‘Some animals can see better in darkness; they can’t see during daytime. They have more opportunities in the dark as their prey can’t see as much as they can.’ Oldman told in reply to my curious questions about why the leopard always attacked the goat at night.
While everyone was celebrating their happiness, it was Kumba who came to my mind. She would also go back.
For the next couple of days, not many people showed up for the services, and they were busy packing. I visited the camps several times but did not dare to see Kumba packing for return. I fought with human feelings and my divine responsibilities for several days till the Pastor Jean-Paul returned. Contrary to what I speculated, his return after a break added more work to my already tight schedule and kept me bonded to activities in the church pushing me to the routine I used to have when we first came to Guinea.
‘We need to bless those who go back to their homes,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul told one day while we were having the usual morning coffee.
‘It`s a good idea,’ I said without thinking much.
‘We will set up a small Palava hut near the border and do pre-repatriation service to refugees,’ he added enthusiastically.
But realistically, there were no many people to support us in putting up a hut as all the Christian population who were refugees from Liberia became busy with their journey back home. The division between the native population who were Islamic and the migrated Christian refugees had widened to an extent like a fault in earth crust that was more and more expanding than contracting. The villagers first started complaining the refugees of stealing their chicken and goats, then of intruding into the farms and common properties. Later on, the friction between native villagers and refugees occurred on personal issues such as men and women and grew into a violence such as rape and murder. With the time that passed behind, it developed into a relationship between the invader and the defender. Besides that, refugees’ getting an enormous quantity of international aid persuaded poor natives to loot the refugees. The jealousy that was born out of the patterns according to which the humanitarian aid was managed, insensitive to the poor indigenous population excluding them in aid programs destroyed the refugee and host community relationship; that led to many misunderstandings and conflicts such as creating a public notion that one should be a Christian to be eligible for humanitarian aid. Therefore, seeing the refugees leaving Guinean villages made native population look happy and relieved. And it was evident that with the departure of refugees, the dream of completing the church building in Yomou would just become a dream.
‘We’d better ask the villagers if they want to support us,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul said.
‘You mean the villagers?’ I could not believe what I just heard.
‘Let`s ask the boys!’ he showed some young men who had come to the camp probably to collect the things that the refugees could not carry.
‘Boys…,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul`s call was friendly. They came towards us. Probably they might have thought that we were calling them to give something.
‘Can you help me to set up a small hut near the border?’ He said smiling.
‘I may have some canned food.’ His words sounded like an offer that the boys could not deny. I was amazed by the tactfulness of the Pastor Jean-Paul. That moment I discovered the sharp and cunning man who had dressed with a welcoming smile and gentle words.
We set up a small hut just near the border gates where the refugees gathered before going back and during the following days, our life became busier than ever. Whenever the groups of people came, Christians did not forget to walk into the hut where there was a cross mounted on the roof. It served as our little church in which God was where gospels were spread, and blessings were given.
It was a gloomy Sunday morning in August 1997, we were with a large group of departing refugees, and we had received a visit from a delegation from Ghana and Nigeria. I was helping the team of pastors who had just come to see our activities at the border when I noticed a familiar silhouette fading in the river of migrants across the frontier. My breath stopped for a while. ‘Kumba!’ A sigh that was heavy enough to pull my lungs out of the ribcage could not relieve me.
‘Life is an obit where light and darkness follow each other in a mercurial cycle just like night is followed by a day and every day is followed by a night,’ the Reverend Philip was right.
20
Under the high roofs surrounded by brick walls, dozens of rainy seasons passed usurping my youth for the service of God. I spent the whole day visiting the villages in Guinea spreading gospels: the words of God, in remote districts in the country. Several times I happened to travel to Liberia across my village, but nothing familiar to me was to be seen, and I always had the company of my fellow clergymen—most often foreigners which limited my freedom to wander in the past. My sensitivity to the memories thinned with the passing time and the extent of work I had to perform at the church and the Bible community. Besides all that, I was happy with what I had been given: enough resources to live and recognition in the Bible community and beyond. I thought that it was the will of God and I had to continue.
Like the grass that disappeared under the burning sun in the dry season and resurfaced from the wet soil in the rainy season, the loved ones I lost in my life did not leave me forever. They appeared underneath my eyelids whenever I closed my eyes. They came live often when I was in deep slumber and woke me up as if they wanted to make me realise that life in dreams was happier than the life in reality. Whenever I woke up after a dream of dead parents or Kumba, I felt that I was the most miserable person on the entire earth. And the next moment I prayed for God which relieved me.
‘George, you have received a letter. You were out in the village when I received it,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul told me during dinner.
‘A letter for me?’ I was amazed that it was the first time for me to receive a document in my name.
‘Looks like from abroad,’ he added heightening my excitement and curiosity.
