The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  Someone had given me a hardback copy of a Graham Greene novel that I was not able to finish. It seemed appropriate to put it to better use.

  I followed the major out to the beach.

  “Put it over there,” he said, pointing to a small mound of sand. I slowly did as he said. I had the feeling that at any moment he was going to start firing. I forced myself to walk back to where he was standing, holding the Uzi down by his right side. I thought I detected a half smile, as though he might be thinking that this would be a good opportunity to even the score. Every fiber of my being yelled for me to run, but I didn’t.

  He held the Uzi out so that I could see it. It was a knobby, angular, ugly looking thing that seemed to be more the result of a nightmare than of rational design.

  “It was designed by Major Uziel Gal about the same time as the Kalashnikov. Like the Kalashnikov, it was supposed to be durable, capable of rough handling and dirt. To fire it you snap the magazine in place, then make sure the safety lever is pushed to automatic, like this.”

  He moved the small lever from its position on “S” past the middle click to the “A” position, slid the bolt back to the stop, and then let it go.

  “It feeds one in the chamber and is ready to fire. Have you ever fired an automatic weapon before?” the major asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well,” he continued, “you can pull the stock out or use it as a pistol grip. I think it would be better if you put the stock against your shoulder. Here, let me show you.”

  He pulled out the metal stock with a snap and I heard it lock into place. Then he held the butt of the stock against his shoulder and fired. Mr. Greene’s book disappeared in an eruption of sand and bits of flying paper. The noise deafened me for a moment and caused a ringing in my ears.

  “Here, you try it. See how you like it,” he said, handing the gun to me.

  I put the butt snugly against my shoulder the way I had seen them do it in the movies and touched the trigger. There was a rattle of explosions and the butt hammered rapidly against my shoulder. I didn’t hit Mr. Greene’s book or what was left of it. I handed the gun back to the major. He very quickly switched the selector lever back to the safe position. Then we walked over to our target.

  The book looked like it had been torn apart by a pack of angry dogs.

  “This,” the major said, holding the gun out to me, “could really ruin someone’s day. It’s yours. Go on, take it.”

  The major noticed my hesitation.

  “What do you want for it?” I asked.

  “Nothing really, but I hear that you’re working for Beizell. He is of some interest to us.” The major looked directly at me—the look of a predator before it strikes.

  “I’m only working for Stumpy, I mean Beizell, part time,” I said. “I’m also working for Monrovia Airlines.”

  “We know that too, but it’s Beizell we’re interested in.”

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “We want to know who he talks to, who he meets with, and where he goes. We think he’s helping get German war criminals out of Liberia and into Brazil.”

  “If he is, he isn’t doing it for love of the fatherland,” I said. “I’ve learned enough about Beizell to know that he doesn’t do anything unless he gets paid.”

  “If he is getting paid, we would like to know that too, and who is paying him.”

  “Let me see the gun again,” I said.

  The major handed it to me.

  “Sorry, Major. I won’t spy for you, not even on Beizell. But you will know if he’s doing something illegal.”

  “How is that?”

  “I’ll quit. I don’t spy and I don’t work for crooks—at least crooks that I know about.”

  “Suppose I said we could make it worth your while.”

  “Money?” I asked.

  “Possibly.”

  I slid the firing selector from safety to automatic. “Are we talking about your wife?”

  His lips tightened then he smiled. “Nouga is not part of this. We have an understanding. She is free to pursue her interests just as I am mine, but in the end we are partners. We are a team.”

  “Major, I don’t need a weapon like this. I’m not expecting to be attacked by an army. I have no place to keep it. And I’ll bet that the moment word’s out that I have something like this, it’ll be stolen within twenty-four hours.”

  I knew that the Germans in Liberia tended to support one another, and I had heard that informers were dealt with in traditional ways. However, I suspected that the major had other ways of finding out what he wanted to know.

