I WAS PRESENT WHEN IT ALL HAPPENED
It happened over a quarter century ago. Not many events remain in tact within the folders of my fading memory but this continues to be cuddled in my cranium.
It happened in Monrovia, in the West African state, Liberia. Liberia is the only state in all of Africa that was not colonized by a foreign power. Monrovia, the capital was named after James Monroe the fifth president of the United States. The capital Monrovia at this time had a population of approximately one hundred thousand inhabitants.
It is believed that the carrion complexion and kinky hair of the negroid strain is recessive. So too I have found from all my peripatetic peregrinations from coast to coast and across continents that they are a people who exult in the act of sharing what little they possess with as many as they can find without a tincture of regret or remorse.
I was employed as controller of a construction company in Monrovia, engaged in World Bank projects. The staff comprised of Italians, Malaysians, Ghanians, Nigerians, Sierra Leoneans and of every tribe in Liberia. The president of the company, a master plumber was trained in the United States. A man of about five foot four was built like a fire hydrant. He was one who believed that he should first treat himself to the very best. Caviar, champagne and the Concord. Nothing less. Although he had a proclivity for pampering himself with the first take, he was of generous and forgiving temperament.
At a certain point of time during my sojourn with the company strange things began to happen. Every Monday morning when we reported for work, items of small value were found to be missing. Not much attention was paid at first. The value of items began getting bigger and bigger as the Mondays rolled by. From pocket calculators to heavy adding machines. It now reached a point when it became a guessing game as to what would be missing. Men and women would discuss the robbery in whispers in corners. There were no signs ever of a break-in. There was no need for a Sherlock Holmes. " Elementary Doctor Watson." It was an inside job. These facts set in motion a torrent of indictments by innuendo turning the atmosphere at work noxious and inter staff relationship divisive and debilitating. I felt I was left out of the lasso of suspects only because I , a foreigner, would not wager, put in jeopardy a lucrative contract of employment.
It was a Saturday. It was around eleven thirty in the morning. The closing time was twelve noon. I observed men and women running down the stairs making a loud noise. I followed the sound and found myself in the yard adjoining the main office. A circle had been formed. In the center, squatted, was a man, unkempt,gaunt with a face resembling a battle axe, dressed in African garb on which time had left her grisly marks projecting that supercilious, imperious comportment of a Liberian cop. He had a rusty basin with yellow liquid, a machete and some leaves. On inquiry I was informed he was a Juju man and had been sent for by the president. His job was to catch the thief. The president too was present.
The Juju man proceeded to call those present to come one by one and take the test. He would request the participant to hold on one end while he held the other end of the machete. He placed the leaves on it and sprinkled the yellow liquid from the basin. The tested was then asked to loosen the grip on the machete and withdraw his hand. A guilty person would not be able to let go of the machete we were told. Every one present passed the test. I was not called. I teetered towards volunteering for the experience but backed off. I had no faith in this addled arcane art of detection and feared of being unfairly implicated. What bewildered me more was in the circle of participants were members of the staff who were sophisticated, skilled professionals, educated and trained in the United States, very western in their ways in conduct and bearing who were readily submitting themselves to the dictates of a Juju man and unquestioningly awaiting the outcome.
At this point some one in the circle asked "Where is Alfred?." He is in the office working on the pay roll came the reply. "Send for him" the president ordered. Alfred Koroma, a Sierra Leonean was always the first to arrive and last to leave the office. Reticent, intractable, always with a tortured expression he kept mostly to himself. He was for the most part deferential and distant in his dealings with his confreres. Alfred arrived. He had that perplexed "What is this all about?" look. He was asked to submit to the now familiar routine.
Alfred held the machete at one end and the JuJu man held the other. Leaves were placed and the yellow liquid sprinkled as before. The Juju man now asked Alfred Koroma to loosen his grip on the machete and remove his hand. He could not. Tried as hard as he did. A gasp escaped from the crowd and then there was total silence. The JuJu man lapsed into an incantation lasting about a minute or two at the end of which Alfred was able to let go of the machete. Alfred got testy. He remonstrated that the whole exercise was a farce and should not be relied upon. The JuJu man with unflappable demeanor asked Alfred "Are you challenging me?" Alfred hesitated, and then with a hang-dog expression replied between clenched teeth " NO " and made a dash for his cubicle faster than a discharged bullet. It is believed that had Alfred challenged the veracity of this test the JuJu man could cast a spell and some harm would certainly come to him before sun set.
The president was a witness to all this. He returned to his office, his head bowed with that anguish that takes hold of a jockey when agonizing whether or not to shoot his injured horse. He said nary a word. Alfred was his favorite. His pride. His pick of the litter.
Alfred Koroma was not fired. He was not called upon to pay for the stolen property. He was not admonished. The robberies stopped and Mondays resumed their uneventful monotony once more,
As some of us trundle forward in the twilight time of our lives we begin to live our lives backwards. Bringing to mind these timeless caressing and comforting words of Wordsworth.
"For oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood,
they (memories) flash upon that inward eye which is the
bliss of solitude."
K.B. Chandra Raj
It happened in Monrovia, in the West African state, Liberia. Liberia is the only state in all of Africa that was not colonized by a foreign power. Monrovia, the capital was named after James Monroe the fifth president of the United States. The capital Monrovia at this time had a population of approximately one hundred thousand inhabitants.
