The Trials of Worly the Ward

By Thomas G. Johnson Sr.

The Trials of Worly the Ward is a historic fiction that tells the story of abuse, oppression and suppression of wards. Its a story of love, betrayal, violence and death. Using the relationship between wards and their foster parents, the conflict between the social classes and Liberian educational, economic and social realities as background, Thomas lays bare the infected wounds on most Liberians. Many years after the founding of Liberia as an independent nation, an undercurrent of subjugation of wards flowed throughout the country as a right of passage toward education and civilization. Ironically, the once subjugated in America and Liberia became the subjugators. Those once oppressed became the oppressors, and this abnormally cut across social class and ethnic boundaries. Had everyone become a wounded ward?

Worly finds himself a target of abuse, exploitation and restriction. His experience parallels Hnes and others in many households of civilized people. His struggle to break through his shackles is a compelling drama. There are the Grinders whose implosion stems from corruption, betrayal and violence. Worly the ward emerges as the hero who saves Mrs. Grinder from strangulation at the hands of Mr. Grinder. There is Mr Hartman, the hypocrite whose lust results in his tragic death. Then there is Mr. Bookman, who is on the run to escape persecution for corruption. Ultimately, Worly the wounded ward wended his way back to Sarbo longing to see Maryann and awaited the emerging winds of change that had started blowing across Liberia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456736866

Thomas G. Johnson Sr.

THOMAS G. JOHNSON Sr. was born on March 6, 1955 in Sarbo, Liberia, unto the union of Rev. Johnson Weah Tweh, and Doris Wahyonoh Johnson. His father was an itinerant preacher, and founder of the Assembly of God Mission Church in Sweaken. Thomas attended the Kakata Rural Teacher Training Institute (KRTTI) in Liberia and graduated with an Elementary Teaching Certificate in 1973. After teaching for several years with the Monrovia Consolidated School System, Thomas entered the University of Liberia in 1979 and graduated 1983 with a BA degree in English and minor in Political Science. He did proofreading briefly at the USIS Library. In 1984, he joined the Assembly of God High School teaching staff as Vice Principal for Academic Affairs. In 1987 he traveled to the United States and eventually became a naturalized American citizen. In New York City, he worked as supervisor in the Communication and Marketing Department at the Kings Brooks Jewish Medical Center, Brooklyn for five years. From 1995 to the present, he has work with the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene as Senior Public Health Advisor. In 2001 Thomas entered the New York Theological Seminary in New York City and in 2004 graduated with a Masters degree in Divinity. Thomas is an adjunct faculty at the New York Theological Seminary Certificate Program in Christian Ministries. Thomas is married to Beatrice (Yamda) and they have two daughters and three sons. Johnson was a member of the University Players, a drama group, and founding member of the Liberian Association of Writers. (1982-1985). He published a few literary articles in the Liberian Daily Observer. As a member of The Liberian Association of Writers he and others were encouraged to contribute to the development of Liberian literature. This novel is a product of that inspiration.

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© 2011 Thomas G. Johnson, Sr. All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 03/01/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3686-6 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3688-0 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTTEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

ONE ROAD LED THROUGH SEVERAL villages and towns until it reached a junction where it parted ways with a street, and then it linked with the main thoroughfare that ran into the big city. The street which the road parted ways with was special. So it was a known fact that when drivers arrived at the intersection, they simply had to slow down. And then they and the passengers looked briefly but longingly down the street, their eyes following the lights flooding the whole area through which the street passed.

See the street? See the lights? one was likely to ask another. That’s President Tubman’s farm road. If you follow it way down, you will see the president’s farm.

Whaat—yes! Some people living, another would say.

That’s what we call civilization and development!

The sight would obviously light the fire of small talk. Some knowing better would long for the day when many other roads paved like the president’s farm road would make traveling by car or traveling on foot seem less painful. But for those dreamers, to see such roads all around seemed a million years away. Pleebo, from where some traveled, did not have roads and streets as paved as the president’s farm road. From Pleebo to Webbo Highway, that was the same story—dusty roads; none paved at all.

The thoroughfare which linked the dusty road from rural lands of the area passed in front of several homes in the city. Boys and girls who lived in the homes often found it a special treat to dart from their wooded, boring (and sometimes frightening) backyards to peek on the street to see much of the goings on. There was one of those boys and girls who were fond of spending much time in front of the house, watching all that was often going on. His name was Worly.