  I pressed the magazine release and removed the half empty clip. Then, after I fired the chambered bullet at the remaining portion of Mr. Green’s book, I handed the gun back to him. The major’s face looked as hard and as angular as a cut diamond. He wasn’t the kind of man who accepted failure gracefully. Though he refrained from threatening me, I had the feeling that he hadn’t given up. He took the gun, looked at it, and started to speak, but hesitated. He handed it back to me.

  “Take it. No strings attached. Think of it as a gift from Israel to all of those who love freedom. And then too, you may have to fight off an army one day.”

  He waved his hand in more of a military salute than a friendly African gesture. Then he turned and walked away.

  I watched him walk up the beach, toward the house where his car was parked and for just a moment felt a sting of pity for him and for all of those caught up in the cesspool of history—wanting more but unable to free themselves completely.

  The major’s surprise visit had left me a little shaken, and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t get over the feeling that maybe he was right. Maybe I did have a moral responsibility, however small, to help punish war criminals. I looked at the Uzi and felt for a moment that I was holding a deadly snake. I looked around to see if anyone was watching but I could see no one. I folded the stock back into the gun and decided to hide it where my free-wheeling friends might not find it.

  I put it in my duffle bag along with wads of newspaper to disguise its bulk. Deet and Tony knew that I sometimes kept dirty clothes in the duffle bag, so I knew that no matter how curious they became, they would not look in there.

  Unlike most literature, which thrives on conflict, sketching and painting can and often does portray happy, tranquil occasions. Many of the master works of John Constable, Pierre-August Renoir, Mary Cassatt, and Édouarde Manet capture scenes of pure serenity and pleasure, free of conflict.

  I took my sketch pad out onto the porch and started sketching the view of the beach with surf. There were several people walking along the beach and I included them. It reminded me of the day we put Arthur’s ashes in the Atlantic Ocean just off the beach at Ocracoke Island on the coast of North Carolina.

  Every August since I was a child, we rented a cottage there on the beach for a couple of weeks. Arthur liked to swim late in the afternoon when the quality of light turned the surf into a soft, warm, golden color. After swimming he would often sit on the sand, arms folded over his knees, and look out over the ocean until almost dark. It was a day like that, late in the afternoon in August, that we put his cremated remains in the ocean. My mother stood in the water amid the swirl of his ashes. It was her last embrace of him.

  There was no religious ceremony. It was strictly a family affair except that Jenny was there. Everyone said something describing how they felt about Arthur except my mother. She could not speak, and did not speak about it for several months after. When she did finally speak, she would not look at me. Summers after that she would often wade barefooted in the surf late in the afternoon. I suppose she was hoping that perhaps an atom or molecule that had been part of Arthur would brush against her feet.

  I began to wonder whether something of Arthur might have traveled to this remote beach in Liberia. It was an absurd idea, and I pushed it out of my mind. Instead, I thought of a scene I wanted to paint—an elderly man and woman that I
had seen, only for a moment, while I was returning from work, sitting together outside their ramshackle, one-room house. They were smiling broadly, even laughing together, while they held each other’s hand. Maybe they were remembering some long ago happy event or the pleasure of having a successful child. Whatever the reason, remembering it was for them deep, pure, undiluted joy.

  CHAPTER 20

  CRAZY MAN IN THE BIG BELLY

  Word got out that Deet, Tony, and I were looking for a good houseboy. Generally, this was done through references, so we were asking friends’ houseboys for brothers or friends who wanted to work. One day a local boy showed up at the door with a letter of reference and asked for a job. I did not invite him in but looked at him and said, “What does this letter say? Does it say you are a good worker?”

  “Ya, boss! Ah a vey goo worker, oh! But ah na know wad a letta say. Ah na know how ta ree.”

  “Give me the letter and I’ll read it,” I said.

  The letter read:

  This is to introduce Moses Kweat. Do not hire him under any circumstances! He’s a shit and he stole from me!

  Signed Gunter Schmidt

  “You Moses Kweat?”

  “Oh, ya suh, boss.”

  “Well, Moses,” I said, “thank you for coming by, but we don’t need a houseboy anymore.”

