The Libericans

By Remy Ajakah

An ambitious Kemuel Afobula was sent to Monrovia to rescue High Rocks Computers, a firm that has just suffered a major setback. Contrary to his expectations, he found himself in a strange environment and sort for peculiar measures.

While in Monrovia, Kemuel also battled to escape from memories of a failed relationship he had back home with Amaka. Then came Tricia – a possessive and no-nonsense girlfriend whom he surprisingly met through Goldfish - a former child soldier turned political errand-boy.

Suddenly, Kemuel mysteriously got missing in his neighborhood and his girlfriend, Tricia, was speculated to have a hand in his disappearance.

Will Kamuel succeed amidst daunting challenges if he ever resurfaces to complete his basic mission in Liberia?

Set in the Atlantic Coast and beautiful capital city of Liberia, The Libericans is a captivating story of not just a man’s life of work, romance and adventure. It highlights the less talked about elegance of a people in an environment once ravaged by war. The book also boldly reveals current struggles of some former child soldiers and the vulnerability of the girl child as some haunting native traditions clash with modern society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728389035

Remy Ajakah

Remy Ajakah is a History graduate of the University of Port-Harcourt, Nigeria. He is an entertainment enthusiast whose other interests include social critiquing, song writing and creative writing. He has a huge fascination for photography and is an expert in video production. Mr Ajakah currently lives in Monrovia, Liberia but frequently visits some other West African countries. The Libericans is his first book.

Book preview

One

As the aircraft hummed, I carelessly stared through the window at the metal wing spread under the warm sun. While some passengers murmured and puffed out sighs of relief, I noticed as others peeked at their timepieces, obviously glad that we were finally about to depart Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The flight had been delayed for over thirty minutes. As I observed the giant metal left wing idly, my mind wandered and settled on the magic of technology, wondering how such a heavy object was going to airlift over forty passengers across four countries. For a few minutes, my imagination sailed toward Liberia. I buried myself with thoughts of the huge task ahead, and what the actual problem is. I considered Figo’s excuse a buoyantly flimsy one. How can the current manager of High Rocks Computers in Liberia hinge the stalling marketing activities on some incessant rainfall? Rainfall? That sounded ridiculous, I thought.

My Blackberry beeped. It was a message from Ibiere. I stared at the message and my face cracked into a smile. Ibiere was my former colleague at Allsounds FM and Amaka’s best friend. She had kept in touch via Blackberry messenger since she heard of my transfer to Liberia. We have been chatting about Amaka’s plan to be joined in marriage to a stranger. The mere thought of Amaka’s sudden plan irked me.

"KK, do you still love Amaka?" Ibiere asked.

Amaka used to be my girlfriend. I still love her but loathed being in love with someone who has moved on with her life and seems to be blinded by her thoughts of my non-existence. I hated to admit this to my friends, including Ibiere.

My phone beeped again. It was another message from Ibiere. "helooo… r u dia?"

Yes, I still love her. I responded. My lips tightened.

"My other phone is ringing; I’ll get back to you." Ibiere replied with winking emoticons.

I stared at my phone and smiled. Emoticons will soon take over actual human facial expression, I thought. What if Ibiere did not truly smile? I considered whether to call Amaka when suddenly, the speaker in the plane buzzed, and the soft female voice instructed that all phones be switched off. Quickly, I typed a message to Amaka. "My greatest wish was for us to b bck 2gether again. I still love u and wish u d best—KK"

As I clicked the send button, I felt a presence lean over me and a female voice accompanied it. Sir, your phone, please. the voice said. It was the flight attendant.

It’s switched off. I responded, then tucked the phone into my pocket. She flashed an airline smile and walked down the aisle. I unstrapped my camera and placed it on the empty seat beside me, feeling grateful that I had good enough room despite my 6 feet 2 inches height. My slim frame needed to stretch. I heaved a sigh, then caught sight of the speeding time; 1:43 PM. I relaxed into my chair, tilting my head towards the window.