‘Dear George,
Hope you are keeping well with the blessings of God. I do apologise that I was unable to maintain any communication with anyone in Guinea as many things have changed here, back in the United States as well. Many things have changed in the church as well. I am in Philadelphia heading a program for Afro-American welfare. The Reverend Philip went to Nigeria and passed away while he was serving there. I think it was Lassa-fever or something similar to that. He bled to death, but the doctors were saying it was malaria that I do not believe at all. He had gone to a funeral in Cameroon and the following fortnight he had fallen sick. May his soul rest in peace! He was the core of our church in Monrovia. Unfortunately, the atrocities happened in Liberia hampered all our efforts in taking Liberians in the path of God that leads to light.
Three other reverends went to Liberia just after President Doe was executed, but it’s been almost nine years since I heard last from them. However, I heard that people were not happy about Taylor`s rule.
I am not physically fit enough to travel, especially to Africa, therefore my chances to visit you are very limited but I desire to see you and talk to you. I had the address of the main church of the Pastor Laurent in Conakry; I assumed that you should be there. That’s why I thought of writing to you seeking news from you.
I am extremely sorry in case you feel that we abandoned you in the middle of nowhere. But it was just the circumstance that led for an urgent recalling from the church in America that we could not deny since it was the will of God.
I trust that you continue with your career as a serviceman to God and May God bless you and those who surround you! Please write back to me when time permits you.
God bless you!
Reverend Maurice’
I was completely lost in the joy of receiving a letter which happened for the first time in my life. Then, I was drowned in the sorrow of having heard about the death of
the Reverend Philip.
‘Life is an obit where light and darkness follow each other in a mercurial cycle just like night is followed by a day and every day is followed by a night,’ echoed inside my mind in his very voice. I could not but cry. After I had lost my father, it was him who was able to come that close to me. I always found him between Oldman and my father. He was as wise as Oldman and fatherly how a real father should be. His words lighted my path many times.
‘May his soul rest in peace!’ I said.
And I was happy about hearing news from the Reverend Maurice who was the force behind my transformation. Unless he had taken me out of Kissi village, I would have ended in the middle of refugees or would have been among the dead. Just like the life, the letter was a blend of happiness and sorrow that took its shifts from time to time as the Reverend Philip said.
The security consciousness of the white man that Africans often perceived as hyper-vigilance was well manifested in the letter. ‘However I heard that people were not happy about Taylor`s rule,’ the Reverend Maurice was always alert to the security and safety of everyone around him. His hyper-reactiveness that was triggered after having heard about the breakout of the conflict in December 1990 came to my mind. As he mentioned, it was almost nine years ago. I could not believe that I had rung the church bell 3287 times in Guinea.
‘It should be from your old churchmen?’ The Pastor Jean-Paul asked as if he already knew.
‘Yes,’ I replied in short.
‘When I saw American stamp, I guessed it,’ he smiled as if he wanted to know what was there. In truth, I wanted to share what was in the letter too.
‘People in Liberia are not happy about Taylor,’ he has said,’ I said.
‘I was informed that the people had organised a bush army in Guinea,’ he seemed to know more about the situation.
‘The one who comes to power at gun point will leave it at gunpoint.’ He did not use many words to let me know what may happen shortly.
‘However, Guinean government seems behind the insurrection attempt,’ he said as if he was well informed by a very reliable source of information.
‘Do not talk about this with anyone,’ he warned me.
While I was living in rural Guinea, I was completely disconnected from the external world. Except for the letter from the Reverend Maurice, I had no other source of communication with the external world. Through the old books in the church library from the delegates from different parts of the world and from the pastors who worked in the church I got to know about the life beyond where I lived.
‘This time we may have a very challenging situation, as the Guinean government is supporting the uprising. We are not in a position to imagine how the people who cross the borders will be treated.’ He fell in a long pensiveness resting his pointed chin on his right palm.
‘Sierra Leone is also becoming unstable,’ he sighed.
‘What happened to the African leaders? They kill each other like lions and hyenas,’
‘They need to remain in power for the whole life,’ I added what I felt.
‘I will seek advice from our headquarters about what we can do in case the crisis penetrates into Guinea.’ The Pastor Jean-Paul rushed into the small room annexed to the main hall of the church which he used as a library.
Liberia was turning into a bloodshed again. Neighbouring Sierra-Leone was following the same trend, and the Guinean government was behind the rebels in Liberia. While the region was turning demonic, it looked like the powers of God was limited in these thick tropical forests. I felt frustrated about the fact that there was no much impact of religion on human action in these people even though they prayed to God every day, Allah or all mighty Creator in the bush. It looked like the powers of Voodoo superseded all other acquired powers making sure that their existence was just nominal in Africa.
‘Do I really follow the God of the white man?’ I could not but question myself; one part of my consciousness kept on querying whether I embraced the religion of the white man as it was the only way out for me to keep hope for my future. Muslims said that the white man spread seeds of religion to make the black man an eternal follower of him. But wasn’t that the same thing that the Arabs did with them? Be it the white man or the Arab traders, they had already disconnected us from our ancestors making us fallen on our knees in front of their God and Allah. We all had become refugees in one or the other way.
