“Hot damn, Terrance, you blew through that like it was nothing,” Levin said.
Terrance grinned. “Da stop. Easy. Dash goo,” Terrance said. It was a day stop. Easy. We gave them enough money.
“Terrance, you are the man,” Carl said.
“Tanky ya. Ha ways. Too tricky way. Sa easy. Sa ha. Fear ti wha wickit boy on da ga,” Terrance said. Thanks. I know how to do this and have some pretty crafty ideas about how to deal. Some are easy. Some hard. I think there will be way tougher people in other checkpoints in front of us.
Carl and Levin don’t know anything about Liberia, Terrance thought. They are my crew now. I’m in charge.
“Now get us to Buchanan by nightfall,” Carl said.
“No problem nightfall,” Terrance said. “Problem get to Buchanan alive and nightfall what day.”
“Plenty-plenty crazy stuff ahead,” Carl said. “Small-boy units. The ATU. A couple of rebel armies, armed by the CIA. We gonna fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Get in. Get out. Get gone.”
“My boys in the bush,” Terrance said. “Crazy-crazy.”
“You help us with them, you earned your keep,” Carl said.
“I ga my boys,” Terrance said. I got my boys. “You find docta and then get home.”
“Good,” Levin said. “Terrance, you run the road. Carl, you find Julia and then get us the hell out of here. I’ll be in charge of yelling ‘duck’ when somebody shoots at us and ruining bad jokes.”
“All you gotta do is sit back there and act like the bossman,” Carl said. “But don’t let that shit go to your head. And all we gotta to do is to make a hundred miles of really bad road into a superhighway.”
“We’re probably screwed whatever we do,” Levin said. “You two are the brains. I’m the brawn. Which means we are in really deep shit.”
They turned south and east, onto Haile Selassie Avenue and into Monrovia itself, where the street was jammed with more people yet.
The houses and small apartment building were made of grey-white concrete block covered with white, green, or yellow stucco. But the stucco had fallen off or been shot away from most of the walls, and the concrete was pockmarked by bullet holes. There was black and grey mold growing on the concrete, which made the buildings look rusted and crumbling. Their rusted red metal roofs were patched with white, tan, and black metal panels and by blue tarps that flapped in the seacoast wind—a worn-out quilt with lots of holes. Many of the larger buildings were unfinished, just eight or ten stories of poured cement, surrounded by wooden scaffolding that was partially torn away; just concrete shells standing in the midmorning sun. Big tombstones. Monuments to nothing. Big ideas gone bad. Empty promises exposed for the world to see.
After four hours of inching forward in the hot sun, they found themselves in the center of government. The throng in the street disappeared for a few hundred yards. Monrovia is the capital city of the oldest republic in Africa and full of government buildings. They drove past the Capitol Building, the Supreme Court, the Old Executive Mansion, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the University of Liberia, which were all deserted. No cars out front. No people walking in and out. No lights on behind the windows. The statues and monuments in front of the buildings were all damaged, the figures missing heads or limbs, bullet marked, or covered in graffiti. People walked in the street in ones and twos, but no one walked near the buildings. Tattered flags flew from a few flagpoles. Machine gun emplacements stood at the entrances. No one going in or coming out. It was like driving among the pyramids. Stone and cement, surrounded by a desert. Only the desert in Monrovia was green, the sky was overcast, and the sea was everywhere around them.
They passed City Hall, where Haile Selassie Avenue turns into Tubman Boulevard—a district of houses and stores. People crowded the streets again, and the RAV could barely move forward. The signs on the squat grey and yellow buildings had been shot away or were hanging from one corner or by one side. The shops were empty, boarded up or deserted, their windows shattered, leaving shards of broken glass; the manikins from the displays lay on their sides. They were missing arms, legs, wigs, and clothing and were covered with dust and spider webs. There were rows of palm trees. Most of the palm trunks were broken off ten or fifteen feet above the ground, so the trees looked like broken off teeth. The moist air from the sea was hot and thick. The salty sea air mixed with the warm bitter smell of charcoal smoke and the sweet putrid smell of sewage but also of the sweet green smell of the remaining palms, so it was hard to know what to make of the air.
