by Vamba Sherif
I thought of America with a heavy heart.
We took another path. A profound and almost palpable peace reigned over that place. The path led to a wooden house, unlike the houses in the centre of Monrovia, but equally elegant.
The old man pointed at the house. I thanked him and tried to hand him a coin, but he sucked his teeth as if I had insulted him by offering the coin. Then he turned to head back to Monrovia.
I took a step towards the house, towards Charlotte.
4
It was as if my heart was about to wrench itself from my body. With every step I tried to persuade myself that I was exaggerating the importance of the moment and that I should move in steps befitting a man of my age and experience. But my heart reproached me. It brought to bear my nights of solitude and the years of tilling arid soil and picking cotton, and of seeing Charlotte’s face in my mind’s eye, taunting me about my failure to remember her features, the shape of her nose and lips, her eyes, her touch, and her arms. And of how that first time at the sanctuary had felt as I held her in my arms and guided her to the sandy ground.
On approaching the house, I encountered nothing but silence. The aroma of delicious cooking wafted about. The house was a one-storey building with a verandah whose pillars were decorated with vases of plants and flowers. A simply carved wooden crucifix with the agonised face of the Lord guarded the door. Chairs made of reeds, probably the work of the locals, stood here and there on the verandah. Hanging between two trees in front of the house was a hammock. Somewhere around the house, perhaps at the back, a faint, almost ethereal voice rose with a song.
I went up the front steps and paused before the door and called out, but received no answer. I gazed into the face of the Lord as if to ask permission. Pushing the door open, I went the length of the passage and stopped at the opened back door to listen for a presence in the house. Except for the sound of the song somewhere, it was silent.
After going down some steps, I looked around but saw no one except a garden of eggplants and collard greens on one side of the house, and a coop with a hen and its chicks. I walked on until I encountered the form of a woman bowed over a scrubbing-board, washing clothes in a bucket of water. She was humming and singing a song softly.
I paused to drink in the whole sight: the ochre earth which she stood on, bearing secrets that were thousands of years old; her hands wringing out the clothes with great deftness, and her song that was once composed in a different tongue in the heart of this continent and then borne by strong and careful people across the Atlantic and brought back centuries later to its root, unchanged, undistorted by time.
The wind sighed through the trees, wafting the pleasant smell of the cooking to me. Somewhere, a bird chirped a single note.
I drew myself up to my fullest height.
‘Charlotte,’ I called.
She went on washing and singing. She had not heard me.
‘Charlotte,’ I called again.
It was as if the world had ceased to move. Charlotte stopped, bowed, fixed in her posture, but her hands were trembling.
‘Edward!’ she said without turning to me.
It was a call tinged with sorrow and surprise, relief and hope.
Slowly, she straightened herself up.
‘Edward!’
She called me now in the tone of one who had expected this moment all along but was now not sure it was happening.
‘Edward Richards!’
She turned to me, her hands wet with soapsuds, her mouth agape in surprise and wonder. A long silence ensued as we faced each other. Her once frail, slender body was now plump and shrouded in a simple blouse, her face beaten, her breasts sagged. There was a faint presence of grey in her hair. From the way her feet stood firmly on the ground, they had become much stronger now, the delicacy gone. She was shrouded in the mysteries of this land, in the grip of its terrifying beauty and she seemed edgy and on her guard.
But she remained the same Charlotte. Her eyes had not changed. They were accusing in their steadiness, yet forgiving, berating yet soothing, telling me of the longing that had pinched her face, and that had sucked every warmth and joy out of it and had hardened it to deal with the harshness of living in a place filled with mysteries, questions and riddles.
I moved towards her and flung my arms clumsily about her, sniffing the warmth of her body and relishing the kisses with which she covered me. We stood entangled in each other without words, each understanding what the other had gone through, and why I had to forgive her for the silence, and she me for times endured without me.
We could have remained like that, perhaps forever, were it not for a voice, terrible in tone, which called out her name.
‘Charlotte, what is this?’
It was a man’s voice. We disengaged with some difficulty.
A man wearing a permanent frown on his face and dressed in working clothes emerged from the house; he came down the steps with his eyes looking me over as though sizing me up.
The hen had left its coop, followed by its fluttering chicks as they pecked the ground for crumbs. The leaves rustled to the rise of the wind. The sun blazed as after a brief rainfall.
‘I told you about Edward many years ago,’ Charlotte said.
Her voice sounded strangely calm.
The man sucked his teeth, his gaze fixed on me.
‘What is he doing here?’ he asked.
I wanted to speak, but Charlotte said: ‘He left America to come to me.’
‘He should not be here.’
I stood there aware of the power of time to crumble and build, to bring together and divide. Charlotte moved towards me, but stopped short of touching me. Her eyes wet with tears, she pleaded to me to understand.
But how could I understand this life?
It was with a sense of dismay that I left the house with Charlotte calling after me. My heart raced with thoughts, but it pained me to think. I thought of returning to face Charlotte and hear, in her own words, what she felt about me, but brushed it off. It was obvious that she had shunned me with her accusing eyes, sent me off with her silence.
