Grace Slonteh lifted the edge of her lappa and slowly mopped her forehead. Though barely twenty six years old, the hardships of surviving and bearing children for fathers who were never around to help raise them would have convinced anyone that she was somewhere in her forties.

"But you not scared?" her friend Pauline asked her. "I mean to make the graveyard your home is something I don't think I could do."

Grace squinted as the sun's rays streamed into her face. "I don't have any choice," she said, gritting her teeth, "I'm the only one left in my whole family!" Her voice drowned in the noise coming from the crowd of others trooping down Gurley Street. "You cannot do it?" she shot back louder, "All my family is dead and many of them are buried there and I think if there is any place that is safe, it is the cemetery."

Life in Monrovia had changed so fast, especially since the new government came to power. Grace Slonteh was just twelve when the civil war broke out, and by the time it ended, she was a fully grown woman. With three children. Before the war, she lived across the bridge on Bushrod Island in Logan Town. Her family was among those many hundreds who died when missiles intended for the rebels landed on their zinc shacks, killing men, women and children. Life had become a see-saw battle. No one could say when conditions would become less bearable. If they could not use the gravesite to ease the housing difficulties everywhere in Monrovia, then what else was there for people to do? People talked about it and agreed that the government should be able to find a way.

"I know the rent business is hard," Pauline admitted. "I think I can try and be brave like you." She was about twenty seven, and also a mother, with four children.

A tired smile flashed across Grace Slonteh's face. "Pauline you know life is still hard since the new government came," she said, as both women walked together towards the Center Street side of the graveyard. There were many people – men, women and their children, trooping pass them to secure places in the abode of the dead.

"I know because since I returned from Buchanan," Grace said, "everywhere I went to rent, the people say they want one year advance. And all the areas are packed and you know the cemetery is the only place to be right now." By now both women were walking between memorial tombs and graves, and some people were fussing over areas that could accommodate four or five people.

One woman shouted at another woman, "I came here first! You see that grave," she pointed to a grave behind two tombstones, "that's my uncle's grave, so all this area is for us!" Her right hand stretched across seven to ten graves in a circle, with the middle deliberately left opened.

"So you didn't see that boy standing in our place?" the woman asked her, "I left my son to stand right here when I went to find my other son."     

"Do we have to fight for this place?" the first woman answered back.

"All I know my son was standing here waiting for me," the other replied. "I was here yesterday and cleaned among all these graves." Her right hand swept from the right to the left to emphasize her point.

Grace Slonteh turned and gave her friend a winking look. As a child she had always been afraid of the dead but her experiences during the war had convinced her that the dead knew nothing at all. All of the people killed during the war for nothing had not come back to take vengeance on their murderers. Look at Prince Yormie Johnson, she thought, who was a master killer. He was a senator and a lawmaker for the Liberian people now. He was the one who killed President Samuel Doe, and why had Doe not come back to pay his debt on him, if in fact there was a world beyond the grave? These were her thoughts when someone touched her shoulder to bring her back to reality.   

"Hello you woman."  

Grace turned around and standing there was one of her friends. "Ey Florence, you looking for place too?"     

"Yeah ooo!"

A funny expression swept across Grace Slonteh's face.

"What about the money I hear they are giving to us," Grace's friend

Florence prodded on. "I hear they are giving everyone US 300."     

"I heard it too," Grace said, "but like anything in this country now, you can hear it but not smell it."     

"Like smell no taste?"       

"You got it."

"The government say nobody should go and stay at the grave,  but where can we go now?"

Someone shouted, "The police coming!"

Grace and her friends at the grave began to move away.    
 

The drums beat without let up in the public square, and the people danced to the rhythm of the old traditional song. The Public Square's location had a wonderful beauty about it. From the center of the village, one approached the square from the east, by-passing several Mahogany Trees, which had been there since the days of yore. On it west, directly facing the place of the dead stretched the land of the unknown, where the Firetown dead were concealed for eternity.

"The Foundation of the End", as the people called the place of the dead, reflected their admiration for the sacrifices of their ancestors. From east to west, and north to south, cotton trees stood in silent watch, their leaves flailing to and fro, serving as shields or guards for the dead, providing succor against the blazing sun during the dry season, and preventing debris from the cemetery during the wet season.

Wedged in the foothills of Margibi County, Firetown sat astride the meeting point of three highways from east to west three miles on each side, from Kakata, the county capital. With a population of nearly three hundred, depending on which of the elders was asked, the village had been a pivotal venue, where elders throughout Liberia, were invited to meet for deliberations. And whenever they came, under the leadership of Old man Fireman; they would examine issues affecting the entire land and its people, with some interesting recommendations. In this particular instance, since the story broke a week ago, invitations were extended to the elders throughout the land beyond Firetown, and they arrived promptly, to engage each other, and to also find a way to understand what seemed to be a tragic consequence of the many years of war in the land. It was little wonder that decisions affecting the people were harmonized here, creating an atmosphere of serenity throughout the village.