Worly never seemed to remember the advice of his foster parents. Today would be another reminder, because he was determined to watch all that was going to take place. It was August 12, the St. Liberty High School Gala Day. It wasn’t his school’s gala day. Never mind. He was determined to attend the day’s activities. There was much in store for him.

YET THE DAY seemed to start without any promise. It started with chilly winds. Dark clouds shadowed Pleebo from morning to midday. Gradually, however, the north wind blowing from inland began to disperse the dark clouds which had hung over Pleebo and Gballelu, not very far from Harper, the big city. The sun began to fit in its own role, dissipating the cold. Tropical breeze began to set in. Seeing and feeling the slow change, Worly became excited. After all, this August 12, for him, would not go by without his dream coming true.

Meantime, he stood by watching. He stood by watching St. Liberty High School students pour into town for their gala day celebration. Even so, students from invited schools were coming in. Fatima High School and Bishop Ferguson High School in Gballelu were coming. Gripper High School was coming. Firestone schools located in the Pleebo area were also coming to the big city. While some of the students were coming from Firestone, some of them were coming from Gidetarbo. They paid no mind to the condition of the street. The few vehicles in town had left the streets in disrepair. Drivers drove about in alarming recklessness. Road officials paid no mind to the deteriorating conditions of the roads. The result was numerous potholes in one of the few major streets. And then when it rained, the street winding past Worly’s home was simply an embarrassment.

Just the previous night, it had rained and now the street was muddy. Insensitive drivers would as usual zoom by, splashing mud on pedestrians. Of course they never got by without an earful of insults from the pedestrians, some of them students. But what did these drivers care! What did those drivers, some of them big shots’ drivers, care?

The students paid no mind; they kept pouring into town.

Watching the students doing their best to duck from mud splash or leap over worms crawling about as a result of the rain, Worly could not easily contain himself. He stood dreaming about watching the parade that would soon begin at nine in the morning. After that, there would be a picnic at one o’clock in the afternoon. Then a soccer match would come. A concert with numerous students reciting poems, singing songs, acting out skits and full scale plays would come in, followed by the grandest of all—a dance.

Worly thought about the soccer game a little more. He thought about the match between St. Liberty and Gripper High. Those teams were all well-known throughout Maryland and Grand Gedeh Counties. The boys were from the same areas but there was often an intense rivalry. Some spectators would sometimes fan the flames. Some often threw bets. Some often incited fistfights. But others would wonder just what the problem was. They often took the games just as a simple act of entertainment and did not worry themselves over feisty competition.

Besides the games, Worly also thought about the concert and dance events. He knew Maryland Combo would be out tonight. They would come out playing classical African High Life. But then how much would the students enjoy under the watchful eyes of chaperons and inquisitive teachers! And what about the nuns, always insisting to keep lights on in the dancing hall! Sometimes you wonder if these people ever had real growing up life! Worly said under breath.

With all the cheers, the applause, the jumping and screaming that would fill the day’s events, nothing would match the appearance of one person, just one person. Worly’s heart, his lungs, his brain swelled with uncontrollable anticipation. Mary-Ann was coming. Worly would be with his dear Mary-Ann.

MARY-ANN, A St. Liberty High sophomore, had invited him. Every now and then he would remind himself that he needed to complete his huge list of home chores in order to attend the gala activities. He had to light fire in the kitchen to heat bath water for the Grinders, his foster parents. He had to heat cold rice for the Grinders to have breakfast. He had to make up the beds in the home. He had to sweep inside the house. He had to sweep the front yard. He had to haul water from the creek nearby.

That creek! To go there, Worly had to go through the back entrance of their home and go down a slope. He would walk past wild eddoes, palm trees, plum and mango trees, and guava trees. He would walk past large wild oak trees. It was the wide expanse of vegetation, which eyes couldn’t penetrate, that often coiled Worly away from going to that creek. But he had no choice.

Fetching water and keeping the house clean were just the tip of the iceberg. He also needed to fetch firewood from one of the nearby Firestone work stations. Besides sweeping the front yard, he had to mow the lawn. For that he was expected to use a machete or a hook-shaped cutter, whipping off the blades of grass as his youthful hands swung from left to right. And then there was cooking of food for the home. He’d have to peek into the dirty clothes basket to see if there was a load of clothing large enough to wash. If he did all those chores, then he would ask his foster parents’ permission to attend at least the concert and the dance.

