by Vamba Sherif
John argued that the natives were ignorant of the fact that the people they had sold into slavery centuries ago had now returned to lay claim to a meagre portion of what was once theirs. John could not understand why the land had to be bought by the settlers in the first place. Why didn’t the settlers randomly choose a place in Africa, anywhere in Africa, to stay and make it their home? Why purchase a piece of land? Why should the settlers bother with such an issue if this was once their home, the land of their fathers and mothers? These were the questions John pondered when he led the militia against the tribesmen.
He abhorred their trading in slaves, and he could not imagine being connected to people who perpetuated such a business. So when he fought the natives, it was not only to strengthen the foundation of the republic but to put a halt to that fiendish trade. And he fought bravely and with passion. He joined the British and American vessels patrolling the Atlantic in search of slave traders. It was how his fame grew and how he was admired by the settlers and feared by the natives.
‘My husband is a hero,’ Mrs Barclay said. Then added after a while, ‘But sometimes he can be a simpleton, an idler.’
She went on to cite an example of John wanting to run for a senatorial position. Though he had launched a series of successful attacks on the natives and had led a famous assault on a group who had nearly succeeded in defeating the settlers, thereby preventing them from ruining years of work, John had chosen not to campaign but to wait until the last day before the elections. He got up early that morning, telling her that he had had a dream he was a senator.
Here Mrs Barclay stopped and glanced at me. ‘Do you see now how a man could easily lead himself to ruins?’ she asked. Were it not for her, she told me, John would be a destitute, bowing and scraping to the elite of the country. Here Mrs Barclay digressed from her story.
‘Are you married, Reverend Richards?’
‘I am not,’ I answered.
‘Sad for a man of your looks and knowledge,’ she said.
I didn’t know what to say. Tenneh threw me sideway glances, suppressing her laughter. I toyed nervously with my fingers.
‘Are you in love with someone, Reverend?’
Mrs Barclay’s gaze was fixed intently on mine.
‘I am, Mrs Barclay,’ I said.
‘That is better, much better. Don’t you think?’
‘You are right, Mrs Barclay.’
I listened to her, relishing the quiet tone of her voice as she lauded herself for the successes of her husband.
Tenneh interrupted us, asking if we wanted more of her cornbread. The two of us nodded. Tenneh left for the kitchen. We sat for a while, waiting for the delicious cornbread. Soon Tenneh came back with slices of cornbread on a tray.
We ate slowly. I enquired from Mrs Barclay about my stepfather, mentioning his name and his passion for the Vai language. She had not heard of him, she told me. Perhaps he did not cross the ocean. Or if he did, he might have settled somewhere along the coast.
‘Where can I meet some of the natives,’ I asked her.
After some hesitation, Mrs Barclay told me where to find them.
‘They are to be found in villages around Monrovia,’ she said.
Not long after, having thanked her again and nodded to Tenneh, I found myself on the dusty roads of Monrovia, following the directions Mrs Barclay had given me.
7
The natives lived in villages surrounded by walls several feet high. In these villages, behind the huts were little vegetable gardens often tended by women and children. I saw a man tapping palm wine, a popular beverage I would learn later. I gathered that the natives were steeped in the worship of carved wooden images, and I was amazed to see a man offering food to an image. I almost shouted at him. But something about his dedication to it, his well-practised ritual, fascinated me. He sat before it, chanting and offering crumbs of food to it, rubbing it with his hand, pleading to it.
A celebration of sorts was going on in the village. Young girls dressed in raffia skirts and with their bodies painted with kaolin and coal danced to the beat of a drummer. A procession of men and women surrounded them. Shouts of joy rose from everywhere.
I asked one of the participants what was happening, and I was told that the girls were coming of age and the whole village was celebrating the event.
I found that the villagers spoke various languages and that the languages were similar to each other. This suggested that perhaps they had a common ancestry. There were tribes from all over the interior thriving here. Some could speak English. In the midst of the huts, I saw a few homes built in the style of those in Monrovia. A young woman with a good command of English told me that her grandfather had married someone from the house of one of Liberia’s ministers.
Doors were open to welcome me and I was invited to share in the meals. Although I had been warned of the danger to my health if I yielded to such lavish hospitality, I did not hesitate to accept and relish the food. My conclusion was that the natives were fascinated with the new ways but had their qualms. They feared that with the coming of the settlers they would lose their way of life. The villages were already a hodgepodge of American-Liberian and native cultures thriving together. I saw a man with an American topper and baggy trousers proudly sauntering around. Some spoke English mixed with their mother tongues. These were encouraging signs. John’s assumption that converting the natives was impossible seemed fallacious to me. The evidence to the contrary was to be found here.
On my way home that day, I was light-hearted, sure that with love and patience, the two greatest virtues of the Lord, I would lead some of the natives through the gate to the Kingdom of God. Or I would show them at least that we meant them no harm, not in the least.
