By: Henry M. Mamulu

“Tell Cuttington College, and everyone else in West Africa that can listen, tonight the Devil is unchained”

I was struck with disbelief as I surveyed the campus of The University of Liberia (LU), aglow with torches and barrels blazing bonfires that bore an eerie resemblance to the historic parades of 1939 Germany at Nuremberg—footage I had only witnessed in documentaries and movies. The scene unfolded before me, with various sports teams—soccer, volleyball, lawn tennis, and track—parading their colors, their march more reminiscent of a paramilitary display than that of typical athletic clubs. The night air was thick with an aura of secrecy, saturated with whispers of clandestine maneuvers, as LU had suffered one defeat too many at the hands of Cuttington College and was now prepared to pay any price for liberation from their string of abuses. You see, in the last three college meets, Cuttington College had wallopped LU. But on this particular night, LU emerged victorious in every competition, a triumph symbolized by Vivian’s presence in every single female game. It was as if she poured out herself as a sacrifice to the Gods. 

Marching boldly through a corridor of students and faculty, Vivian strode” demanding attention. She positioned herself and stood at the center of it all. Taking to the podium with unyielding confidence, she boasted of her audacious feats, likening her actions to literally  unchaining the devil and unleashing the very forces of hell upon the enemies of the University of Liberia and the nation of Liberia itself. Such bold declarations were unique to Monrovia, where only a girl like her could dare to orchestrate such a spectacle and she dragged it across the quid “as a dead and wet cat” being pulled by not a “gbey kaykay” (Liberian dog no bigger than a chiwawa), but the vicious ill-tempered mutt named “Blackie”with the sore ear that the flies bothered all day as it tried to nap in the shadows during the afternoon. And every yard had a “Blackie.

It was 1963, because Dr. Weeks still lived on Camp Johnson Road and had not yet moved to LU Campus as Principal.

I must have been no older than six or seven years old when I embarked on my daring escapade, running away from my home on Barracks Road, which later became Sekou Toure Avenue and eventually UN Drive. My sole mission? To bear witness to LU’s monumental and historic shellacking over our detested rivals, Cuttington College. The thought of facing the wrath of Vivian’s Congo mother, who had wedded a Mandinka man, was displaced temporarily and replaced with chants like “oh Vivian Mamulu we have won the victory”. I knew that if she discovered my elopement, all hell would break loose, centered squarely on my behind, with her infamous command: “Langkpa, go get me two good guava switches for this Mr. Ray Hay so I can tan him”. My poor Madinka pa on the other hand married to a rock , rock rock Congo girl could only protect poor “Hen eat all the papush “ with a grunt and leave the room as I would be laid over the dining room table and “whaled” (skin whipped off the back like blubber).

Vivian Mamulu Rennie Gibson, an indomitable figure in Liberia’s history, recently celebrated her 83rd birthday on April 9th, marking a remarkable milestone in her illustrious life. Standing tall as one of the top five influential females to grace Liberian soil, her legacy continues to inspire generations. Alongside her, her sister Judith is poised to turn 80, while her brother Boikai approaches his 75th year. As for myself, having just turned 70 on April 27th, this news brings a sense of hope and renewed vigor. In light of these milestones, I find myself contemplating the prospect of having a baby once again, even at this stage in life.

 Drawing inspiration from the biblical account of Abraham and Sarah, who were blessed with a child in their old age, I remain optimistic that if God could grant them such a miracle, He could do the same for me at 70. And so, I embark on this journey with a preparation akin to that of the patriarchs of old, armed with the “Papa drink it, Mama happy” root bottle, trusting in divine providence to guide  my aim true and on target..

I believe I’ve penned something more poignant for those of us from Snapper Hill who have lost touch with our origins, struggling to retrace our steps back home and have “lost the loving feeling”. After seven years in Monrovia, finding my way back to Broad Street, Snapper Hill felt like navigating through an invisible labyrinth. It was as if a malevolent force, a devil unchained, lurking at the summit of Broad Street, opposite B.W. Harris High School, watching my every move with an ominous familiarity, poised to thwart my every attempt to return.”

The very ground where we were born and took our first breaths, where our naval stings were buried,  where laughter echoed, where we stubbed our toes on the rocks and fell and nearly cracked our skulls on the rocks, beat our clothes on the rocks to get them clean, dried our clothes on the rocks, ate plums, guava , breadfruit, and golden plums that grew on the rocks and where we found solace in the embrace of nature’s rugged beauty—this sacred place has now become the object for this generation’s divide. So much ill will, it would seem, has been left for those from Snapper Hill as members of the family have taken pictures nearly everywhen on earth it seems except the place of their birth.

Indeed, the footprint of the enemy is unmistakable, yet pride and misguided notions have prevented most of them from seeing it. All the Old People “done left and gone”, those who once served as pillars of wisdom and guidance, have left us feeling desolate and apprehensive, grappling with our demons in isolation from each other.