I went to the mirror where the Pastor Jean-Paul used to shave his beard and looked at my face. I looked at myself carefully; white hair had erupted through the thick bushy punk as if to say that my life had wasted in the name of God. A burning anger rose from inside my mind just like dormant fire under the ashes breaking into flames when the wind blew. I just clenched my teeth and looked at my ageing face in the mirror. Behind me was a picture of Jesus Christ hanging on the wall, and the Pastor Jean-Paul`s smiling face was seen between me and the photo of Jesus as if he heard my self-talking and thinking.
‘George,’ he called me from behind.
‘Pastor,’ my voice could not hide my guilt and fear.
‘Can you see me when you are done?’ His voice was doubtful, and his forehead was wrinkled. That combination of expression I saw when he was bemused.
‘Sure, I will come soon,’ I replied with a second thought.
I felt I was caught red handed by God. I ran to the empty church hall and fell on my knees in front of the statue of Jesus and confessed and prayed promising that I would not question God again. Then I rushed to the room of the Pastor Jean-Paul.
He was in his bed. He was in a pensive and troubled mood. He did not even notice my presence.
‘Pastor,’ I said knocking on the door.
‘We have to move to Conakry where our main church is,’ he said relieving me.
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow early morning,’
‘I will make everything ready,’ I replied.
Again a time of displacement, uncertainty and hopelessness had arrived. I packed everything needed for the trip in trunk boxes. The letter of the Reverend Maurice, I folded into four and put into an old candy box in which I kept souvenirs. Then I washed the old Peugeot 203 of the Pastor Jean-Paul and parked it in front of the front door facing the road and packed heavy boxes on the hood rack and important things in the trunk. The following morning before the Pepper bird sang, we planned to leave the church.
21
We reached Conakry late in the evening. Since the day I left Monrovia, I had not been in a city for the last decade. I was delighted to see a difference, but I did not know whether I was happy to be back in the city. Conakry was a bigger city compared to Monrovia which I left before the war. And as per what the Pastor Jean-Paul said, Monrovia had become just a mountain of debris, and the prestige that was encapsulated in the city by white palatial houses and open gardens of Congo residences had already been added to old gone history.
‘We are almost there,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul said slowing down the car near a high white wall. As if the gates felt the presence of God, the black metal gates opened allowing our car to pass through the high gate posts that stood like two white-clad soldiers. Before my eyes, through the windscreen, a majestic white high building appeared in the bluegrass plain. It looked like rather a house of an emperor than of the envoys of God who were the servants of the followers. Nonetheless, I was marvelled by the prestige of the building and felt proud of being a part of the church.
Even before we stopped the car, two boys were waiting to assist us in taking the things inside.
‘Bonsoir!’ A middle-aged clergyman greeted us. Then he introduced himself as the Pastor Emanuel. He was from Côte d’Ivoire which was known as Ivory Coast among the anglophone countries.
‘I am George, from Liberia,’ I introduced myself before the Pastor Jean-Paul.
‘Oh. Extremely pathetic the situation down there,�
� the Pastor Emanuel said releasing a long sigh.
‘Before all, you can have a wash and then have something for dinner.’ The suggestion of The Pastor Emanuel pleased me.
‘Let me take you to your rooms,’ he led the Pastor Jean-Paul to his room and then took me to the room reserved for me.
‘Here it is. Feel free!’ He showed an open door leading to a room which I had not even dared to dream of. There was a huge bed in the centre of the room covered with clean white linen and several pure white pillows—not less than ten were kept leaning against the decorated bed-head. In the corner of the room was the dressing table with a round glass. On the glossy wooden floor was a virgin white carpet laying. And for the first time in my life, I saw something called ‘Salle de bains’ which was the bathroom. The tank like white basin that the Pastor Emanuel called ‘Baignoire’ of which I later discovered the English name ‘Tub’ and many other things he explained.
‘This is commode,’ he said showing me a chair-like thing with a hole.
‘You poo here,’ he told me. The most advanced toilet I had ever been so far was the squatting toilet with a pit straight into the ground in Monrovia. That was a luxury for me who used to go to the bush whenever the call of nature was to be answered. After leaving Monrovia I got used to the bush again, and I found it quite free and homely.
‘You sit like this and poo!’ I guessed the Pastor Emanuel, being an Ivorian, read my mind.
‘This is the faucet. You can open like this,’ he turned the shiny metal part on the top of the white colour basin. To my surprise, water started pouring into the basin.
‘You open it when you want to take water, then close it well,’ he said.
‘Here are your towels,’ he showed me two towels hanging on a rack.
‘Enjoy the shower!’ He turned back.
‘I will be waiting at the dinner table,’ he said leaving the room.
I went to the bathroom and opened the faucet of the basin. Then I took water into a small cup that was near the commode and poured on my head as much as I wanted. I enjoyed the shower. My first shower in a bathroom was just like a day in the heaven. On the other day, the servant boy approached and told me that I had used the washing sink to have a bath instead of the bathtub. That incident was unforgettable.
Behind the Eclipse Page 15
