Liberian Refugee: A Journey of Struggle, #1

By Derek Johns and Sean Green

This story is based on a young child in Liberia and his journey with his family during the civil unrest.  To quote a strong woman in his life..."We are not gonna let war change us!" The reprocusions of war does not just change an indivudual:  family, friends, neighborhoods, lifestyle, and economy are also affected and how that experience affects the hearts and souls of everyone involved. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derek Johns
• Release date: Jun 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507065761

Book preview

Chapter 1: Change

One by one Aunt Liz beat our adolescent hides. Her eyes were reddish- pink, like the orchids spread throughout pop’s property.  Her tears seized my soul with shame and regret. Supervising our carnal cravings and the needs of a newborn infant, while avoiding the guns and machetes of a bloody and merciless civil war, it seemed too much to ask of anyone. The small welts on my skin felt justified and deserved.

Afterward, when she calmed down and the sting from the beating subsided, she turned to us and said: "I don’t like beating you, but I had to. Because I don’t want the war to change you! We are not going to let this war change who we are! And as the words left her mouth, so did the tears from her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she had spoken those words to me, but I was determined to make it the last.

I was born on the 28th of August 1983, in the city of Monrovia the capital of Liberia. My name is Derek Johns, son of Muna Roberts. My family is from the indigenous African Kru tribe of Liberia, the Kwa- speaking people from the Southern half of the country. My father, Wesley Johns, migrated with his family to Liberia from Jamaica, by way of Sierra Leone. My father and mother were separated by the time I was born. Many years would pass before I would meet them for the first time. My life in Liberia during those earlier years was the stuff of dreams most hoped would fill their subconscious sleep.

Liberia is a Latin word which means: Freed Land. The ancestors of the indigenous population of Liberia came from the kingdoms of the Sudanese between 1100’s and 1500’s. The indigenous people of the land now known as Liberia traded with Portuguese explorers. The Vai, Kpelle, and Loma tribes inhabited the north-West and Central regions of the country. The Gola and Kisi tribes inhabited the North and coastal regions of the country. And the Basa, Grebo, De and Kru tribes inhabited the Southern half of the country.

In the 1700’s and 1800’s many white men in the United States be- came concerned over the existence of freed black slaves in their country. Change was occurring in the Americas, and many of the whites who had once owned slaves were discontent with the integration of freed slaves into their society. In 1816 a group of whites, along with some marginal freed slaves, set up the ACS (American Colonization Soci- ety). The ACS with the help of the then president of the United States, James Monroe, purchased the small coastal land in 1824 and created the colony of Liberia. Its main settlement was names Monrovia, after the U. S. president. Afterward, a mass exodus of freed American slaves began to migrate from America in to the future republic of Liberia.

By 1838, my country was now the Commonwealth of Liberia. The Americo-Liberians headed by the ACS had changed the indigenous landscape into a fledgling government with increased trade income. However, it wasn’t enough since many of the European traders refused to recognize the rights of the commonwealth. Liberia needed to be an independent republic, and so on July 26, 1847 Liberia became an in- dependent Republic and made Joseph Jenkins Roberts its first president. The boundaries of Liberia’s vast coastal and inland regions were finalized in 1892. The indigenous tribes of my country watched as the vast infra-structure of government buildings, education, transportation, etc... changed their homeland. Eventually, the change became the shared identity of the Liberian people, both Americo-Liberian and indigenous Africans.

As a child, the Liberian landscape was for me a thing of wondrous beauty. Stretching across an area of 43,000 sq. miles, with coastal terrain extending approximately 560 km along the Atlantic Ocean, it had the best of multiple habitats. The coast was interspersed with lagoons and mangrove swamps. Yet just a bit inland there was a belt of low rolling hills running parallel to the coast, with the most spectacular rain forest blanketing the landscape. Further inland the landscape was dissected into a plateau with scattered low mountains. The gaudy greens of the plants and the rich scent of vegetation appeased your senses. The high mountains of Nimba and Wogogizi were an explorer’s dream. The rivers of Cavalry and St. Paul were miracles of aquatic construct. I used to ogle in wonderment at the large cattle that roamed the forest and small towns, their massive feet gently touching the soil beneath them. The primates in their curiosity and apprehension were a constant source of entertainment. I passed them by in many of my travels near the brush, and even knew of some that were kept as pets. The primates and lions were the things of terrifying myths passed down through the generations to frighten the indigenous children from wandering off in the brush alone. Whenever my eyes were blessed to lie upon them I found them less threatening. More deserving of being marveled than feared, yet I suppose one implies the other. The birds sung their exotic hymns from the perch of deep-red Mahogany, Evergreen, and Deciduous trees. As a child I imagined their hymns were songs of praise for the Liberian people.