Not long after I had got home and Mrs Barclay and I were sat outside, John returned. He told us that the villagers, one of whom had killed the two Liberian traders, had handed over the perpetrator without even being asked. The villagers had then proclaimed their allegiance to the government of Liberia anew and forever. To prove their commitment, they had given the militia rice, smoked meat, leather, calabashes of palm oil and many other things. John broke into laughter. ‘That’s the way to treat them,’ he said. ‘With force and without mercy.’ And his wife sucked her teeth.
John, a member of one of the oldest associations, the Freemasons, could not stay for dinner, for he was to attend one of their meetings. But I knew he was escaping the wrath of his wife. He went to the bedroom and emerged dressed in a black suit, a top hat and tailcoat and left while his wife rolled her eyes at him.
‘What did you see today, reverend?’ she asked.
I recounted my experience, beginning with the festivities that went on in the village, and I told her of my general impression of the natives and the fact that my mission could certainly be accomplished now that I had met with some of them. Although she was delighted that I felt that way, Mrs Barclay warned me not to be over-optimistic.
‘Many before you have tried and failed,’ she said.
Reverend Barclay returned. He asked me when I was going to call on my church to see how I would go about doing my work. I needed some time, I answered. He said that he was leaving soon for the settlement of Harper, Maryland. We conversed for a long time that evening, and I thought that the Liberians were now different in many ways from their brethren in America.
I frequented the native villages around Monrovia, seeing the whole venture as a kind of orientation for my missionary work. Tenneh, ever-resourceful, was of tremendous help to me. She confirmed what I had thought, that her Vai language was similar to other native languages, and that names and counting had similar words, with one group counting to tan, which was ten, and another to pu, which also meant ten.
For two months after my arrival and the incident with Charlotte, I made no attempt to see her. My work helped to take my mind off her. Whatever illusion I might have entertained about our relationship was shattered with that singular experience at her home. It would
be better if I put her and our past behind me, like I had done with other aspects of my life, and to dedicate my life fully to the service of the Lord.
Despite being in this coastal town for a while, the oppressive climate wore me down and I could not sleep from the assault of mosquitoes. Bumps and abscesses, evidence of their bites, were strewn all over my hands and face. My body itched so much that often I had the maddening urge to scrape off the itching spots. Besides fighting the parasitical insects, my nights were spent worrying about my mission and the natives. All these factors led to what transpired.
On my way from one of the villages, having completed my day’s work, I was taken by a sudden headache. My head throbbed with such pain that I struggled to keep myself from falling. By the time I reached home, my body was shivering with a fever that had once threatened to wipe out the entire population of Monrovia. I went immediately to bed.
Having suffered from loose bowels the whole night, I was as frail as a feather the next morning. Unbearable pain surged up my joints and I was often in violent convulsions. One minute I was comfortable and the next I was throwing up. My spit tasted sour and the water I drank tasted like a bitter drink. Food was unpalatable. I could not sleep, could not lie still. I floated in between life and death.
Tenneh and Mrs Barclay attended to me. Days passed but with no great improvement in my health. My end, it seemed, had come.
One afternoon, a week into my illness, when I was in one of my deliriums, Tenneh came in to announce that a woman named Charlotte wanted to see me. Don’t let her in,’ I managed to convey to Tenneh, gesturing widly. ‘Tell her she’s not welcome. I don’t want to see her.’
She left and returned saying: ‘But she insists on seeing you, Reverend.’ I rolled my eyes at Tenneh.
‘Tell her to go away.’
But I heard Charlotte’s footsteps.
She came in the room dressed as if she was heading to church. She felt my forehead and caressed my body. She was silent. A strange smile coalesced around her lips. What she then did astounded me: she undressed, and I saw her like I had not seen her for a long time. She lay beside me, her body’s warmth sending a shiver through me. We were together again, in one bed, in a strange house and country. As I was too frail to hold her, Charlotte held me, whispering soothing words. While she snuggled close to me, I suddenly realised I could never betray the longing of my heart and that I needed her. There she was, soothing my trembling body, sharing in its feverish warmth and taking in the nauseous stench of my breath. We were one again.
Charlotte told me of her early days in Liberia. In the beginning she had to cope with intimidating men who chided her for opting to wait for a man who had not survived the cruelty of plantation life. She waited for years. Her days were unbearable without me. She wrote several letters but received no reply. Waiting had broken her heart, tortured her and worn her down. It was not out of love that she chose her husband, but out of fear that the Monrovian Society might shun her for refusing her fiancé, who had loved her enough to build her a house that was the envy of many, and a farm that yielded valuable crops. Even during her marriage, she hoped that one day we would meet again.
Her voice was serene and soft, easing my heart and steadying my breath. She stayed the night with me. When I referred to her husband and how he would react if he knew she was with me, Charlotte said: ‘He knew all those years that my heart was elsewhere. I didn’t conceal my feelings regarding you. I told him today that I was going to see you. He has to learn to live with that. You are here now, Edward.’
With Charlotte beside me, I forgot my illness. I forgot everything. She was ever-present and ever-caring the next day and during the weeks that followed. She did not leave to attend to her husband and we never discussed him. In the morning, she bathed me, prepared soup and fed me. Urging me on to eat and gently chiding me, she made sure that I drank all the soup. I managed a laugh and could not remember laughing so heartily for a very long time. When I fell asleep, Charlotte nestled close to me. I felt some kind of elation while in the grip of the illness that I had never felt before, and I knew then that I would not succumb to it. I would survive it to be able to love her.