Now I began to doubt the eternity of love, and of its power to survive all odds. Yet, there was that suffering face of the Lord on the cross along the road, staring intently at me. How could love not be eternal? How could it not survive time that was merely the dawning of days and the fall of nights?
5
A miasma of foul air lingered over Monrovia. It was humid and the pricking sweat stung my eyes. Smoke rose from homes, and the wind bore the smell of the sea and the marshlands. With its sparse population, its provincial air, the city seemed like an abandoned settlement, a sluggish and isolated plantation which, after years of boisterous activity, was now left to the mercy of insects. Needing solace and some form of consolation, I sought refuge at Reverend Robert Barclay’s home. My church in America had given me an address here in Monrovia, but with the sudden turn in events, I did not want to be confronted with the tiresome ceremonies that went with meeting new people.
The reverend’s home was not hard to locate. It was situated in the town centre, a two-storey house with all the grandeur of a successful trader that his brother had become. On seeing me soaked in sweat, troubled, Reverend Barclay chose not to question me and immediately showed me to the guest room upstairs. His brother, John, the owner of the house, was at his store negotiating the sale of leather and palm oil to Europeans, and his brother’s wife was visiting a relative at one of the settlements.
I slumped in the bed. Even though the window was ajar and I had got out of my shirt and shoes, I still sweated. An army of mosquitoes disturbed me. I was thirsty but had no desire to call for water or for anything else. I wanted rest. There was a leather-bound Bible lying on the table by me. A map on the wall indicated various settlements that constituted Liberia. The king-size bed had not been used for a while, I thought. But I did not mind.
Later, a young woman with tribal lines etched on both cheeks knocked at my do
or and informed me that my bath was ready. I queried her about the marks on her cheeks and she informed me, in simple language, that they were sacrificial marks and were etched on faces at birth or during special ceremonies to celebrate adulthood.
The young woman belonged to the Vai people, whose language my stepfather had once taught me. Her mother was of the Gbandis and hailed from the north, and her father, born in Bopolu whose king Sao Boso Kamara had played a major role in the founding of Liberia, had brought her to Monrovia to be an apprentice to the Barclays. This was a common practice during those days. In exchange for her services as a housemaid, the Barclays helped with her education. Her name was Tenneh.
I spoke a few words of Vai, which had suddenly come to me, and Tenneh’s eyes lit up. She could not believe I had arrived that day and could already speak her language. I told her my story, and she nodded. She spoke to me in her language, but I could not follow her.
‘You will learn,’ she said and left.
I headed for the bathroom, a small four-walled mud cubicle erected outside the house. The bath was refreshing. I relished the cold trickle of water on my back and the slight rise of the wind.
By the time I had finished, dinner was served. Robert and his brother John were already at the table. Robust-looking, with amusing eyes, John, who smacked his lips when he talked, was a jovial type and wasted no time in proving it. On seeing me, he began to poke fun about life on the plantation, about the hard work, the overseers, the treacherous means employed by fieldworkers, drivers and servants alike to gain favours, and about the betrayals and hopes.
‘Tell me, Reverend Richards, how did you survive it all to become what you are today, a preacher like my brother?’ he asked.
I tried to laugh off his question, for my stomach growled with hunger. The table was decked out with a panoply of foods, some of which were new to me. Different dishes like collard greens and gravy, spicy, native beans cooked with palm oil and meat, and bowls of rice. There were fruits like pawpaw, avocado, bananas and slices of pineapple and oranges, evidence of the sumptuous lifestyle of the prosperous of Monrovia.
In a far corner of the room, a large and well-made cupboard stood. Next to a cross on the wall was a framed seal of Liberia with the barrow, the shovel, the shore, the ship, the palm tree, the dove and with the legend The Love of Liberty Brought Us Here inscribed upon it.
As guest I was asked to bless the food. We dined first on deer meat which, according to Robert, was caught by the natives who were great hunters. The sauce was palm butter. We discussed the passage and the difficulties we had encountered. John asked all the questions, his voice crashing like waves across the silence in the house, laughing at matters that Robert and I thought were serious.
At length, the subject of the natives came up.
‘The militia is going to launch a punitive campaign against a village in reprisal for killing two Liberian traders.’
‘The militia?’ I asked.
‘The militia protects the security of the country by arresting those hostile to it. And there are many who are hostile to us here.’
‘Are the natives hostile to the settlements?’ I asked.
‘Not all of them,’ Robert said.
‘But we are the same people,’ I said. ‘We are here to bring them new ideas. We owe them the sharing of our knowledge.’
Silence descended on the table, the cause of which I could not fathom. Had I made a wrong remark? Tenneh entered with a bowl of cassava, which went so well with the pepper sauce that all I could do was nod my appreciation to her. Tenneh spoke her language to me, and I attempted to answer her, which further deepened the silence.
To change the subject, I said, ‘Today, I heard a man speak with an accent that sounded like ours, but not quite.’
‘He’s one of the Congos,’ John said.
