True story,
It was late December or early January 1990, in Monrovia, Liberia. It was a beautiful day; the weather was under God’s control that very day. Liberia, the country they used to call “Little America,” was on the brink of collapse. The city has stopped; the city was so quiet that you could hear the breeze off the Atlantic Ocean for miles. We were in a multi-story white building. This was a safe haven for many Liberians. The house was filled to every square inch with people from all over Liberia. My mother and I were in separate rooms; this was common practice as all occupants of a room would be wiped out when discovered.
I don’t remember what time it was, but it was morning and we were woken up by AK47. AK47 became a household name and card games were created after the gun. Men in uniform ordered us out and lined up outside the building. Women and children were pushed and kicked into straight lines. If anyone broke the line or tried to run away, he was silenced with a single bullet to the head. I don’t know what hell is like, but this was hell on earth.
When the ranks formed, the soldiers went from row to row asking questions in their native language. If he couldn’t respond in his native language, they put him in the line of fire. I was 6 years old, I couldn’t speak the language and neither could my mother. What happened next changed my life!!!
Everything in this narrative is real to the best of my knowledge.
Liberia developed such a cruel tactic to massacre its compatriots without remorse in a short period of time. This method of distinction was eminent in most of Liberia that saw the war. I don’t remember my mother standing next to me in line; I also don’t remember her in any of the lines at all. I felt like I was dreaming this day, soldiers going from person to person asking particular questions that you would know if you were from their tribe. As we stood motionless in the lines, people were pushed aside one at a time crying and asking for help. There was nothing you could do right now.
When the lines were cleared of “enemies”, we were able to leave. Like a school of fish, I followed the mass without knowing where my mother was. We walk in the blazing sun down the paved road to an intersection. When we got to the “Y” intersection, there was one road leading to the right and one road leading to the left. As we were about to turn left, we saw a man running in that direction with his right arm amputated. His arm was amputated from the shoulder, he was bleeding profusely, the sign cleared that we had to go right and we did. The path took us through bushes and we finally reached our campsite for the night.
We literally slept on land until the next morning. Our camp for the night was a large beach that had beautiful white buildings with palm trees on the edges of the beach. The beach was calm, relatively undisturbed by any intruders. It was a paradise for a day, for thousands of people seeking refuge. I met my mother on this beach and our journey from Monrovia to Nimba county started here.