Before I found my seat number earlier, my eyes had combed the almost empty aircraft and I had spotted some familiar faces; one of which was a staff of a Microsoft, and the other, a staff of Zinox Technologies. I had also noticed a lady with a t-shirt branded with an HP logo and wondered if there was an ICT exhibition somewhere which my company might be missing out on. Another flight attendant strolled by, and I immediately thought she had some semblance with Amaka; same naturally sculptured body shape, same height and dark skin. I smiled and wondered if I will ever meet Amaka again.

Two

The day came with an overwhelming feeling. What I had anticipated to be pure joy had begun to wane quickly. I was weary of my radio show at Allsounds FM; it was no longer paying my accumulated bills. As I headed home, in the middle of a bottleneck Port Harcourt City traffic, I received a call from a suspicious number, but it turned out to be an old friend from university days. I was excited to hear from her after so many years. I managed my excitement well, and did not yell out certain slang phrases we shared back then.

Biodun! Wow! It’s been long…It’s been a while…How are you doing? Where are you calling from? How did you get my number?

Biodun went on to tell me how she bumped into another friend of ours who gave her my number. Communication between us spread like wildfire but unlike before, we argued less. As we chatted, she asked me how comfortable I was at Allsounds radio station. It could be better. I had told her; and with each response came a prolonged interjection.

If you’re not okay there, why don’t you leave? Biodun had asked. It sounded easy coming from her, and I wished I had lied my way out to avoid further questioning. Two weeks later, she informed me of a job vacancy in the company where she worked and invited me to Lagos.

****

My employment at High Rocks computers, Lagos was like an unplanned visit. Amaka had expected our relationship to move to the next level when I got the invitation for the interview. She advised against it and insisted that I continued with the not-so-well-paying job at the radio station. After an unrestrained argument, I blurted out that I was not ready for marriage. As my not-so-kind words hit her, she stiffened and stared at me, mouth agape. I stood there adamant and watched her as she quickly regained herself and quietly snatched her bag and left. That was the last I saw of her. Like a sojourner, I was overwhelmed and sought after a ‘better life’. I left Port Harcourt for Lagos notwithstanding her pending threats.

****

I started work almost immediately, hoping I had a few days to properly relocate my belongings. I still had Amaka on my mind, but reaching her became more of a herculean task. I had wanted to break the good news of my new well paying job to her. I wanted to tell her about my stylishly furnished office space. Most of all, I wanted to embark on the journey with her, making up for my past mistake.

About six months had gone by after relocation to Lagos. With that came a disturbing hearsay that Amaka was to walk down the aisle with another man. I was distraught.

****

High Rocks Computers had a way of influencing someone unconsciously and keeping him on his toes at all time. Though I felt out of place moving from a broadcasting outfit to an ICT company, in less than a year, I grew my confidence and attracted a reasonable amount of trust from Biodun. Her opinions were respected by other members of the management team such that when the Monrovia challenge came up and someone had to be sent, Biodun was quick to recommend me. Only both of us knew our history. Despite the fact that we had managed our personal spaces in the office well, speculations began to make the round that both of us nursed feelings for each other. While I still thought that nothing could take the place of Amaka, my fondness with Biodun grew until I found myself on the flight to Monrovia.

Three

Upon touchdown at Kotoka International Airport, my nap was cut short. I had dozed off few minutes after takeoff. I sat up, and my drowsy eyes caught a faint view of some passengers walking towards the aircraft door. I sat back and observed the slight jostle within the aircraft. Minutes later, the Ghana bound passengers were replaced with new passengers traveling from Accra to Monrovia. Some passengers had come to replace the former ones I had hoped to befriend when we get to Monrovia. As I watched my environment, my eyes fell on a tall and broad shouldered man who had an obvious well chiseled jawline and with almost bushy eyebrows. His head was clean shaven and he wore a quiet demeanor. He glanced at me as he approached, then at the camera I placed on the middle seat. Hello… he said, then flashed a weak smile that displayed cracked front tooth.

I responded with a Hi… then looked through the window.

The man placed his bag inside the overhead locker, then pointed to my camera on the empty seat as he took the aisle seat. These are yours? he asked.

Yes. They’re mine.

Are you a journalist?

No…I just love cameras and enjoy random outdoor photography. I added.