No one objected to Charlotte’s presence in the house. Indeed, it was welcomed. It seemed that the household had now worked out my reason for being in Liberia. I was a preacher who had taken the mighty words of the Lord as his guide but who had chosen to follow the longing of his heart as far as this shore. Instead of shunning me, the house honoured me. Although the two of us deferred on issues concerning the natives, John would visit me every evening, cracking jokes to make me laugh. He would be joined by Mrs Barclay and Tenneh.
Reverend Barclay wrote from Harper saying that the Lord would not forsake his servants and I should, therefore, not lose faith.
Within two weeks, I was on my feet again. In six months, the most precious of my life, I saw Charlotte almost every day. She would leave her home in the morning before sunrise and was at the house before I had awoken. Together we saw the natives and together we preached and prayed. Charlotte was versed in the scriptures and preached so convincingly to the natives, whose language she could speak, that we boasted a few converts in less than a month. I was able to understand her during that period and to understand myself and our relationship.
It was Charlotte and no one else who encouraged me to answer to the incessant call of the Lord to carry on my missionary work. She would love me forever though we were not destined to be husband and wife.
I couldn’t ask for more. But I was to get more.
8
As part of my preparation for the journey to the interior, I hired the services of two young Congo men as guides and to help with my luggage. One named Patrick had been to the interior several times, while Matthew had a relation among the natives. They were glad to be my guides, and assured me of the safety of the interior. Nevertheless, because of rumours of bandits who often attacked travellers and difficult rulers who impeded further penetration into the interior because of their own trade interests, in slaves and otherwise, and because of fear of the unknown, I was compelled to have several guns in my luggage. I also took medicines, presents of clothes, perfume, knives and spirits I had bought from John’s store. A traveller to the interior could not do without a sextant, a thermometer and sheets of paper and notebooks to jot down observations.
I chose not to confine myself to the surroundings of Monrovia, but to head deeper into the forest, to Tenneh’s mother’s birthplace. She told me that her mother’s people lived in a place so remote that they had not heard a single word of the Gospel in a thousand years.
I was not blind to the difficulties and did not underestimate them. But instead of flinching away from them, I wanted to confront them head-on. Armed with the teachings that true faith could move mountains and allow one to walk on water, I prepared for the journey.
Mrs Barclay tried to talk me out of it. It was a perilous adventure, she said, a reckless attempt on my part which, she was sure, I would not survive. John could not conceal his obvious worry. He knew the interior. It could make or break one, he told me; it was like a mystery that could choose to reveal itself to a traveller at once or wait years to show its true face. It could punish an intruder on the spot or choose to forgive. To survive it, you had to withstand its biting claws until such a time that it chose to ignore you.
Pleased that I was carrying the Gospel to her people, Tenneh however warned me that they might not comprehend it, or that I might not cope with life there. ‘I am going in peace, Tenneh,’ I told her. ‘I am going to tell them that we are brothers and sisters. Those of us from America have returned home.’
Reverend Barclay wrote to me, advising me not to venture deeper into the forest but to confine my work to villages around Monrovia. A work of God was a work of God, he wrote, and it was unnecessary to expose myself to dangers such as the interior.
Only Charlotte stood firmly behind me. Nothing, she said, could harm one who had chosen the Lord
as his shepherd.
On the day of my departure, the young man I had encountered months ago behaving foolishly at the port paid a call on me. He had come with a message that his mother wanted to see me.
‘Who is your mother?’ I asked.
‘You will know if you follow me,’ he said.
He was remarkably docile that day. I brought up the subject of our encounter and berated him for his lack of manners. His silence emboldened me to go on reprimanding him, and it led me to thinking that perhaps he was not a spoiled young man after all. I tried to inveigle him into parting with information regarding his mother, but he would not respond. He led me out of Monrovia, following the same path that the old man had taken nearly a year ago, the path to Charlotte’s home.
We met Charlotte seated in one of the chairs outside the house. There was a strange calmness about her that hinted that things did not augur well for me, but in her eyes there was a burning light that contrasted with her calmness. It was a quiet morning, the sun mild and the wind pleasant. The air was fresh with the scent of the bush. The young man stood a distance away from us, toying with his fingers.
‘I sent for you, Edward,’ Charlotte said.
‘He refused to tell me,’ I said.
‘He’s angry,’ Charlotte said, looking at the two of us.
‘What on earth for?’ I asked.
‘Because he’d not known his father all his life.’
‘His father?’
Charlotte dropped her gaze.
‘Who is his father, Charlotte?’ I asked.
She looked at me square in the face and said, ‘You are his father, Edward.’
I couldn’t speak. Words failed me. Then I turned to the young man. Here, in front of me, with the height and resemblance to me, with the angry eyes and the habit of toying with his fingers; here in every way the spitting image of me, was my son. Why didn’t I see it before?
