Love Has Many Faces

By Lisa Morgan

Following eight exhausting years working in a warzone, Lisa was burnt out and ready for a new chapter in her life—hopefully one that involved a little romance.

In her forties and doubtful of ever finding true love, she meets an exotic Afri

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Morgan
• Release date: Apr 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781526203755

Lisa Morgan

Lisa Morgan is a Hobart-based artist and illustrator who specialises in whimsical, finely detailed watercolours and drawings. She sells her original artwork and a range of printed cards from Quoll Artists' Gallery in Salamanca Place. Lisa also works part-time as a gallery attendant at MONA (Museum of Old and New Art) in Hobart where she finds endless inspiration for her own artwork.

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LOVE HAS MANY FACES

A Lisa Morgan Press book

First published in Great Britain 2016

Copyright © Lisa Morgan

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use – other than for ‘fair use’ as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews – without prior written permission of the publisher.

Lisa Morgan was a British national working in the Middle East when she met Boaz, a Ugandan she believed was the love of her life. She moved to Kampala to start a new life with him but within months the dream had turned into a nightmare after she was left penniless, heartbroken and fighting for her life in a foreign land. This is the story, in her own words, of Lisa’s fight for justice, how she survived the ultimate betrayal, tragedy and escaped to tell the tale.

Kindness and help comes from the heart, not just from the pocket.

Prologue

‘HE’S NOT COMING!’

'Excuse me?’

'He would have been here by now if he was.’

The taxi driver had a point. I had been waiting at Entebbe Airport for nearly an hour, bags by my side. Travellers were coming and going, but despite the hustle and bustle all I could hear was tinny 60s music seemingly on permanent repeat. I kept looking at my watch and then looking around, but there was no sign of Boaz (pronounced Bo-Az). I couldn't ring him as I’d accidentally left my mobile behind in Lebanon—maddeningly, still on charge. Everyone around me seemed to have a mobile, and not a public phone in sight. Luckily my friend Rita and her sister Maria had come to wave me off at the airport. I’d been using Rita’s SIM card which had all my contacts, so I had written Boaz’s number on my plane ticket. It was a disappointing start to the trip, especially as I had left Lebanon on such a high. It was my birthday, and the girls had made such a fuss. They even surprised me with a Happy Birthday cushion.

I was in Uganda to start a new life with Boaz. I had never been to Africa and I was so excited. This was the biggest decision I had ever made; my very own big fat adventure. But as the minutes ticked by waiting for Boaz, my excitement began to turn to doubt. Where was he? Maybe he was caught up in traffic or got delayed while looking at apartments (one of many tasks we had to consider as a couple)? I had been expecting to see him in the lovely brown, pin-striped shirt that I’d bought. I was forever finding excuses to buy him clothes. But this shirt was special. I had seen it in a small shop in Texas, having spotted it on a mannequin in a shop window. The store was about to close, but I banged on the door until the shopkeeper let me in. I knew the bright colours would look beautiful against his dark skin. We had agreed he would wear it to make it easier for me to pick him out from the crowd. But he was nowhere to be seen.

I liked to spoil Boaz. The previous Christmas I had bought him a very expensive Omega watch from the UK. I hadn’t given it to him yet as it was a surprise wedding gift.

'I will be back in twenty minutes,’ said the taxi driver, ‘and if you are still here, I will take you wherever you want to go.’

But where could he take me? Without Boaz, I had no idea where I was supposed to be going. Twenty minutes later he was back. I was feeling a bit embarrassed and, despite harbouring some doubt about his motives, decided to let him help me.

'What’s the number of this guy?' he asked, taking out his phone.

I read out the number. He rang, but there was no answer. I was now starting to panic, and my mouth turning dry.

Earlier, while changing planes in Addis Ababa, I cheekily asked a cleaner if I could use her phone to make a call to Boaz. I couldn’t leave a message as he didn’t have voicemail, but once he spotted the missed call, he’d call back. Wouldn’t he? I had an hour and a half to kill before my connecting flight, so I sat near the cleaner just in case. But the phone never rang. Admittedly there had been times when I would call Boaz from Lebanon, and he wouldn't answer. He would later blame a poor signal. My experience of technology in third world countries confirmed that this wasn't unusual, so I had no reason to disbelieve him.

By now the heat was overwhelming and panic was setting in. I wondered if anything untoward had happened. This was a man who was never late. In fact, he was usually early.