 

So, unlike many other days, this day was different. Though situated far away from Monrovia , news about the living cohabiting with the dead had arrived in the village, and had seemed to offend the sensitivity of the elders. Hence, a meeting had been called, and the elders in the village were set to deliberate on the hows and whys of the shocking story. And to all intents and purposes, it was an occasion worth witnessing.

Everyone in the proverbial holy village, Firetown, agreed that it was a remarkable demonstration of the people's appreciation for their dead, since violence rocked the land and the people to their foundations.

The legendary man of the people, Old Man Fireman, tall and inclined to stooping, sat at the far corner at the table. Born in the days when lizards walked in twos, his logical mind, many years before this time, endeared him to the people. Though no one would attempt to conjecture how many years he was now, his granite face and ageless ebony complexion convinced all and sundry why he was sought out as a leader of men. Now as he sat there, his lanky frame filling the chair and his long legs positioned at each side of the table, it was evident that the old man had faced many difficult days in his youth.

The old man's presence was an indication that there was trouble in the air. But, then, what about his long silence in the holy village? Had it not been many years now since he had remained aloof from the people? True, he had been silent, and it had caused the people to speculate that the old man was no more. But against popular opinion, he had shown himself alive. Now, here he was, sitting there, dangling his legs this way and that way, and with him, were several other elders of his age-group.

Bartekwa Wesseh of Sinoe County, his broad shoulders visible from where he sat, had his two hands over his head, with his traditional cap dangling, as if it was deliberately being thrown off his head.  Wesseh was a quiet man known for his sense of adventure. It was this man who challenged some members of the fighting force, the rebels, to combat, when his daughter was abducted and raped for several days. Known for fighting back, he had called on his courage, and had ventured into the domain of the fighters, taunting them to bring their leader for the final phase of the duel. “Abducting a woman and raping her is a coward's job," he had thundered across the red square in Greenville, Sinoe County, where the rebel soldiers had encamped and were terrorizing the people. Though diminutive, the man of Sinoe had pointed his palm unto his chest, and had rallied the people to a single purpose.

"Gbartioooooo gbati!" Wesseh had sung the traditional rallying call.

"Gbati!" the men, women and children had sounded in total unison. It would have been a different war, and the rebels, though armed with the best weapons that modern money could buy, had seen the danger ahead. As they watched from afar, over the hills of the tortured city, the old warrior had engaged in the traditional dance, his face painted black with coal, his mouth full of kola, and a warrior's cap, dangling on his head. His eyes were red like that of a lion. He had remembered the days of old, where life was more than just living for the day. And in the end, the rebels' commander had come down, the young woman beside him, begging for forgiveness.

"Our father," the soldier had begged him, "we surrender under your face." The story of the old warrior's exploits during the war were told and retold.

From Wesseh's left sat Nimba County's Gongawon. The Nimbaen stood at six feet three, and was said to be one of the heaviest men in Nimba. Despite the war, he still held on to his athletic body, which had caused some of the young men to feel embarrassment, comparing their bodies to him. It was even rumored that whenever he slept, one could hear his snoring several feet away. He walked with a limp to the left, and many people had suggested that he might have been hurt when he challenged six men to combat. In his day, that is to say when he was a young man, he had been a warrior. A few days earlier he was heard telling an age-mate that he needed more time to live. It was not clear what he meant, but it would not have been amiss to imagine that he was referring to the uncertainties of life as a result of the actions of many of the youths from his county of birth.   

Two tables from the Nimbaen, Old Man Zorway of Lofa's frail body slumped in his chair. Ascetic, eyes glowing with faith and anticipation, he had once feared that it was time for him to die. The years of war ravaged his body, and several months after the war he was still struggling to regain his strength. From where he sat, enveloped in his flowing gown, worn from the shoulder to below the knee, Zorway exuded little confidence, and many wondered why he was still holding on. Many people at the gathering watched with interest, this old man, as his gown tumbled around him, making him look a little fearful. To his immediate right on a carved stool, hung Old Man Momolu of Cape Mount.

The Cape Mountainean was of moderate height with flabby hands. If anything, one just had to look at him to burst into laughter. He had a small leather pouch stuffed to his waist, and a pipe, where, from time to time, he would scoop some tobacco into, and grinned with confidence as he pulled in the contents, and then released it with the agility of an expert seafarer on a raft. Along the line, there were six or eight remaining elders sitting their respective rank of seniority. It was clear that the elders had gathered to examine an issue of importance in the holy village.