  Shortly after that, we hired Kumasi, who also served as cook. With his consent, we shortened his name to Ku. He seemed very good, but when he wasn’t busy with his household duties, he would sit on a wooden stool in the kitchen and wait for instructions.

  A short time after hiring Ku, I went into the kitchen. He was at his waiting station looking at me. I opened the door to our ancient kerosene-fired refrigerator.

  “Wha you wan, boss? Ku get it fo you,” he said, slipping from the stool and putting himself between me and the contents of the refrigerator.

  “Something to eat, Ku.”

  “No worry, boss.” Ku said, “We ha good stew, good meat—no bush meat—and French baguettes, fresh may t’day, from da new market. Vey goo.”

  “Great, Ku. If you would prepare it, I’ll have it out on the porch. That’s where I’ll be.” I retrieved a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, popped it open, and left to find a chair on the porch. Thirty minutes later Ku brought the stew and several slices from the baguette. I had been in Africa long enough to have learned that if something tastes good, don’t ask what it is. However, this time I thought I’d try:

  “This is great, Ku. A little different, but delicious. What is it?”

  Ku grinned. “Oh, boss, don’t worry. It white man food. I kno why you askin. It no bugabug. It not time for bugabug.”

  “Bugabug? What’s bugabug?” I asked.

  “Bugabug is wha ya call termites.”

  “Termites? You eat termites?”

  “Oh, yeah, boss. Dey good. But dey only come out two time a year.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you know they live in de big big mounds. Mounds bigga n me. An every now and den, de queen, she decides to move. So dey all move. Swarms and swarms and billions and billions all leave at the same time to find a new home. An das when evybody go get ’em, cook ’em, and eat ’em. Dey real good, boss. Kinda tase lie crunchy chickin.”

  “Nice to know, Ku, but when bugabug season comes, I’ll pass.”

  Ku came back out to the porch and after clearing away the dishes and handed me a letter that had arrived yesterday. It was from Jenny. We, or I should say Jenny, had managed to keep up a stream of correspondence over the years, and I enjoyed hearing what was happening back home. Lately, it seemed she was asking more and more for me to make some decisions about my (and possibly our) future. I suppose my indecision in that area led to my neglect in keeping up my end of the correspondence.

  Honestly, Kenneth, since you haven’t written in so long I must assume that you are very sick or dead or, most likely, you have found someone else. That is the probable answer. Your parents don’t tell me anything. They say they haven’t heard from you either. I want to know how you are and what’s going on, so I would like to come to Monrovia. I almost have enough money saved up. As soon as I do, I’ll let you know. It’ll be great seeing you again.

  Love, Jenny

  I wrote a quick letter, more like a note, telling her that I was well but extremely busy and that Monrovia was not safe. I gave her a few exaggerated examples and, hoping it would dissuade her, sealed the note in an envelope.

  I drove Junebug to the post office and dropped off the letter. I estimated that it would take at least two weeks or more to get there. The last thing I needed now was a visit from Jenny. I simply couldn’t deal with what she might expect. I left the US partly to get away from expectations, and I wasn’t ready to go back yet.

  After mailing the note, I drove over to the Gurley Street Bar. Colin and his merry-makers were there. He waved me over to his table.

  “Pull up a chair, ol’ boy! Bring this man a cold beer,” he yelled to the waiter. Then to me, “Have you heard the latest about good old President Tubman?”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “He decided that his current residence in Monrovia isn’t grand enough. He wants a White House—only twice as big as the one in Washington. I suppose it’s a gift from the international companies he has let in here.”

  “I heard something about it, but not much. Why is he doing it?”

  “Hell, all the other despots in Africa are building huge mansions, so why shouldn’t he? If you’re gonna build the greatest country in Africa, you need the biggest executive mansion, don’t you? It just wouldn’t do to house the government in wattle huts and have diplomats sit on a dirt floor. He chose a big hill in the city where there were a lot of mud huts and stuff. The construction crews went in with bulldozers one morning and just shoved everybody and their mud huts off the hill. With bulldozers! Hundreds and hundreds of people displaced. And then Tubman built his Executive Mansion. It’s being built by LAMCO International, the Swedish-American company. We call it a twenty-dollar saddle on a five-dollar horse.

