CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
April 7, 1980, West Point Area, Monrovia, Liberia
IT WASN’T SO MUCH that he hated them. It was more like he hated what had happened to him. And the worst part was, he wasn’t even sure if he could blame it all on them anymore. He could admit now that writing and distributing the anti-Tolbert poem was not the smartest move he’d made in his nineteen years. As a trained Progressive Alliance of Liberia activist, he knew very well what it meant to spend your political capital—to throw it like a bomb into the insatiable mouth of the Congo people, and watch it do its work. And then to feel the consequences. Still, Ujay Flomo smiled. His dream of a university education might have been snatched away, but his dream of a just society? They couldn’t take that from him any more than they could take his name. The more they tried, the more vigorously he and PAL and everyone in the movement would resist. As one Comrade drops, another takes his place-oh. Yes, that was the way of it. They didn’t even see the wave until it was upon them.
“But what use is democracy if you cannot participate-oh?”
Ujay groaned now and rolled over on his lumpy, dirty mattress, pulling his wrists over his ears.
“Eeh-menh! Now you expelled, all those political aspirations falling away, small-small,” she had told him at the meeting the other day. “That beautiful justice you fighting for so hard, that one you say worth an ocean of blood and another of fear, that one will not allow you to serve those you represent. You will never be a senator now, and the people of West Point will never benefit from the strength of your leadership.” Her usually steady voice was almost shaking at this point, and her delicately coiffed bob was slightly askew. He knew what he should be feeling at that moment should have been anger, but instead, all he felt was an acute urge to touch her face, and move the delinquent hair behind her ear. “What will you do when all this is over-oh?” she asked him. “What will you do-menh?”
His breath had caught in his throat then, and he broke his gaze with her. “Nothing is ever over, Evie,” he said. He knew she hated being called that—it was what her mother called her—so he had delighted in almost exclusively calling her “Evie” since they had met years ago, as children. He watched her wince and resisted the urge to pinch her. If she only knew how hard he had to work every second he was around her not to touch her.
“That,” she said, her mouth in a thin, pinched line, “is bullshit.” He couldn’t help it then—he burst out laughing, which of course made her even angrier. He finally got control of himself, and said, “Careful, Evie. What would your mother say-ya? You’ll never get a husband that way.”
She was livid now. “I not getting no husband,” she said and stomped off.
But Ujay knew she would; whatever the two of them had become recently, he knew she would. She was a product of her place, family, and stature, after all. Her class always married—up, if possible; never down.
He stretched out now and made a conscious decision to wipe Evelyn from his mind. Nothing good could come from thinking of her, he had learned that long ago. No, better to consider the rumors circulating all over the city that George, Oscar, Dika, and the others might be executed next week, to mark the occasion of the first anniversary of the Rice Riots. Wilson had told him about it a few days ago, and the thought of it made him want to break something. The trouble was, there was nothing around to break—his family owned little of value, and everything that was valuable was already broken.
“They want to make an example of them-menh,” Wilson had told him, leaning over their water glasses at the student center. “They feel the same energy on the streets that we do-oh—the exhaustion with their easy brutality. They know they have to do something to quell it, and they think that something is right in their compound.”
Wilson was Kpelle, from Bong County, and head of the Student Unification Party, which had gained strength and power over the past five years, as more indigenous students came to school in Monrovia. Students from the city had dominated all aspects of university life for decades, but with the current political climate, they were finally seeing their limited perspectives challenged. A skillful speaker, Wilson was able to bring together Kru, Grebo, Krahn, and Geh, clans that had never before seen a common goal: to have a place at the table at the seat of the republic.
“Their compound is connected to our compound,” Ujay said, taking a sip from his glass. “If they try anything, more blood will be spilt-menh. And this time, the blood will not only be ours.” He looked around the student center, at the men and women laughing and teasing one another, and he was struck with an intense longing throughout his entire body just to rest—to be easy. But then, in the next moment, his breathing seized up in his chest, and he knew that he could never rest until he had seen it, the entire thing, through.
Wilson’s hand slamming down on the tabletop woke him from his reverie. Suddenly Wilson’s finger was in Ujay’s face. “Blood is blood,” he said. “And we all Liberian-oh.”
The intensity of Wilson’s glance was getting to be too much for even Ujay to stand, so he broke from it for a moment to look at the DJ, who was switching out James Brown for the new Earth, Wind & Fire LP. Ujay knew a complicated political debate was moments away, and he simply didn’t have the energy. “These people . . . They not people-menh. I don’t know what they are. They come here over a century ago, to escape from slavery, they say, to find a new land, a home to be free, and what they do-ya? They act as if no one here already, as if we have no culture, no civilization, no religion, no humanity-oh.” He laughed again bitterly. “No, no. The Congo people know no other way of rule than brutality. All they know how to do is kill—whether slowly, by the deadening poverty we endure, or quickly, by force-menh.” Ujay felt the familiar hotness behind his eyes and swallowed quickly, telling himself to calm down. That was all he needed, to cry in front of Wilson. “And that is why,” he concluded, “the only solution is indigenous rule-oh.”
Wilson shook his head slowly. “The only solution, eh?” He took another sip of water. “And John and Mary, Cecilia and Josiah? What about all the Congo people trying to help us-oh? Shall we kill them too?” Wilson’s voice was rising, and Ujay motioned for him to quiet down. Who knew who was in the student center right then? This was a time when no one was safe—especially those who were stupid enough to think they were.
“For God’s sake-menh!” Ujay hissed. “I not saying we should kill anyone—least of all our friends.” Ujay grinned at Wilson mischievously. “Or lovers.”
Wilson’s eyes flashed in alarm.
Ujay held up his hand. “It okay-ya,” he said. “I not gonna say a thing.”
Wilson scowled. “You just did-menh.”
Ujay shrugged. “Love is love, my friend.”
Wilson leaned into him, seeing an opening. “Oh ya? So, what revolution, then?”
Let’s groove tonight, the speakers thrummed. Share the spice of life. A woman’s peal of laughter shot out from a corner. Ujay shrugged.
“Revolution the opposite of love for you, Ujay,” Wilson continued, all the fire evaporating from his features. He just looked sad now. “And that why I don’t trust you-menh.”