Then Terrance spun the wheel and hit the gas. The RAV screeched into a side street that ran to the ocean.
Terrance turned hard again and pulled the RAV between a shipping container that was parked on the street, its top half ripped off, and a small apartment block with half a wall collapsed, so you couldn’t see the RAV from the street, although the street was only half a block away.
“Sink,” Terrance said. “Sink now.” He pulled his knees to his chest and dropped low in his seat, so his head was below the level of the dash.
Carl and Levin dropped in their seats. As they did, they saw the people on the street scatter.
They heard boom and a rhythm, a rattling set of bass notes that was coming toward them: BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, loud enough to make the RAV shake and their teeth vibrate. Then they heard bursts of automatic weapon fire. They were just a block from the ocean, so the booming and the rattle of gunfire was set against the crashing of the surf, a weird, almost musical, counterpoint.
Two boy-soldiers on foot came into view. They were half-naked and wore aviator sunglasses. They carried AK-47s which they waved as they walked. They walked in time to the music. BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM. One was bare-chested, wore camouflage pants and carried a knapsack made out of a teddy bear. The other wore a woman’s yellow coat with a faux fur collar that belonged in New York in the fall over an ammunition belt and ragged blue jeans. Both boys wore flip-flops on their feet. They were small and slight, perhaps twelve or thirteen, but they walked like they were bigger than they were, strutting like they owned everything they could see.
Then two more boy-soldiers walked past, one closer and one further away as they walked the street. BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM. The boy who was closer was wearing jeans and a tee shirt and was bigger and a few years older than the first two boys. He carried a bigger machine gun in one hand without a shoulder strap, and he turned from side to side as he walked, bouncing to the rhythm, high-stepping and bebopping. He twisted his head from side to side, looking about, the way a gliding hawk tips its head as it flies, searching for prey. The boy pointed the gun where he looked, so when he saw the world he saw it from the perspective of the muzzle of the gun, looking at where the hot lead would spray the moment he pulled the trigger.
Then a beat-up red pickup came into view, and the beat got even louder, loud enough to hurt. BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM. There was one boy-soldier driving, another in the seat next to him, and one more on the standing roof of the cab. The boy on the cab was wearing short pants that came down to his knees. His feet were spread far apart. He had a purple bandanna on his head and two ammunition belts draped over his shoulders.
The bed of the truck was filled with cardboard boxes, and there was a glistening yellow tubular mass hanging from the antenna.
“Intestines,” Levin said. “Who butchered a pig?”
“Na pig,” Terrance said.
The boy on the roof of the truck took aim at a window above the street. The machine gun popped and spit, jerking in the boy’s arms. There was a crack. Glass rained into the street. The shards hissed as they showered the ground.
“Damn,” Terrance said. “Be still now. Dead still.”
Two more boy-soldiers came into view, one near and one on the other side of the str
eet, both strutting and dancing. As he passed them, the boy-soldier who was closest spun around and looked directly at the RAV, which he could suddenly see, just for a moment. He raised his gun. The windshield of the RAV caught the sunlight. It was the only unbroken glass on the street.
The boy was about fourteen. His eyes were red, and he looked tired. He was also naked from the waist up. He wore a Boston Red Sox baseball cap that was on sideways and a white and blue necktie around his bare neck.
He badass, Terrance thought. He me.
Levin and Carl sank deeper into their seats. Terrance closed his eyes and waited for the hot lead to hit.
They heard the pop and rattle of a burst.
And at the same time, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink, plink.
Bullets hitting the dumpster.
Missed the RAV. Missed it completely.
We invisible, Terrance thought. Strong power. And then he looked at Carl and at Levin to make sure they were okay.
And then the BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM CHA BOOM, BOOM faded. The pickup moved down the street.