It is believed that the carrion complexion and kinky hair of the negroid strain is recessive. So too I have found from all my peripatetic peregrinations from coast to coast and across continents that they are a people who exult in the act of sharing what little they possess with as many as they can find without a tincture of regret or remorse.
I was employed as controller of a construction company in Monrovia, engaged in World Bank projects. The staff comprised of Italians, Malaysians, Ghanians, Nigerians, Sierra Leoneans and of every tribe in Liberia. The president of the company, a master plumber was trained in the United States. A man of about five foot four was built like a fire hydrant. He was one who believed that he should first treat himself to the very best. Caviar, champagne and the Concord. Nothing less. Although he had a proclivity for pampering himself with the first take, he was of generous and forgiving temperament.
At a certain point of time during my sojourn with the company strange things began to happen. Every Monday morning when we reported for work, items of small value were found to be missing. Not much attention was paid at first. The value of items began getting bigger and bigger as the Mondays rolled by. From pocket calculators to heavy adding machines. It now reached a point when it became a guessing game as to what would be missing. Men and women would discuss the robbery in whispers in corners. There were no signs ever of a break-in. There was no need for a Sherlock Holmes. " Elementary Doctor Watson." It was an inside job. These facts set in motion a torrent of indictments by innuendo turning the atmosphere at work noxious and inter staff relationship divisive and debilitating. I felt I was left out of the lasso of suspects only because I , a foreigner, would not wager, put in jeopardy a lucrative contract of employment.
It was a Saturday. It was around eleven thirty in the morning. The closing time was twelve noon. I observed men and women running down the stairs making a loud noise. I followed the sound and found myself in the yard adjoining the main office. A circle had been formed. In the center, squatted, was a man, unkempt,gaunt with a face resembling a battle axe, dressed in African garb on which time had left her grisly marks projecting that supercilious, imperious comportment of a Liberian cop. He had a rusty basin with yellow liquid, a machete and some leaves. On inquiry I was informed he was a Juju man and had been sent for by the president. His job was to catch the thief. The president too was present.
The Juju man proceeded to call those present to come one by one and take the test. He would request the participant to hold on one end while he held the other end of the machete. He placed the leaves on it and sprinkled the yellow liquid from the basin. The tested was then asked to loosen the grip on the machete and withdraw his hand. A guilty person would not be able to let go of the machete we were told. Every one present passed the test. I was not called. I teetered towards volunteering for the experience but backed off. I had no faith in this addled arcane art of detection and feared of being unfairly implicated. What bewildered me more was in the circle of participants were members of the staff who were sophisticated, skilled professionals, educated and trained in the United States, very western in their ways in conduct and bearing who were readily submitting themselves to the dictates of a Juju man and unquestioningly awaiting the outcome.
At this point some one in the circle asked "Where is Alfred?." He is in the office working on the pay roll came the reply. "Send for him" the president ordered. Alfred Koroma, a Sierra Leonean was always the first to arrive and last to leave the office. Reticent, intractable, always with a tortured expression he kept mostly to himself. He was for the most part deferential and distant in his dealings with his confreres. Alfred arrived. He had that perplexed "What is this all about?" look. He was asked to submit to the now familiar routine.
Alfred held the machete at one end and the JuJu man held the other. Leaves were placed and the yellow liquid sprinkled as before. The Juju man now asked Alfred Koroma to loosen his grip on the machete and remove his hand. He could not. Tried as hard as he did. A gasp escaped from the crowd and then there was total silence. The JuJu man lapsed into an incantation lasting about a minute or two at the end of which Alfred was able to let go of the machete. Alfred got testy. He remonstrated that the whole exercise was a farce and should not be relied upon. The JuJu man with unflappable demeanor asked Alfred "Are you challenging me?" Alfred hesitated, and then with a hang-dog expression replied between clenched teeth " NO " and made a dash for his cubicle faster than a discharged bullet. It is believed that had Alfred challenged the veracity of this test the JuJu man could cast a spell and some harm would certainly come to him before sun set.
The president was a witness to all this. He returned to his office, his head bowed with that anguish that takes hold of a jockey when agonizing whether or not to shoot his injured horse. He said nary a word. Alfred was his favorite. His pride. His pick of the litter.
Alfred Koroma was not fired. He was not called upon to pay for the stolen property. He was not admonished. The robberies stopped and Mondays resumed their uneventful monotony once more,
As some of us trundle forward in the twilight time of our lives we begin to live our lives backwards. Bringing to mind these timeless caressing and comforting words of Wordsworth.
"For oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood,
they (memories) flash upon that inward eye which is the
bliss of solitude."
K.B. Chandra Raj
posted by K.B.Chandra Raj at
5:28 AM
1 Comments:
Chandra, this writing was wonderful. It rang many bells and brings to me my own endless backtrailing of the mind.
I miss seeing you at the gym in Hamden. I moved back to California last summer. My son was in New York, working for UNICEF, but will now be working as a consultant for Microsoft. I remember you telling me one of your children in living in San Francisco.
Hoping you and your wife are well.
Thank you for your writing.
Sincerely,
Sue Smith
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