'Is there another airport?' I asked feebly.

I was determined not to burst into tears in front of this stranger.

‘No, this is the only one,’ said the driver. ‘I will try the number again.'

I could see in his eyes that he felt sorry for me.

This time Boaz answered. The driver handed me the phone. Now I was annoyed. I had crossed a continent to be with this man and he'd left me standing alone, frantic with worry.

'Where are you? I’m stood here at the airport.’

‘Sorry, sorry, traffic. I am on my way.’

He sounded surprised to hear my voice, which stirred a little annoyance in me, but I didn’t want to have this conversation on somebody else’s phone, so I quietly asked how long he would be.

'Not long. About twenty minutes.’

When Boaz finally turned up, he looked pleased to see me and gave me a big hug, but something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I admit I didn’t have much of a smile on my face, and the excitement of my arrival had long dissipated. This was not the welcome I had been expecting.

'Let’s take a picture of you at the airport,’ he said.

‘What, like a bloody tourist?’

Was he kidding? The last thing I wanted was to have my picture taken. I’d only just got off a plane, for God’s sake. All I wanted was to know where we would be living and what plans he had for our future. My sense of unease grew. I knew for sure that something or someone had changed. Could it be that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life?

[1]

My Big Fat Adventure

‘OKAY, LET’S GO. Do you have everything, Morgan?' asked Rita.

'Yeah, I’m ready, let’s do this.'

Rita and Maria were driving me to Beirut Airport. It was my last day in Lebanon—I would miss the place. I took my last breath of Lebanese sea air as I stood on the balcony looking over the Mediterranean Sea.

'Come on, get in the car,' said Rita. 'Okay, okay, I’m coming.'

'We’re going to be late.'

'Not the way you drive, you crazy woman,’ I laughed.

We all started laughing, especially when Rita’s parents tripped over my baggage in their efforts to say goodbye.

It was an exciting day for me. Not only was it my birthday but I was on my way to Africa to start a new life with Boaz, my charming Ugandan boyfriend and soon-to-be husband.

Lebanon had been my vacation home for the last seven years while working as a security contractor in Iraq. The commute was more convenient than going all the way back to the UK for some R&R. It was only an hour and twenty minutes from Baghdad Airport to Beirut. Then I would slip into a bikini and slide down an ice-cold beer—beautiful!

It's hard not to have a good time in Lebanon. The beaches, the mountains, the food; I love it all. It had taken one exceptional person to drag me away from all that.

Rita was a secretary for a lady I’d had an interview with. I was planning ahead by trying to get into the Lebanese job market for when the Iraqi war came to an end. I didn't get the job, but I did gain a terrific friend with a wicked sense of humour. Maria was Rita’s middle sister. She was free-spirited and lived life in the moment. To be honest, I couldn't wish for better friends; they were like my sisters. I got on so well with all the family that her mum even said she’d love to adopt me! I think she was joking, but I did wonder how she’d explain to her friends that her adopted daughter was about the same age as her.

It’s funny how your outlook on life changes when you see it through different eyes. When I was very young, my mother used to tell me that the state of my bedroom looked like Beirut. I had never understood what she meant but always believed it to be some kind of compliment. In the late 70s and 80s, I’d heard my mum and dad talk a lot about Beirut. I only ever got to see the troubles on a black and white TV through the crack of the door, before my mum would shoo me back to bed. She wanted to keep these twelve-year-old eyes and ears innocent.

I only later understood that my mum was referring to my bedroom as a bombsite. Well, that was Mum; she always saw the humour in both positive and negative situations. Funny how life works out. She was almost responsible for my curiosity about the Middle East and why I wanted to understand what these people were fighting about. The sad thing is that Mum died when I was twenty-eight and never knew I pursued a career in security, training as a close protection officer, with a Diploma in Special Weapons and Tactics, and later working for some of the most significant blue chip security companies in London before heading to the Middle East.

I first visited Beirut in 2005 when Sam, a Lebanese pilot friend who regularly flew the Beirut—Baghdad route, suggested that I would love Lebanon and should visit. I was a bit apprehensive about going from one war zone—Baghdad—to another, just for a vacation.

One dreary Saturday afternoon in Grimsby and bored to death, Jo and I were watching an old black and white movie when suddenly I had an idea.

'Come on, we're going into town.'