When Carl and Levin opened their eyes again the boy soldier who had drawn a bead on them had turned and was walking down the street again in time to the beat. On his back was a small blue and red knapsack that had a picture of a Mickey Mouse on it—the kind first graders take to school on their first day.
“Damn,” Levin said. “What the hell was that?”
“SBU. A small boy unit,” Carl said. “Charles Taylor’s vision of peacekeeping. Terrance, you saved the day. They would have blasted us to kingdom come if we had been on that street.”
“And the guts hanging from the antenna?” Levin said.
“Big me e d ha a enemy. Ma m strong. Bult ca hu’r im. Le gu fa boys to ler,” Terrance said. The big men eat the hearts of their enemies. It makes them strong. Bullets can’t hurt them. They leave the guts for the boys so the boys can learn fear and courage.
Terrance started the RAV and backed it out of their hiding place.
People were coming back onto the street. The three men could still hear the booming rhythm but it was fading. The crash of the waves became fainter as the noise of the street and the engine rumbled and hummed.
There was rubble everywhere. Rubble and people. After four blocks they came on a body lying in the street—a man in fatigues with his chest and belly slit open. People stood off from the body, not looking at it, aware but not wanting or willing to approach it.
The RAV nosed through that crowd. Then the throng closed in behind them, so the three men couldn’t see the body once they had driven past.
This is my life, Terrance thought. I can move. I can operate here. I can breathe. I’m strong here. I’m free here. These are good men. Carl and Dr. Levin. We can do this thing, find this woman. The bush is a hard place, but it is a good place if you just stay close to the earth. Get beyond these people and this road. Go to the bush. Find this woman if she can be found. We can move better in the bush.
And I can live this life or have a different life. I can be here at home, find my boys, and live again, strong-strong in Liberia. Or I can choose. I can be what ma says and Levin says. Strong-strong in America. Do school and know or do the bush and live. I with Carl and Dr. Levin now. They are men like me. I can live this life or their life or go back and forth. I know both peoples. Both places. Both lives. I fly above the earth.
Terrance looked in his rearview mirror and could still see the crew vanishing down the street. “Crazy-crazy boys,” Terrance said, almost under his breath.” Crazy-crazy.”
They inched.
The sea of people became a movie or a dream state, each person coming into view for a moment, and then disappearing as they inched past, sometimes leaving a track on the dust of the window or the fender where the person touch or just rubbed against the car. One old woman banged her fist against the window. Hollow-eyed young men and impossibly thin women with close-cropped but still matted hair—all of whom looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks—just stood in the street and barely moved to make way. Clouds of doe-eyed six-year-olds. Sometimes the kids waved at them. But most of them were too weak, too timid, or too tired to wave or beg. Many people pounded on the windows. At first, the three men thought those people wanted something or were angry. But their faces were flat, so the three men accepted the banging and thought to themselves, that’s just people saying I’m here, I exist, I’ve survived. So far.
American flags. Massachusetts plates. They were ignored. They could have been driving the Batmobile. They would have been ignored in that.
Late in the afternoon the sky grew dark. Thunder shook the streets. The sky opened and rain fell in sheets. Some people took cover. Others remained in the streets, standing still in their ragged clothing, the water running through their hair and down their faces and shoulders in sheets.
Then here was a hotel sign and a compound wall on the left side of the street.
“It’s getting dark,” Carl said. “We’re for the night. Turn here.”
He mad we ain’t there yet, Terrance thought. All Carl sees is that woman.
The hotel guards saw the U.S. flags and Levin in the back. They raised the gate.
The guards didn’t matter, though. The hotel’s walls were pockmarked by bullet holes, just like every building in Monrovia. A big generator in the parking lot clattered and smoked. The parking lot was filled with UN Land Cruisers and big black cars that had been recently washed.
Carl took the one room left. He paid for it in cash, and they headed to the restaurant.
The halls were hot and dimly lit. They smelled of mold, human sweat, and sexual juices.
