Great mountains and cooler climate even in the peak of dry season hinted me that I was in the native paradise. Suddenly, Kumba, Oldman, my mother, my father and my uncle who disappeared in the bush encroached my wandering mind. I knew Old man was gone, but the others, I assumed, were no longer among the living. The fact that I was unable to say goodbye to them properly bothered me a lot. Many times, my father and mother appeared in my dreams and talked to me in a language that I could not understand. They behaved as if they were from a different tribe. They were in different clothes, not in Kissi traditional clothes or white man`s costumes and had some strange marks like scratches or cuts on their faces, but they smiled happily. Whenever I saw those dreams, I thought it should be the language, traditions, and clothing in heaven that the Reverend Maurice taught me about. I felt delighted because they had gone to heaven which looked like a better place even though they were not able to join our ancestors. As we moved further, I noticed clusters of Kissi-huts fragmented in open areas which proved me that my assumptions could be wrong. An irresistible urge to go back and join them struck me. I banged the back glass of the truck as hard as I could, but it looked like no one heard because the roaring sound of the engine and the road noise had made all the other things inaudible. I wanted to jump out of the truck, but when I looked at how the red soil was passing before my very eyes as fast as Lofa was moving away from me, I was fear-struck. It was a rapid journey across my past that triggered my memories in a panorama of incidents, associated with different sorts of human feelings which ranged from simple happiness to profound sadness, from heights of hopefulness to precipices of despair.
‘Past is a blend of memories that enriches the story, and present is the very product of the past with choices left in one`s hand to light up the future.’
That was the most admired and inspiring quote among what Oldman used to say. I loved it until this point probably because of its complicatedness and the ambiguity, but the moment I started seeing my past unfolding before my very eyes, I realised what he had meant.
The eyes that remained dried throughout the time in Monrovia seemed to have felt the healing power of nature. I cried silently hiding behind the roaring noise of the moving truck that was completely insensitive to pains and happiness which this piece of earth had given to my life. I was being taken to another unknown place about where I did not have a clue whether there would be light or darkness in the store of future. But it looked like we were left with no other choice to make.
When the kissi-huts disappeared into the wild, I wiped my tears. This time, it made me realise no separation was permanent. I determined to come back to Kissi village one day again.
When we reached the border, it was almost six in the evening, and the darkness had already started to dominate the bush, and there were thousands of silhouettes moving across the frontier.
Guinea was never a new place to me. My grandmother often used to go with Oldman to visit her relatives in Guinea. I had crossed the border with my father a few times to participate in funerals of our distant relatives who lived in Guinea. But we had never crossed the border as refugees. We used to carry several bags made out of African palm leaves full of bush meat and cassava when we visited the relatives across the border, and we were always welcomed as wealthy Liberian parents. Today, I was crossing the border on a trunk of a truck carrying my clothes gifted by strangers; with my hopes shattered, ambitions vanished and with a partially acquired and partly imposed culture where my true identity was threatened like the other refugees who had just lost everything they had overnight caused by the war.
I could not forget how the mornings in Kissi-village in Lofa started fresh with the symphonies of Pepper bird and the rising sun over the mountains. Life was simple every day but stable as we knew our routine better than ourselves. Each person had a role to play designated by his family; in a larger context, by the community which was recognised and appreciated when it was well executed. Our ambitions did not raise higher than the Lofa mountains which were the territory of Lomas. The depth of our dreams did end at the bottom of Lofa river, and our perception of a paradise was limited to the bush from where we got everything for life. I constantly felt the urge to return to the village: to meet my people, to talk to them, to dine with them and, probably, I might get news about what happened to Kumba. But behind the dust cloud that blinded everyone who got contacts with Guinea-Liberia border had disappeared by several miles.
The journey that made me leave Kissi-village to find medicine for my father who was dying with the Bush-curse had already taken me to several destinations exposing me to diverse cultures and transforming me into a different person who was still struggling to find where he belonged to. Contrarily, I had travelled through diverse cultures and acquired various skills and knowledge; discovering new vistas and horizons, adhered to new disciplines of life of ‘God.’ Consequently, I had some underlaying confidence about my future that was ‘in the hands of God,’ as the Reverend Maurice said. I decided to stick with the only choice which was to follow the Reverend Maurice.
It was almost a few hours after we crossed the border and the truck stopped near a white colour building that I quickly identified as a church. The Reverend Maurice got down the truck first and started to walk towards the huge arch like the door of the church. Before he reached the door, a lantern light came out with a creaky sound. Then a man in a white robe came out followed by two young men in country clothes. The man in white robes looked like a priest. The Reverend Maurice kept on talking with him as if his fury had already been left abundant at the border of Liberia.
The young men came and helped us take the things inside the church.
‘Viens par ici!’ One old man who looked like a servant told me. I did not understand a single word in French. I looked around seeking for help.
‘He asked you to go that way,’ one of the young men who was helping us to carry the bags told me.
I was given a small room that was relatively bigger than the truckle bed which was in it. But it was not to be shared with anyone. There was a Bible on a small high table standing at the right side of the bed and a wall-mounted cloth hanger on which two old shirts were hanging. The old lantern that was carefully placed near the window was a God-given chance for me to read. I opened the small drawers under the table to see what else was there in the room as I was already impressed with the sudden shift of life after a journey through desperateness and hopelessness. There were some more books, and one was not English. There were different marks on English letters which I could not read. I felt that my life was all set again. I came to believe what the Reverend Maurice said just after my baptism.
‘Your life is in the hands of God.’
I could not forget what Oldman said as well. ‘Life never remains constant.’
Next day morning, we all met again in a small hall behind the church, the Reverend Maurice, the Reverend James and three other priests were there.
‘I Pastor Laurent,’ the oldest looking priest among them told us in broken English. He kept on introducing his colleagues and gave us a briefing about the church and their mission.
‘It is our pleasure to accommodate you here in my mission. Whatever denomination we belong to, we serve the same God,’ he said with a smile.
‘Till everything is settled in Liberia,’ he was very clear about what he was telling.
‘The young man can continue his education, but we have French teachers.’ He looked into my eyes as though he wanted me to learn French.
‘He is good at studies,’ the Reverend Maurice added with delight, and I nodded in pride which I was not in a position to show to others.
In a couple of weeks, I got some new clothes, and I was able to join the missionary school next to the church. Until three months, I learnt only French. The Pastor Jean-Paul, my French teacher, was a very friendly person. He spent most of the time with me as I was the only student who needed special attention in the language class. I enjoyed French and the company of the Pastor Jean-Paul. Over time, he became my mentor. I completed three months with him and commenced full-time education in the missionary school, but I did not forget to meet him after school to discuss difficult points to which I needed clarification. His amazing teaching skills and unbelievably constant and high level of patience impressed me.
‘Un Jour, Je veux être comme toi,’ I told him that I wanted to be like him one day. He laughed; laughter that was not sarcastic but genuine that one would react to a surprise.
He told me to learn more and join the church in case he wanted and the rest would be in the hands of ‘Dieu!’
‘Oui,’ I nodded in agreement.
I dedicated my days and nights again for studies.
‘Life never remains constant.’ Words of Oldman echoed inside my mind. Just like hibernated plants came back to life when the rainy season started, my hopes began to breathe, and ambitions to grow.