I threw him a questioning look.
Robert said, ‘They are Africans who, after the abolition of slavery, were recaptured from the ships of obstinate slavers. Because they didn’t know their origin in Africa, they were brought to Liberia in their hundreds. They want very much to be like us.’
‘How is that?’ I asked.
‘They go to church like we do and pride themselves on being Liberians,’ the reverend said, scooping a spoonful of rice. Then he added, ‘In that respect, the Congos are unlike the natives.’
This was followed by a long silence.
‘What’s your mission here, Reverend Richards?’ John asked.
‘I am here to convert the natives to the Lord.’
John let out a peal of laughter that rocked his body and the table, almost tipping over the bowls and plates. Tears dripped down from his eyes. Robert stared at his brother, annoyed. John wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and said: ‘I told my brother this before and will tell you now, Reverend Richards, you are in for a difficult mission.’
He expected an objection on my part, but I remained silent.
‘Since the founding of Liberia, we’ve had but a handful of converts,’ he said. ‘The people are very stubborn.’
This surely can’t be true, I thought to myself.
As though he was trying to refute his brother’s claims, Robert said, ‘Some of the natives like the Vais and the Mandingos are Muslims, and I think we could be partners in building Liberia because, unlike other tribes, they read and write and know Jesus.’
‘They know Jesus?’ I asked.
‘He’s one of their revered prophets,’ Robert said.
‘Why don’t we start with them then?’
The table was silent again. I began to worry that my remarks ended up hitting the wrong nerve every time. I had to be careful.
We heard a woman calling Tenneh, announcing her presence. John’s wife had returned. She came into the dining room, and Robert hastened to introduce us. She was a woman with intelligent eyes and a calm disposition. It was obvious that she had great influence over her husband, for his jovial mood changed the moment he saw her.
When the wife retired to her room, we went out and sat in front of the house, below the verandah, relishing the setting sun and fighting the mosquitoes. The two brothers sparked up a conversation on politics.
John dreamed of becoming a senator. ‘To be a senator in this country, you must belong to the elites,’ he said.
‘Who are the elites?’ I asked.
‘Traders like me, preachers like my brother and politicians like our president. Liberia was built on the muscles, sweat, and intellect of those men and women. That’s why we survived when the whole world thought we would fail,’ he said.
Tired and dazed by the stinging heat, I kept largely out of the conversation and soon found myself nodding off to sleep. I excused myself and retired to bed. Despite the worries of the heart, the unbearable heat and the whining mosquitoes, I slept soundly that night.
6
Reverend Barclay and his brother were not in the house when I woke up the next morning. The reverend had gone to church and John to see the militia off into the interior. Mrs Barclay and I had breakfast together. We sat on the verandah, sipping tea and enjoying the sunrise over Monrovia. Tenneh served us cornbread with butter, and thereafter she took a seat in a corner, participating in our conversation with nods and smiles.
Mrs Barclay queried me about my mission to Liberia, which I expounded on in great detail, expressing my wish to see the natives as soon as possible. Later she went on to tell me her life story and that of her husband. She was a freewoman of colour. Her father, who was white, had loved her mother and bragged about his English ancestor who he claimed was of noble descent. He had died leaving one third of his inheritance, a considerable sum of money, to her. She was not old enough to inherit it and her mother was not comfortable with material things.
She had met John, a freeman with a rudimentary grasp of reading and writing, but with a dream of becoming one of the wealthiest black men in America. Mrs Barclay was taken by the fire in John’s eyes whenever he talked about his dreams.
She had educated him, and he in turn had taught her to confront her fear of the world. To every problem it seemed John had an appropriate solution. When she told him about the inheritance, he thought about it for days, including the possibility of opening up a huge store in America, but he realized he needed double that amount to be able to pull off such an enterprise.
The idea of migrating to Liberia came to him when her mother refused to consent to their marriage. The couple arrived in Liberia only to discover that after the expense of building a home they were left with little or nothing. John joined the militia and quickly rose in its ranks. He was admired and adored by his mates, so much so that the president of Liberia, who had followed his heroic deeds, brought him into his circle of friends. John was now ready to realize what he had wanted all along, a business of his own. And it had thrived. In the span of a few years, he succeeded in building a reputation as a man with the ability to introduce scarce goods to the country. His store was one of the biggest in all the settlements. The European traders found it profitable to trade with him. At one time, the president suggested that John become an ambassador to a European country, but he declined, claiming that his country needed him on the ground. The truth was he did not want to abandon his business, which was not only lucrative but also the greatest source of satisfaction for him.
He had a command of many native languages, but was at odds with their ways. He was not without his own reasons. According to him, the natives had failed to appreciate the goods the settlers had brought to them: Christianity, civilization and the sincere will to help them abandon their heathen ways. He traded with them, exchanging palm oil and camwood with guns and spirits, and he knew how their kings were chosen, their wars fought, their disputes resolved. He had discovered – he was one of the few to do so – that all the natives traced their origins to outside of that part of the world. Stories were common among them of movements of such and such people at such and such periods.