Terrance had never been in a place with so much light, so much talky-talky and click thump noise. The restaurant was filled with men and women dressed up for a show and UN soldiers from all over. The bar was crowded with loud-talking people in uniforms, men wearing business suits but no ties, and Liberian women in short skirts and tight tops, with straightened hair. One dark-skinned woman had dyed her hair blond. Another pink. Another sky blue. Each woman had two or three men clustered around her. Who are these people? Terrance thought. They think they are USA, that they are so strong, so invisible, so different from people in the street, who only eat and die.
“Who are all these people?” Levin said.
“What you see is what you get,” Carl said. “UN, CIA, military intelligence, and embassy guys. Ours, British, and French. China is in Liberia big time, but they don’t drink here. They have a hotel about a half mile down the road. The Chinese drink like fish. Boy are they hard on the Liberian women. Don’t ask. Israelis and South Africans here as well. Belgians and East Europeans—gunrunners and diamond traders. The gunrunners drink with the peacekeepers, military intelligence, and the state department types. Chicken at a fish place. That’s why I love this country.”
“The uniforms?” Levin said.
“Peacekeepers. So-called. The UN doesn’t have its own troops. Ghanaians, Finns, Canadians, Nepalese, Pakistanis, Cameroonians, and Nigerians. Lots of Nigerians. Nigeria is the big power in West Africa. Most of the UN troops are Nigerian. Sometimes the Nigerians keep the peace. Sometimes they run their own little war. They grab and hold territory themselves. Loot and rape. The Nigerians are even harder on the Liberian women. You ever run into Nibatt, Terrance?”
Carl and Levin are okay here, Terrance thought, so I can be okay here as well. Carl has no idea what it’s like to walk the streets or roam the bush locked and loaded. The Nigerians are pompous fools. They hide behind their guns and uniforms, but they stick out like a sore thumb and everyone laughs at them. Levin doesn’t even know he’s in Africa.
“Nibatt stay Buchanan. Le country alone. Na strong in de bush. Bi in ta. Bi, na stra,” Terrance said. Nibatt stays in Buchanan. They leave the countryside alone. They aren’t strong in the countryside. They are big as long as they are in town, but they are not strong in the bush.
�
�What does it mean to be strong in Liberia?” Levin said. “The big men who think they are strong are shooting this country up, while Liberia is on its knees, bleeding out. Is that strong?”
“Strong ma wa thru he na blink. Strong ma crew strong, wa thru bullet,” Terrance said. A strong man can walk through hell without blinking. A strong man makes his crew strong so they can walk through bullets with him.
“Juju. Nonsense,” Carl said. “Terrance, no one walks through bullets. We all die the same way.”
Carl is smart-smart, but he doesn’t know my people, Terrance thought. Levin is smart-dumb, but he doesn’t know who rules Liberia. I will teach them. They have only me now.
“Strong ma li before he dies,” Terrance said. “A we ma dies before he li. Strong cru li together foevaa.” A strong man lives before he dies. A weak man dies before he lives. A strong crew lives together forever.
“None of that crap is real, Terrance,” Carl said. “All the dressing up, the bones and the hats and the dresses—all bullshit. The big men who eat the hearts of their enemies die the same way that everyone else dies. They take a bullet and they go down. Guns don’t kill people. Bullets kill people. Your crew is out there dying like the rest.”
You don’t know what is real, Terrance thought. You haven’t lived yet.
“We crew now,” Terrance said. “We live and die together.”
“We lived through one day. That makes us strong. At least for today,” Levin said.
“Holy Moses,” Carl said.
A man and a woman in uniform who had just come in found places at the bar. They were standing just behind Terrance, waiting to order.
“Remember me?” Carl said.
The man looked at the woman. “Can’t say I do.”
Carl stood. Terrance stood as well.
“I was the guy on the Iwo Jima who bugged you about a woman doctor when you evacuated the expats from Buchanan,” Carl said.
“Oh yeah, the guy who wanted to try out the brig for the night,” the man said. “The guy with the satellite phone. What the hell are you doing here? You people all got moved stateside.”
Abundance Page 21