'Great,' Jo replied, 'what pub are we going to?'

'No, we’re going to the travel agents; I want to buy myself a ticket to Beirut.'

'Do what?'

A new adventure was born. I threw Trip Advisor’s warnings to the wind and booked my ticket. Beirut, here I come.

I’d been a security contractor in Iraq since 2004, eight months after the 2003 invasion. After a while, the experience weighed heavy on my mind. The things I saw; the things I heard. It was like a madness and I started asking myself: is all this worth it? Wars have been going on for thousands of years and there's still no end in sight. Welcome to mankind.

Looking back, I sometimes feel guilty that I played a small part in that war. The only good thing I can say about my involvement is that I was never there to harm anybody, to fight anybody. I held a responsible position that came with plenty of danger, not just to me but also to my colleagues. I lost a dear friend in a suicide attack at one of our checkpoints when a car refused to stop. All weapons were drawn. There was lots of shouting in different languages, lots of confusion. When the vehicle finally came to a halt, and the dust settled, everything changed at the flick of a switch.

I was responsible for the security training at Baghdad International Airport, and it was hard for me not to be sympathetic or care about the Iraqi people. They were equally confused about what was going on. Their futures were hanging in the balance.

These workers took a massive risk—to work for a foreign company or the US military meant they were often regarded as traitors. Plus, they had to make the journey to the airport from Baghdad using Route Irish, the most dangerous and notorious road on the planet. It was like a twelve-kilometre obstacle course littered with sniper fire and roadside attacks. The dangers were endless. At the end of the day they made the journey home again. They not only put themselves in danger. There was also the constant fear of their families being threatened, injured or killed. It’s hideous to think how many lives were lost to capture just one man: Saddam Hussein.

I’m not even convinced he was that terrible, as dictatorships go. I am sure most will agree that Iraq was probably more stable when he was in power. Ten years on I can only pray for the Iraqi people and their safety.

Back to my journey to Beirut Airport with Rita and Maria.... I hadn't slept as I had been up all night with Rita and her two sisters. It was like a proper sleepover, although nobody slept. Rita had been asking me leading questions about African men (again). Lebanese women have social and moral restrictions, especially before marriage. Her natural curiosity meant that she would take advantage of my British liberal ways by questioning me about sex whenever she could. As it turns out, I'm not so open-minded after all, and would typically change the subject or run away to the bathroom to avoid answering. I'm quite old-fashioned and shy when it comes to talking about sex.

But this was my last night, and as we switched off the lights to sleep, the questioning began.

'So, Morgan… is it true what they say about black men?'

Oh no, not again! I cringed under my sheet, not knowing what to say, so I lay still and pretended to be asleep.

‘Morgan! Don't pretend you’re asleep.'

'Dammit,' I thought, ‘she’s got me trapped.’

I could hear the other two sisters rustling in their beds, poised for my answer.

After a moment, I responded with an answer that I hoped would shut her up for good on the subject.

‘Well, put it this way, you don’t know if you are making love or pole dancing.'

We all burst out laughing uncontrollably. Isn’t laughing one of the best feelings ever?

We arrived at the airport, parked the car, and headed for check-in.

'Back in a minute,' said Rita, 'I just need to go to the shop.' Maria went with her as I sorted out my bags and passport.

'Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you!’

I turned around. The girls had surprised me with a pink, fluffy Happy Birthday cushion. How lovely. I couldn’t have wished for a better send off.

'Okay Morgan,' said Rita—the girls always called me Morgan—‘Check you’ve got everything: passport, phone.'

Phone... where is my phone? I started to panic. I had left it on the charger at Rita’s house.

'Oh, no!’ I shrieked. 'What am I going to do? There isn't time to go back for it.'

'Don’t worry, I have all your numbers here,' said Rita, scrolling through her contacts.

Thank God. I had been using Rita's additional SIM card, as I had cancelled my Lebanese phone contract. All I needed was Boaz's number. I wrote it down on the inside of my ticket. I also took Rita's number so that I could call her on arrival.

'Okay, better go now. I will call you when I land. Miss you already. Love you.'

On the plane, all I could think about was my future and my new life with Boaz, and the strong connection we had, our common interests, and the similarities between him and my brother, John. This meant a lot to me as John had taken his own life, an especially profound loss for me. I was very lonely for many years afterwards. When Boaz told me about his time in the