defeated, while another Krahn man, George Boley and his Liberia Peace Council, were gaining prominence in the southeast. Liberia was still in deep trouble.

In the middle of September 1994, Charles Julu walked into the Executive Mansion and declared himself president before being shelled out by the West African peacekeeping force. It didn’t take a degree in political science to predict that Liberia was heading for a new bout of madness. After my wife Enid left and settled in the U.S., I used the opportunity of traveling with Chairman Kpormakpor to the UN in New York to defect. Then our press man at the embassy in Washington passed away, and Minister of Information Joe Mulbah asked me to hold the post for a few months until the government could appoint someone.

Liberia was entering deep lawlessness, spiraling toward utter chaos. After a few months, the warring factions decided to reform the governing body. Chairman Kpormakpor was replaced with Wilton Sankawulo. He had been proposed by Alhaji Kromah, and Taylor concurred. The government of warlords was headed by a non-politically aligned writer. I imagined Wilton squeezed between Kromah and Taylor, like Jesus between two thieves on the cross!

In late 1995, Chairman Sankawulo addressed the UN General Assembly in New York. He met Bill Clinton for a quick photo op and flew to Washington, DC. I went to his hotel to meet him along with the rest of the embassy staff. When I extended my hand to greet him, he pulled me into a warm hug.

“Duke, you are here!” he shouted and grabbed my hand. We walked into his suite. He sank into a chair and gestured to me to take a seat. He offered me a drink and then called out his wife Yata, who was in the bedroom. She came out and stood a distance from us.

“Come and meet Duke! You never met him? This is the man who gave us rice and a lappa that night when we were running away from Prince Johnson.” She walked to us and I stood up and shook her extended hand. She looked at me and said a timid “thank you” before returning to the bedroom.

Wilton inquired about my wife and what I was doing, and then asked me to send for my family so that he could see them. I got on the phone and asked Enid to bring Aisha and Yasmina to the hotel. He asked protocol to give us a suite next to his. Later, we attended a reception on Capitol Hill organized in his honor by Senator Nancy Kassebaum, from Kansas. After dinner, Wilton invited me to his suite. We never got a chance to talk because it seemed that the whole of Bong County had come to celebrate with him.

I went to bed and decided to sleep in while the delegation flew out early the next morning. Later that day, after I arrived at the embassy, the Charge D’affaires Konah Blackett said that Chairman Sankawulo had been looking for me at the airport before taking off.

“What is between the two of you?”  Konah asked, “He said he wanted to talk to you. You have something for him?”

“It’s about a book,” I answered. I had no clue of the whereabouts of the book I had started translating for him years before. We had been in a different world, far away from the predictable serenity of the academic world of the University of Liberia. Senator Kassebaum had said that peace was still elusive in Liberia, stating that “with Taylor, no one ever knows what he will do next! Whenever we say he is not that crazy, actually he goes ahead and proves just that!” I felt sorry for Wilton. He was not cut out for playing politics, especially among ruthless warlords who so far had not shown any respect for human life and decency.

In April 1996, Kromah and Taylor would attempt to arrest Roosevelt Johnson on murder charges. It was ironic. These men had caused the death of tens of thousands of people, brought the country to its knees and now were calling for the arrest and trial of one of them because he had killed one of his own men.  In the process, they tipped the country over into another bloodbath, sending scores of people running to refugee camps, burning down Monrovia. When the dust settled, new peace talks were organized by ECOWAS in Abuja, Nigeria. I flew in to attend my thirty-sixth peace negotiations summit.

Chairman Sankawulo arrived with his entourage. The regional authorities toyed with the idea of putting Liberia under total international supervision and the warlords under house arrest in Abuja. For three days, nobody had any clue as to how to start the negotiations. Kromah and Taylor were on one side of the divide, while George Boley, Oscar Quiah and Roosevelt Johnson kept to the other. In the middle, civilians were juggling for positions in whatever new government would emerge from the talks. After the opening ceremony, the meeting went into limbo, with consultations taking place in hotel rooms and corridors.

On the second night in Abuja, Ambassador Iroha, who represented Nigeria in Liberia, called Brownie Samukai and I and asked us to make suggestions that he could submit to Nigerian President Sani Abacha. That night, while everyone slept, Samukai and I convinced a receptionist at the Hilton to allow us into the computer room to type a document. She let us in around midnight. By 7:00 AM, we walked into Alhaji Kromah’s suite with a peace plan. At the end of the day, with minor adjustments, our document was adopted by ECOWAS as the new Abuja Peace Accord. I scrambled to collect the first draft on which Boley, Kromah and Taylor had made hand written corrections.

Before the official signing of the peace plan by ECOWAS leaders, Sankawulo was asked to address the conference of Heads of State. He took the microphone and said Taylor wanted nothing but peace but had been misunderstood. He asked that ECOWAS and the UN give the warlords a chance to work out their differences. After the speech, which brought a smile to the stern and perpetually dark-shaded face of Abacha, Sankawulo was removed from the leadership of the Council of State by midnight, replaced by Ruth Perry. It had been decided by all that Taylor was the villain.

In the corridor of the ECOWAS headquarters, I saw Wilton leaving the restroom surrounded by security guards. He waved and I walked toward him. He shook my hand and said he was ready to return to the University of Liberia and write novels. I would not see or hear about Wilton for many years after that Abuja conference where his political career crashed, with almost no sympathy from anyone.

In 2004, after the last outbreak of war that landed Charles Taylor exiled in Calabar, I returned to Monrovia and shot a documentary, A Day in Monrovia. I went to the Liberian Studies Association conference in North Carolina with copies of the documentary to sell. Wilton was there to deliver a paper. We chatted for a while, next to the table where my daughters Aisha and Yasmina were selling the videos. He told me that he lived in Texas and was working on a novel, and trying to raise money to buy a computer and have an eye operation because he was losing his sight. He never asked about the book translation and I did not raise the issue. We parted, promising to meet again, maybe at home, in Liberia, now that peace had returned. We exchanged phone numbers but never called.

In February 2009, in Monrovia, I was at the John F. Kennedy Hospital in the emergency room with Brownie Samukai, whose father had fallen ill and been brought to the hospital. We were chatting with a young doctor when A.B., Samukai’s brother, came up and said that Wilton Sankawulo had just been brought in and that he looked really sick. We went in to see Samukai’s father and I drove off, telling myself that I would visit Wilton another day. He died before I did.

On Wednesday, March 18, 2009, at the Centennial Pavilion, the Republic of Liberia, through its government headed by Vice President Joe Boakai and all the institutions that Wilton had worked for, paid him a tribute as he lay in state in a coffin draped in the national flag. When the Liberian Writers Association went on stage to read a statement, I was tempted to follow Elma Shaw, sitting in the seat next to mine. Elma had just entered into a contract with Wilton to publish his latest work.

That was my last meeting with Sankawulo. Neither of us spoke a word that day and we did not hug either, but I wish I had completed the translation. It was a crisp, bright and balmy day in Monrovia, far different from the rain and the night.

Copyright © 2009 Dukulé