The buildings in Monrovia were raised high, the highest in existence. I was certain! Monrovia was the epic center of Liberian culture. Fashion, entertainment and finance pushed the country forward with a steady hand. I remember questioning, who would be so foolish to give away such a beautiful country? One of my classmate’s remarked: Some guy from America named James Monroe! It wasn’t that we were ignorant of American influence in Liberian history, American influence was everywhere, but there was an increasing cultural hunger amongst the indigenous Africans. Even us young kids felt it; it was more and more obvious every day.

Ironically, my mother Muna moved to America when I was only six months old, but unlike my father, I spoke to my mother everyday over the phone. I cherished the pictures she sent from America and never once felt abandoned by her. ON the contrary, I felt privileged to have such an affluent and worldly mother. Other kids’ mothers worked tirelessly in the cities, fields, plantations and factories. I never felt that my mother’s absence was strange, many kids had absent mothers. Their mothers worked with the weight of Liberia’s economy on their backs. My mother lived in the rich country of America, a place where shard pieces of gold glittered along the streets, a place of immense wealth and lavished living. I mean, that’s what I imagined of America back then.

Education was big in the Roberts family. There was one main college in Monrovia and three trade schools. If anyone wanted to expand their education and opportunities in a global sense they would have to seek it beyond Liberia’s borders. My mother was one such person. The importance of higher learning was instilled in her as it was in us all. She made the sacrifice to migrate to America and seek out the education, she felt, the changing world was demanding of her. With my grandfather’s blessing and financial support, she set out for America with big hopes and dreams.

As for me, my care and upbringing was left to the nurturing hands of Aunt Liz and Aunt Regina. In fact, I had the whole Roberts family as my guardians. My family, like most families in Monrovia, was financially stable and affluent by Liberia’s standards. Money was never a problem. We had cars, big houses and all the opportunities Liberia had to offer. Those things of material gain were miniscule and unimportant compared to what I and my family cherished most of all, Love! Before having to eventually leave for school in some remote place be- yond Liberia’s borders, my Aunt Regina my mother’s sister filled in those nurturing gaps left by my mother’s absence. I never felt the void of my mother’s absence because of Aunt Regina. She had the ability to make you feel loved in excess of want. Every word she spoke, every glance of her eye, the curved smile of her lip was an expression of her love. At times, I suppose, I thought she was my mother or rather hoped she was. If it wasn’t for the daily long-distance phone calls and photos from my mother in America I would have never known anything to the contrary. During those very impressionable years my best friend was my cousin Arnold. We were more like brothers than cousins, often dressing alike and sharing the same likes and dislikes. Arnold’s mother and my mother were sisters. Her name was Huwa, yet we called her baby Johnson. Aunt Huwa and my mother have different fathers. My grandmother conceived her with the Police Chief of Liberia after my grandparents separated. Arnold and I ate, slept, played and attended school together. He was one of the best if not the best soccer players in Liberia. No one doubted Arnold’s future as a soccer all-star. He envisioned himself traveling the world playing soccer. He saw himself stepping up onto the podium of the Olympics with a heavy gold medallion being placed around his neck. He proclaimed with unwavering certainty that was his future. No one ever laughed or joked in response because he was that good. In fact, we probably had far more lavished and prestigious ideas about Arnold’s future as a soccer player than he did. I loved to play Free Town ball with Arnold in Monrovia. Free Town ball was a hybrid of soccer where the goal was made small and there was no need for a goal keeper. We kicked balls down the paved city streets and dominated anyone who dared challenge us. When it came to Free Town ball for adolescents in Monrovia, we had it on lock.

Whenever I and Arnold did not have to go to school, we would trek the short distance to Number Seven. Number Seven was a town located in the rural areas around the city of Kakata, this is where Poppa lived. It was a beautiful place with natural mosaics of exotic trees, plants and grass whose green colors radiated in florescence. It was 30 to 40 miles from Monrovia and lesser the distance from the city of Barnerville. My Poppa, James Roberts, was the judge in the town Number Seven. I never knew why they called it Number Seven, but then again there was much that I did not know back then. My Poppa had a huge house with lots of land for his grandchildren to play on. When we would set for Poppa’s house it was an adventure. His house was exciting, joyous and liberating. We had enough room back in Monrovia, but at Poppa’s house there was more room. We had enough food back home, but at Poppa’s house there was even more food. We always laughed and had fun, but at Poppa’s house we had even more fun.

My grandfather was appointed the Post Master of Liberia by Pres- ident Tolbert. President William Tolbert Jr. was elected president after death of President William Tubman in 1971. During Tubman’s reign foreign trade expanded and iron-ore mining grew considerably. The wealth poured into Liberia at a festive rate. The rubber plantations of Liberia that furnished tires of the American company Firestone thrived under Tubman. When Tubman died, his Vice President William Tolbert Jr. became the President of Liberia. Just like his predecessor before him, William Tolbert Jr. was an Americo-Liberian. However, unlike his predecessor, he failed to continue Liberia’s success and strengthen its economy. To make things worse, drops in iron-ore and rubber prices crippled the economy. The cost