The concert and the dance—that’s all. Nothing else mattered. Since he was getting signals of a steady friendship from Mary-Ann, Worly planned to have nothing get in the way. He had won the competition for the girl’s attention over a few St. Liberty High boys like Theodore and Jerome. Both boys had written letters to Mary-Ann, expressing interest in her friendship. She flatly turned them down and later even showed the boys’ letters and her replies to them to Worly. But those boys seemed not to get the message. Every now and then, they would send reminders. Just as they seemed determined, Mary-Ann too remained steadfast; she refused to be in their company.

All that notwithstanding, Worly was no fool to become complacent. There were times when convent girls did not pay attention to local boys when mission boys came to town from Bishop Ferguson High and Fatima in Harper City. That was how he had lost Victoria Brown to a boy from Ferguson. So he was not prepared for another loss. True, Mary-Ann hailed from Hoffman Station in Harper and she stuck with him. He was no fool. An invisible hand might be pulling his strings. He was no fool. This budding love relationship had reached a crucial moment. That was why Worly promised his dear Mary-Ann that he would do everything possible to attend the gala day activities. He needed to work very hard to complete his chores on time and seek his foster parents’ permission to go out.

ALL THIS REQUIRED money. Although Worly received no home cash allowance, he had managed to put away some money for the gala day. He wanted to impress Mary-Ann. He would buy Fanta, Sprite, Coke, or just any other soft drink of her choosing.

He had earned a few bucks by cutting Mr. Brown’s hair. Mr. Brown was the father of Worly’s former girl. He was Victoria Brown’s father. He was a middle-aged man with gray sneaking through his black hair. The Browns lived in Gravey-ne-neken, Worly’s old neighborhood. Because Mr. Brown loved the way Worly cut hair, he never let the young man go away for long.

Boy, you sure know how to cut the Tubman style, Mr. Brown would say as he looked in the mirror to inspect Worly’s handiwork. The Tubman style meant all hair cut nearly to the scalp with only a slight little heap left above the forehead. From a distance, you would think you saw a gray little mouse coiling slightly above the barbed man’s forehead.

Worly was often delighted whenever Mr. Brown let off the spree of praises. The young man continued to cut Mr. Brown’s hair until the Grinder family left to live in their present home in Geebio, close by the busy street. Although they had left, Worly liked to return on Saturdays to cut the old neighbor’s hair. Of course, there was the pleasant treat of seeing Victoria whenever he paid the visit. Victoria was a beauty in the community. Winning the girl’s heart had been one of the most pleasant things to happen to the young man. Each time he visited with the Browns, he would have the pleasure of playing, working and talking with Victoria. Then one day a guy attending Bishop Ferguson showed up and swept the girl off her feet, poisoning her mind and heart against local boys. In the end, Victoria, like Mary-Ann, went to live on Bishop Ferguson Mission. For now, Mary-Ann was the girl who mattered; Victoria was out of Worly’s mind. Did he hate her? Well, not really. After all, her father still loved Worly, the skillful barber.

Whenever Mr. Brown sent for Worly and the young man cut the hair, Mr. Brown would give him a few dollars and shower him with blessings. At first, Worly used to decline the money, but Mr. Brown continued to insist that it was good the young man took the money. Seeing this as a source of some income, Worly started a piggy bank in which he saved his small earnings. Over time, he realized he could boast of ten dollars. And in his day, that was a huge amount of pocket change for a ward. He could afford to impress Mary-Ann fabulously.

Alas!—the trailing question: Would the Grinders allow him to attend the concert and the dance? Would they?

CHAPTER TWO

MR. GRIND—OH, SORRY—MR. GRINDER was a stern man. Precisely because of that trait many knew him as Mr. Grind. Was it because he could grind anything or anyone who came his way to dust? Perhaps so. He was the principal of Geebio Elementary School, and a teacher at Gripper Afternoon School.

There was much more to his name. He was well-connected to Mr. Bookman, the school superintendent. Mr. Grinder made sure everyone in the community knew about his connection to big shots. He was slim and walked with a slight limp. But he was not one to be taken for granted; he was somewhat muscular. When Mr. Grinder held your hand and released it, you knew that a man had indeed held that hand. In schools where he worked, he was notorious for punishing students. His love for all types of painful punishments did not come in sudden flight. It was a solid part of his chemistry born of bitter experiences of childhood.