  “And there it is up there, with the big porticos, the long driveway. They are building it really fast. It’s almost done already. They flew in everything. I mean everything! If they needed plants from Europe, they flew them in. They even flew in the sod! There were cargo airplanes that did nothing for months but fly in stuff so they could get it all together and assemble this huge building. He wanted it done in time for his twentieth anniversary as president. He is reelected, you know of course, all the time. So they’re building this mansion, and I gotta tell you, it is something—floodlights at night and music. It’s all concrete—bullet proof and it will probably withstand a direct hit from a Katusha rocket. He had chandeliers flown in from Europe. Can you imagine that? He’s spending millions on this place while most of the people here haven’t got a pot to piss in.” He sighed. “That’s just the way it is.”

  “Well, he knows he’s going to get reelected,” someone at the table said.

  “What’s he going to do for security—the army?” I asked.

  “The army!” Colin shouted. “That sly old bugger doesn’t trust the army, especially after the attempted assignation back in ’55. Do you know what the cagey old fucker did?” Colin leaned closer to me. I looked at him expectantly. “He replaced all of their live ammunition with blanks. He now has an army supplied with surplus guns left over from the war, and no real ammo. No coup d’état here!”

  “But he does have a secret police,” someone else at the table said. “You don’t ever see them, you don’t know who they are, but they are everywhere. That’s his security, mate.”

  “I’ve heard that he’s putting gun emplacements at strategic locations on the roof. Every approach will be covered,” another said.

  “Will he load them with real bullets?” I asked, thinking it would be taken humorously. Colin didn’t laugh.

  “They will be real, all right, and his personal security guard will man the
guns.”

  Everyone at the table nodded and mumbled in agreement.

  “Tubman can’t live forever. What do you think will happen after he’s gone?” I asked.

  “Oh, he’s already picked a successor. It’s the vice president, and when his term runs out there’ll be a phony election and some phony opposition, but Tolbert will appear to win. They are all bosom buddies. Truth is, nobody will give a shit as long as the price of rice remains low and a little gelt keeps trickling down from the international sugar daddies.”

  The waiter came with my beer. I thanked him and asked if he would bring me a bowl of Jollof rice. He smiled and nodded.

  “Colin,” I said, hoping to change the subject, “what have you been up to lately?”

  “I can tell you this, matey. Never carry a crazy man in your aircraft. You know, when you fly down the coast, it is always something different. So I saw the white flag and, yes, I dragged the field to see if they’d cleared the cows off, and to my surprise, they had. So I go in and land. It was a pretty short airstrip.

  “The Head Man came out and said that they had this crazy man who, the Head Man said, was a danger to everybody and would I fly him to Monrovia. I had done this sort of thing before, and it is always an unpleasant experience. So, I said that I would do it, but the man would have to be restrained.

  “The crazy guy was an average size male in his twenties. He was foaming at the mouth and doing these weird, crazy things, like shaking his head and rolling his eyes. So I told the Head Man, ‘You have to tie him up real good!’ So they had these big, heavy vines, and they wrapped him up in them. We got him in the back seat, and I’m thinking, I’ve got my Webley 38. If I have to shoot him, I’ll shoot him.

  “I was in the 185, and they put him in back and had gotten more vines around him. Then, I took off, and the second I started the takeoff run, he went berserk. His elbow broke the back window and knocked out a chunk of it. So now I had a problem. Was it worth it, I asked myself? Nah, it’s not worth it. So I immediately landed.

  “They implored me, they begged and pleaded—‘I hold your foot’ and all that shit. Finally, they came up with some more money. They brought just about every dollar the village had to get him out. So I said I would. ‘But,’ I said, ‘you have to put him in the cargo belly pack, underneath the cabin.’ The belly pack has a side door. It opens up where you put the luggage in. It also has a back door to put long things in. The back door is hinged loaded. Have you ever seen one?”