Wow, that’s good… so what do you do? he questioned as he took another glance at the camera that rested between us.

I work with an ICT company. I said and smiled at him. We are computer dealers and ICT device specialists…

Okay… On vacation? he interrupted.

I sustained my smile and shook my head slowly. Hmm, vacation? Not at all. We have a branch in Liberia and…

A foreign company? he interrupted again and gave a friendly smile.

I shook my head gently and thought he had bad communication manners despite his friendliness. High Rocks… It’s a Nigerian company. I said. My face lit up with a smile, mildly. I had always boasted of being a part of a Nigerian company that had standards that could match that of any of its kind in the world.

Nigerians are typically very brave people. he said and tapped his fingers on the armrest. Do you know that, though the Liberian economy is picking up gradually, many Liberians are still too skeptical to invest in their own economy? Those of them that are brave enough to do so don’t have the resources. They’re the ones you see on the streets who don’t have anywhere to run to in the wake of wahala." he said.

Why? I asked, wearing a confused face as I got a bit distracted, wondering if wahala, a pidgin word for ‘trouble’ was English.

Pitifully, he looked at me and chuckled. Have you been there before? he asked and without waiting for an answer went on. "See, it’s a general belief system that anything can happen. So, many of them invest in trivial things like big cars and other expensive toys. They believe that if anything happens, they can cross the border with their acquisitions."

I became more curious than ever, then made my round of questioning. So, what do you do there?

I am a soldier, and part of the Ghanaian contingents working with UNMIL.

Unmil? Quizzical and with arched eyebrows, I squinted.

Yes. That’s the United Nations Mission in Liberia.

Oh! I see. I chuckled, and also amused at my thought that soldiers are hardly friendly people.

Many of the investments there are owned by the Lebanese and the Indians. The Chinese are there too, investing and lobbying massively. he continued.

Mmh, don’t you think there’s something these people see that others don’t see?

No doubt. There are escalating opportunities.

I understand it was an American colony, do Americans have investments there too? I asked.

Fallacy. America as a nation did not colonize any country in Africa. the man pointed out.

My Senior Secondary history textbooks stated that the American Colonization Society being the direct colonizer of Liberia best describe the nation as former unofficial protectorate of America. My face wrinkled into a frown for underestimating the man’s knowledge of history. Quickly, I rephrased. What I mean is that the country is still under America’s sphere of influence.

Oh, well, to a large extent, yes… splaying pockets of investments which I see as contraptions of exploitation and manipulations. Were they honest establishments? he asked rhetorically and hissed. Instruments of unequal exchange. he said, then scratched the itch on his left eyebrow. Anyway, there, you have fire Stone and others.

"Unequal exchange the last time I heard that phrase was as a student and I thought again that the man is quite good with history. Fire Stone?" I asked.

"Yes, it’s a rubber plantation company, an offshoot of Bridgestone. It is the largest multinational company in Liberia and the world’s largest rubber plantation. A modernized version of what they used to have in the American plantations during the Transatlantic slave trade.

Bigger than that of Malaysia and Thailand? I humbly asked.

He cast me a wry look, stuttered mildly and shot me another look, then adjusted himself as if to rest his head. I’m not sure, just maybe after those two.

I could not resist the temptation of going further with my questioning. After all, this was my first time to Liberia. I understand the largest city is Monrovia? I asked.

He looked away, then answered. "Yes, by far. There’s Gbanga in Bong and Harper in Maryland Counties, there is also Kakata… I think, in Magibi or so but Monrovia is by far the biggest. The population is approximately nine hundred and something thousand. Perhaps lesser but definitely not more than a million. The whole of Montserrado is about two million.

Montserrado?

Yes, that’s the county that hosts Monrovia. The country is divided into counties unlike Nigeria which is divided into states. They like it the American way.

America is divided into states. I gladly corrected.

Yes! It’s the states that are divided into counties. You’re right. He sat up, clasped both hands, then jutted them forward. Look at it this way. Liberia sees herself as a lost American state in West Africa. Their flag is like a copied version of the American flag. It’s only ‘The Lone Star’ that makes it look different. I bet a ‘lonely star’ can’t do much. he chuckled, then smirked.