As an elementary school principal, his students were careful not to offend him at all. They were careful not to break school rules. Engaging in any youthful mischief was out. As a student? You had to be insane—purely insane, period. If you were that insane, you were severely punished. Late for school?—the rattan! Failed to do your homework?—the rattan! Failed to understand the day’s lesson?—the rattan! Failed to spell words during class spelling contest?—the rattan! Even students who were notoriously rude and seemed to care less about any punishment trembled when they heard about Mr. Grinder.

Mr. Grinder did not care to find out why some of the pupils got to school late. Some of the pupils lived far out on the Firestone Plantation, 45 miles away. Others lived in distant places in Pleebo, about 20 or more miles away. They had to rush to school every day to avoid being late. Mr. Grinder’s rule of thumb was that every student had to attend morning devotion and be present for reciting the pledge of allegiance to the national flag. It was at this time that students were inspected for tidiness. It was also the time the school administration made announcements. Students far away dreaded this time, because even if they were a few minutes late, they got several lashes in one hand, followed by another, and their hands remained sore for the rest of the day. And then holding a pen or pencil to write became difficult. Of course, that was never an excuse for them. Once in school, they had to participate fully in class.

MR. GRINDER’S CONSTANT USE of the rattan on students kept bad behavior in check. It did keep lateness in check. But it did not stop several displeased parents from withdrawing their children from the school. As for some of the parents, however, corporal punishment was a good thing. Whenever their children misbehaved at home, they rushed to the school to report any such mischief. These parents’ wards especially were often in trouble. The parents would request Mr. Grinder to punish the wards during school assembly. It was an opportunity he rarely declined.

IT WAS THIS Mr. Grinder who had warned Worly a few times that if the boy did not behave well at home, his school’s principal would punish him during school assembly. Worly carried that fright for a long time. There was one incident he would never easily forget. No. He did not want to go through the experience which Hutchison, his eighth grade classmate, went through at Gripper High School.

It happened on a Friday. The auditorium was filled to capacity for the weekly assembly. The students jeered, joked and did their usual pranks. The president of the Student Council made a few announcements, followed by the Vice Principal’s. Then the Principal’s turn came. He came on stage with two strong bamboo rattans in his hand. Suddenly, everything grew quiet. One could hear a needle drop. The Principal frowned, then stretched and bent each rattan. They curled and straightened again. For him, the rattan switches were living, breathing things. He often called them, my boys.

When the Principal completed his ritual of curling and straightening the switches, he said, There is something serious I want to say.

Everyone listened attentively.

This school will not tolerate bad behavior from any of its students, both at home and at school.

The students began to look at one another. There was a mad rush of fear. Mr. Reed, the principal, then ordered two hefty senior students on stage.

Bring a bench here, he demanded.

The seniors went to the school’s kitchen and returned with a wooden bench. They placed the executioner bench on stage, and stood by it. Worly’s heart pounded heavily. Did Mr. Grinder report him to Mr. Reed because of what happened two weeks ago? He had come home 45 minutes late from school. There had been an interclass soccer league on campus, and without the fear of anyone, he had dared stay to the end of the league. Mrs. Grinder, who had been infuriated, reported the incident to Mr. Grinder, and the man quarreled with Worly. He threatened to inform the school Principal.

Worly’s mind ran over a million sins he felt guilty about, but he thought these did not rise to a level that required any public humiliation, any painful punishment. Never mind what he’d said, he worried.

Mr. Reed’s voice shook Worly from these wandering thoughts: Hutchison, come up here! Worly’s heart missed a beat.

Hutchison, an 8th grader was trembling and sweating as he stood up. He did not move from his seat. Mr. Reed yelled again, You come up here now!

Tears welled up in Hutchison’s eyes. He was too frightened and embarrassed to go up the stage. Mr. Reed ordered the two seniors to tear him from his seat and escort him up stage. The other students were silent. They watched as the two strong senior students grabbed Hutchison on both arms and walked with him on stage, like executioners taking a criminal to the gallows. Worly let out a sigh of relief but felt sorry as well for his classmate and