Old Man Fire Man stood and began pacing in the circle left deliberately open, as the cries of insects filled the air. The scent of human presence assaulted his nostrils, but he kept his gaze direct, watching the gathering of men, women and children. Since the infamous year of 1989, violence and horror had been the lot of his people. At one time, there were dead bodies left to rot on the land's surface, and therefore the news that many of the villagers in Monrovia were moving in their numbers to cohabit with the dead may have come as a surprise to those who had not experienced the agony of his people. And so while the drums beat without ceasing, Old Man Fireman, pacing the meeting ground, tapped his right foot to the traditional song of his people.  The evening sent its glow over the land, and the old man felt the cool breeze descending over the crowd.

On the line where the rest of the elders and indichies of the land sat waiting for the proceedings to begin, the men of the people shook their heads to the drums. It reminded them of those days when they were more agile and commanded respect as young men in the land. But now things had changed. The bones that were once young had turned into the kind that refused to allow them the luxuries of youth. But as Old Man Fireman always said, "We were young once and that's the nature of things."

Now, as the old man looked around, examining the gathering and considering the reason for the meeting, one could see fire in his eyes. He was not an angry man; no, far from it. He was the very man of the people who always insisted, that "anger is the food of fools."    

Old Man Fireman's blazing eyes fixed on the people. The gathering paid undivided attention, waiting to hear the voice of the grandee of the land. The chattering cries of birds, the light of fireflies and the groaning of frogs filled the background. Nature was at its best. It had never been reported that anyone, either from the ranks of the elders or the youths, ever contradicted the sage in any of his deliberations. And what was happening here now was a continuation of his single role as the guardian of the people's oral secrets and traditions.   

Trading glances with his colleagues on the elders' table, Old Man Fireman regarded his friend, Oldman Zorway, for a full second, and as the people watched the sage, a smile swept across his face. Then in an instant, the smile of hope was gone, replaced by what appeared to be a justifiable anger.   

"It is a tradition among our people," the old man said in a voice full of vim and power, "that the place of the dead must be considered hallowed ground."

He could feel the musty sense of the place in his nostrils and gazing up into the heavens, the old man waited awhile. He deliberately held his peace, scanning the faces of men, women and children assembled at the meeting ground. "From time immemorial, those who have traveled to Monrovia, which of you does not know that that cemetery on Center Street is a dump pile and a place where others ease themselves?"    

The old man's face now exhibited the anger that he had suppressed as he continued, "So it is today that they are presenting a positive front that they respect the dead?"

It would be correct to assume that the old man was pinning his discourse on those in authority who had deliberately paid deaf ears to the conditions at the cemetery, and now that they felt the shame of the abuse, they decided to appear otherwise.    

"In the days of the war," the old man continued in a tone that was fraught with anger and frustration, "those who were cut down, were sadly allowed to rot on the surface of the ground while others, the fortunate ones, were gathered and buried behind houses, and some on beaches. But since it is the living that has desecrated the place of their ancestors," the old man suggested, "shouldn't it be the living that should go there and clean it and make it again hallowed ground?"

It was not certain if the old man was saying that those interested in residing in the cemetery should be allowed to take over the place of the dead, but it was clear that his discourse centered on the need to provide a permanent team of people to keep the cemetery clean and as a result, render it hallowed ground for the dead.    

"I urge you," Old Man Fireman said, pointing his right hand to the elders' table, "If we don't honor the place of our ancestors and our loved ones, we will stand accuse for betraying the historical grounds of our people."    

On the elders' table, the Lofan, Old Man Zorway nodded in anticipation. He was acknowledging the wisdom of his friend, a man he had known long before the senseless civil war killed thousands whose bodies were left to rot on the face of the ground. And responding to his friend's initiative, Old Man Fireman's face brightened up, and in a moment the table of elders was in agreement with the sage of the land. For they were all aware of the wanton destruction of human lives in the period that was described as, "When the War Was Fighting in Liberia," and agreed that to be able to honor and respect the dead, the respect for the individual Liberian must be paramount in the country.     

"For naked came I," Oldman Zorway spoke from the elders' table, "and naked shall I return hither." Tears stood in the Lofan's eyes. His friend observed it with a curious eye, and breathed deeply.    

"It's only when we respect the living," Oldman Fireman resumed, "can we respect the dead. Without that principle, it will be foolhardy for anyone to believe that they can honor and respect the dead." The old man said he believed the desire for some of the people to co-exist with the dead was basically to prevent those who had been using the cemetery as a dumping ground to stop their debased activity.    

"No one should forget," the old man sounded, "that that place is the end of all of us."

The gathering responded to the old man's conclusion with a thunderous clap of hands, as the men at the elders' table immediately joined him to perform the traditional dance, and at the same time, the gathering broke into twos and threes as the people went to the comfort of their respective homes, well satisfied with the insight given by Old Man Fireman, the sage of the people.