This passenger seemed too impressed with himself. The silence between us began to grow. I watched him yawn.

There are many Nigerian banks there apart from transnational Eco bank. he continued.

Oh really? I wondered why he kept throwing information at me without minding if he was talking too much.

Yes. There are too many of you there, and you won’t be lost in the crowd. Although effective communication might pose a challenge. He paused and checked his time. In a minute he began speaking in a feigned American-like accent or something that sounded like American English. I was amazed.

"In their accent, they don’t usually pronounce the last consonant of some words. Like ‘Sou Beach’ for ‘South Beach’. ‘Ru’ for ‘rude’ and sometimes, the letter ‘w’ takes the place of ‘v’. like ‘palawa’ for ‘palava,’ ‘ower there’ for ‘over there,’ ‘cassawa’ for ‘cassava.’ If you have these memorized, you’ll cope easily with the accent. He paused, then tapped again on the armrest. Are you Ibo or Yoruba?" he asked.

I heaved a sigh and allowed my eyes to roam. They fell on one of the flight attendants that reminded me of Amaka. I am from Abia state. I reluctantly muttered, hoping it to be a more civilized answer.

"Abia state. is that in what part of the country?

East. I muttered absentmindedly, my eyes still pinned on Amaka’s lookalike.

Oh! You’re Ibo. I know some Ibo friends both in Ghana and in Liberia. he stated. One of them is Emeka, in Monrovia but he left for Nigeria. He said something about taking his kids to school in Nigeria. Since then, I’ve not heard from him."

His last words fell on disapproved silence.

Four

I nearly fell backwards when this wide-shouldered-well-built and about five feet eight-inch man grabbed me firmly and gave me a brotherly hug with the widest grin I had ever seen. Wasaap bro? Figo greeted. His deep voice boomed. He unlocked himself from the hug and gave me a firm handshake. "Welcome to LIB, momehn." he said, being nothing near official. I watched as he hauled my luggage and transferred it into the trunk of a hired car.

The drive through the lush green fields on the Roberts field highway, en route Monrovia, reminded me of versed opportunities and how close we are to nature each time we find ourselves outside the urban areas. I observed the giant mushroom-like shacks scattered across the greenery and noticed a convoy of white UN trucks that zoomed by. I turned to Figo with a concerned look. How is Liberia? I questioned.

"Liberia geh problem. Ain you know, the political arena is tensed up right now. A lot of people fear there might be another war. I’m even surprised the company allowed you come to Liberia at this time that many people are leaving the country." Figo said.

This jolted me. His response did not reflect the influx of passengers I witnessed that just got into the country. How can people travel into Liberia when others are leaving? I didn’t want to dwell on that. Quickly, I changed the topic "This is November; the weather looks gloomy already. Is it about to rain? I asked.

Here, it rains in December too. Figo said.

I thought Figo joked, but the driver with a smile nodded in agreement. "The whole day, e’raining. The whole day, rain falling."

"Liberia hot now, everybody scary now, momehn." Figo referred to his earlier statement.

What really is the problem?

"La the two main political parties. CDC said Ellen and her people rigged the election this gone July. He yawned. Obviously tired. Five CDC mehn were killed during a protest march and the CDC people have accused the government police."

****

Here we are. Figo said as the driver pulled over in front of a white building on Tubman Boulevard. Figo slammed the car door and gestured towards the building. It’s a rented structure from a Lebanese landlord. It’s too miniature when compared with other branches of High Rocks across the globe but I think the company considered the size of my country’s economy. Figo explained then turned to the driver and handed him 50 US dollars.

The driver collected the money with a nod at Figo, then turned to me. "Olrah bossmeh."

See you later. I responded, believing he meant "All right, boss man. then turned to Figo. Was that American dollars that you gave the driver?" I asked, my eyebrows arched.

Sure, we use US dollars alongside the Liberian dollars. Figo said and stepped forward, leading me down a passageway.

As we stepped into the building, my eyes scanned the office space. It had eight-staff workstation desks, and one that faced the entrance. On it were receipt booklets, a cup of pens, and a printer. It was the only desk that had a printer on it. Behind the desk was a wooden wall that demarcated the office from another section of the building. I convinced myself that this was the accountant’s desk. Figo placed my luggage beside one of the tables. As you can see, everyone has left. It’s gone past five.

