The Tragedy of a Goddess
It has been over two decades since you lost your life to poisoned food. Looking back today, I realize a virtue you instilled in me. You taught me that for every experience that makes me feel wretched, I should never allow silence to overcome my ability to speak up. Yet, this has not been the case since the incident of your death. I think it’s about time that I license my resilience to bridle every straw of reluctance that has been holding me back.
It all happened right after the Second Liberian Civil War. You decided to relocate us to Monrovia because you had not seen your family in years. Moving to the city was supposed to bridge that gap by bringing us in close proximity to them. Throughout the civil wars, we lived in a small village somewhere in the south of Nimba County. It was called Gba-le-tuo and in it, our survival was based on plowing the farm.
You were a single mother. Our father abandoned you during the civil wars and you had to raise three kids alone. We lived on little. Our life was defined by mishaps. However, it was not the fact that you were a single mother that made our life the hell that it was, but that you had to fend for the needs of three kids amid the wars. Age could not permit us to provide any help. We were all still young — still revelling in tenderness and watching fatigue drain your muscles after working the farmland all day. The oldest of us was ten; I was six, and our youngest brother was only a few months old — two, or maybe three months old.
Yes, I was only six years old when the tragedy of your death occurred. By then, my older brother lived with our dad in Ivory Coast. It was only my baby brother and me who lived with you. Anyway, I was not a perky six-year-old who could play all day and be oblivious to events around him. Rather, I was the shrewd and alert one who could detect a perilous situation and warn accordingly.
The civil wars ended. We decided to move to the city to see the family. Having no clue where they lived, we wandered the streets of Monrovia until a strange lady came and vowed to accommodate us. She lived somewhere in the 72nd Boulevard area and had supposedly received a call from my grandfather to get us. Guess who the lady was? Your mate! She was the girlfriend of the soldier guy who worked for grandpa and fell in love with you when they came on a mission trip to our village. He was a coward. But since he did not wish you thought him a coward, he fibbed about being single to pursue you. He pursued you.
With the strange woman, I had nerves. I always felt uncomfortable in her presence, even on the first day we met her at Red Light. I was intrigued and I wanted to know about her relationship with you if any. I kept bombarding you with questions as they raced in my head. I whispered the whole time we sat in the car because I was intimidated by her presence. “Mo’ma, who is the lady, do you know her from anywhere?” Bothered, you kept mute. Then the lady got out of the car to take something from the trunk. It gave you the slightest moment you needed to answer. Camly, you placed your hands around my shoulders and replied: “No, Doka, I do not know her, but no need to think it long”. You continued: “Apparently she was sent by grandpa to give us a ride. You know your Grandpa is a renowned man…we will be fine, okay?”. “Okay”, I replied, convinced.
Authored by Darlington Sehgbean
Featured Picture by Unsplash
Epic, keep it up.