I nodded at him and thought the place did not smell like someone has breathed in it for a while.

I took calculated steps away from Figo as I noticed a door slightly ajar. It revealed the inside of what looked like a warehouse. Cobwebs dangled lazily around the door frame. I gave the door a slight push, and indolently, it creaked. I peered into the dark dusty space, then gently shut the door. Figo’s focus was fixated on his phone as I turned around. No light? I quizzed.

He looked at me confused. Light?

I smiled and pointed at the electric bulb. No electricity power?

Oh, you mean current? We use the machine, Figo said and saw the look on my face. That’s the power generator, I mean.

Oh! I see, but why? I asked, and walked back to where Figo had placed my luggage.

He turned to look away We were disconnected.

I did not bother to ask who did the disconnection. I nodded and ran my index finger on a table so that it drew a straight line to display how much dust the table had accumulated.

When is the resumption time?

8 O’clock.

Five

Tarr Town is an urban area that wore the look of a rural community. Its corroded tar roads created an additional defacement, and its unevenly haggard lanes had building structures that looked dilapidated. The crushed wire gauze and the collapsed wrought iron gates created vague imageries of a place that once flourished with a more beautiful but simple life pattern. Tarr Town’s calm nature has been altered by the proximity of the Old Road market that had kept it busier than it should have been. Quite a few of the buildings seemed to have struggled to retain their initial outlook, especially one particular hotel that stood out like a prideful groom. Sticking out from the fence is this four storey structure that always caught the attention of passersby.

Uncle Bronx’s Hotel looked different from the one I first used in Mamba point with the room a bit smaller and less furnished. The windows overlooked the road but the noise from passing vehicles were muffled by thick drapes within my hotel room. The first floor had a shared balcony reserved only for the lodgers. I had abandoned the hotel in Mamba Point when I got a call from Uncle Bronx informing me of a space in his Hotel that can go for 60 US Dollars as ‘special rate’. I had wondered what it would look like but concluded that I was not in Monrovia for pleasure. Also, staying at Mamba point would have been more of an introverted lifestyle for there was neither a general lobby, a bar nor recreational facilities. I saw the roomers either on their way in or out of their rooms. They were all whites and only muttered greetings while fumbling for keys in their hand bags or fiddling with their phones and barely looking up.

****

Uncle Bronx, a rambunctious and friendly man in his late sixties, always in a talkative mood about his heydays at every slight opportunity. This particular evening, I had gone to inform him of my intention to extend my stay in his hotel while I searched for a permanent residence somewhere in the city. He nodded gently and reached for a receipt booklet, looking unusually quiet. That will be nice. I am sure it will be too expensive for you to run your business from a hotel. I’ll help you check around. he promised as he tore me a receipt.

My residence is still in ruins. It was a target for heavy shelling during the war. It used to be a lovely place with a king-size swimming pool. Perhaps, I would’ve given you an accommodation there ’cos you’re just like a son to me. I would have fixed the place but I don’t want it to be a distraction now. I’m still trying to fix something for my son who is back there in the States and studying. Uncle Bronx sniffled and raised his eyebrows.

You see, the country is building up again and it will be nice for any business minded person to take advantage of the growing opportunities. I sleep and do every other thing here. I don’t care about luxuries any more. I am an economist.

He scratched his bald head and removed his glasses. Do you know I was a minister during the past regime?

I was surprised. Oh, Really!?

"Yeah. This place was a Cinema but it was destroyed during the war. You know, after the war, my finances crumbled, then I thought it’d be nice to set up this place for good use. Due to the advent of Home videos, the people now have neither interest nor money to visit the cinemas. I started with four rooms, then expanded to 25 rooms and still expanding. Uncle Bronx spoke with pride and adjusted on his seat. If you observe, after the room you’re staying in is a wooden wall. It is only temporary and remains like that till the next UNMIL contingents." he continued as he leaned closer, bringing his dark face under the dusty fluttering of the table lamp. This made him look like a mafia lord in an action movie.

Wow. This is indeed ingenious, Sir.

Did you see the man that just left?

Yes. I wondered who he meant. I had seen some men come and go before our conversation.

He is from the Presidency. It is a usual practice by the high and mighty to reserve some rooms here. So by mid January, there will be an influx of some African dignitaries for the Presidential inauguration. Expansion begins after that advance payment. Uncle Bronx said as he snapped his fingers and smiled.

I began to show interest in what he had to say. I think foreigners benefit more from this hospitality business, and the locals benefit from recreational facilities, especially after the ugly war incidents. In Nigeria, the cinema venture is a very thriving business now.

You might be right. But Nigeria has enjoyed a stable economy for a while now. Is it not as they say: ‘Africa’s largest economy?’ Look at you now. The business environment in your country is so saturated that you are now looking for prospects in other African countries. Now, that is expansion. Uncle Bronx said as he tapped his fingers on the desk. See, your people can afford to go to cinemas but in Liberia, just a few with about seven dollars or more can go watch a show. Some can do that on special occasions but it’s not my business that will have to depend on special occasions. he said and let out high pitched throaty laughter. I was caught in the laughter web, but untangled myself as I let my tired eyes pan around his tastefully furnished office.

The businesses that thrive the most here are the ones patronized by visitors because they’re the ones that come with the money. Uncle Bronx continued then chuckled again.

Uncle Bronx, I get the point you are making. That’s money first before anything else, right?

If you say so! he said and burst into another round of laughter.

Six

By 7:00 AM, Sinkor still looked like a sleepy ghost town. Shops were still shut and the morning dew sparsely settled. There were no signs of ‘rush-hour’. Nothing to indicate that it was going to be a busy day except for zooming cars along Tubman Boulevard.

A reminder of a meeting by 9 AM, had caused me to dash out of the hotel in the same manner I would have done if I were in Lagos only to arrive at the office before 6:20 AM. A gangly elderly man with deep sunken eyes, and looking like he was in his late sixties approached me at the gate. "Hello, you looking for somebady?" he asked, flashing a faint smile. He looked apparently worn out from a night duty.

Good morning sir. Yes, I work here. I arrived in yesterday from Nigeria. I said with a lavish smile.

He nodded his head slowly like one trying to a decode a message."This Pekin them can’t come to work’oo. Na one, one time. Ain they know you here?" he asked.

I nodded, believing he asked whether Figo and others were aware of my visit.

But, you cam soon…too soon, momeh. La here you comin sten till the people cam? he asked.

Well, I’ll go and look for a place to have breakfast. I said as a tactical response that covered the fact that I did not understand what he said. I’ll be back.

Few minutes after I returned from having an unplanned breakfast, a young boy approached the entrance of the building, then walked up to me. "You the bossmeh from Najuria?" he asked with two fingers holding a toothpick in his mouth.

From Nigeria, yes. I said.

‘Oor, welcome Bossmeh." he muttered then hurriedly walked to the gate, fondling out a bunch of keys from his pocket. About Thirty minutes later, Figo walked in and I checked my time- it was 8:57 AM.

"Bros, I don’t see any sign of seriousness here! We all were supposed to be here by eight, where are the rest of you? I ask in the most casual manner I could.

Figo turned to the chap that opened the office. "Where’s Serena?’ he asked.

I don’t know. the young boy said, and steadily dusted the tables one after another with rapt concentration.

We circled a desk, then a lady and a young man walked in side by side, sluggishly like two lovers on a beach. They seemed oblivious of my presence.

Are they part of us? I questioned, reaching for my wristwatch. I checked the time- 9:15 AM.

Figo nodded and I shook my head as I watched quietly their lackadaisical mannerisms. the young man pulled a chair out, and motioned for the lady to sit.

"Well, lady and gentlemen, may I introduce to you Mr. Kemuel Afa… Afobula. He will be spending some time with us here; all the way from our Head office in Nigeria.’ Figo said with both arms folded on the desk as I keenly observed everyone in attendance.

"Good day everybody. I am Kemuel Afobula, just as he said, except that he tried to butcher my last name." I