So, To Mami and Chucku, offspring of a love so fiery it left scorched earth in its wake, forever altering the essence of your radiant mother into something ethereal. To Caroline, whose exquisite daughters graced our midst (never a son in sight until graduation—congratulations!), to Leosi, a son bearing the striking resemblance of Prof Stephen John Thomas, to Somo, who guards her secrets with utmost discretion under wraps and keys it seems, to Oscar, his son aptly dubbed “The Robot King,” and to Judy’s hero, perhaps boasting the most formidable lad turned lawyer. And who could overlook Kofi’s brood, seemingly destined for Ghana, and Theo’s offspring, for whom inspiration knows no bounds? Your cousin, auntie, Vivian, bestowed upon Snapper Hill enough vitality to rejuvenate, enough energy to recharge, enough creativity to recreate, enough legacy to perpetuate, enough innovation to reinvent, and enough abundance to redistribute a thousandfold. Really , you to look no further.

But like everything else, the initiative must stem from within. Regrettably, my own children have drifted away, their cups filled with the wine of different callings, rendering them estranged from what we know

.I have accepted it unfortunately. However, there remains hope for yours to rekindle the enchantment of growing up amidst the luminaries of our community. They can still rediscover the magic that thrived in the presence of Mary Brownell, D. Coston Nelson, Aunt Fee, Sis Kate, Rupert Wiles, Lafayette Toles, Christian Richards, Leo Eastman, Arthur Thomas, BoBo Snetter, Rudolf Roberts, Jim Moore, President Barclay, Chief Justice Grimes, The Van Eee, Albert Porte, Mac Deshield, Mr. Nippy from the Old Government Hospital, Sinna Mann, Lordy Miss Claudy, and with the Roman Catholic Church at the heart of our existence.

Vivian’s academic journey was nothing short of exceptional, marked by a consistent streak of straight A’s from Kindergarten all the way through college.80’s were considered failing grades.

So at times, when she does not come around to various functions, understandable at 83, it is a testament to her wealth of experiences and accomplishments. She has seen it all. As a trailblazer for her nation, she led Liberia to triumph in numerous competitions abroad, showcasing her prowess in volleyball, lawn tennis, ping pong, kickball, and even the burgeoning sport of basketball. Despite her unparalleled achievements, she did not graduate as the valedictorian of her class, a title she might have clinched if not for unexpected circumstances. Pregnant with Ashley Rennie Jr. amidst the high expectations of her Congo mother and Mandinka father, she yielded the top spot to Linus Dinkins, the valedictorian, and Amos Sawyer, the salutatorian. Nonetheless, her peers recognized her extraordinary achievements, as evidenced by Linus and Amos visiting her home to honor her on graduation day.

From my vantage point, it seems that unfamiliar faces are overrunning Snapper Hill, but amidst the changes and challenges, there is solace in knowing that Vivian remains a steadfast presence, anchoring the essence of our beloved neighborhood. While it may not be without its flaws, envisioning Snapper Hill without her steadfast commitment and unwavering dedication is a daunting prospect indeed. I cannot imagine it without her.

I tried to use Snapper Hill as a place where I could reinvigorate myself  and rejuvenate my spirit but every time I needed to just lie down, there was someone else already sleeping in the room.  No one could understand that I wanted nothing fancy but just my old room back. So I started to resent going there. For that, I am sorry. But there was this one kid called Gerald that, forgive my impoliteness “the louse was lazy and was a real twat”. He slept all day. I go to morning mass, he’s sleeping. “I come back 5:30 in the evening and the twat” was still wrapped up. It almost seemed as if he saw me and ran back and jumped in the bed. The BASTARD.

Despite the challenges and frustrations encountered with some of the new residents, there are bright spots among them. Moshe, in particular, stands out as a fine young man, handsome and well-mannered, a testament to the nurturing care provided by Vivian. Additionally, Pancha’s assertiveness and determination in developing some of our properties are commendable. Land in Monrovia cannot lay idle for decades without any development. Yet, while I may be perceived as either brave or foolhardy for choosing to remain on Snapper Hill because everyone else with any sense it seems, “want to move to Marshall”.

To hell with them! You cannot compare Marshall to Snapper Hill. In 2018, just before my return to the USA, I waited late one night and took a bath under the moon on the rocks from the black bucket. BLISS!

Well, the eccentrics are moving back “small, small”. Babe Boy is home after a successful stint as a dancer and hotel manager in Gambia.  Ralph Weeks died, Thomas Thompson cannot be found. My own brother says he wants to be bury in his apartment in Brooklyn,   my main men, Old Ma and Budu Boy, are gone. I hear Selma and her sister got religion, and Emma Cooper has turned into a kitten wearing white mittens. I don’t know what happened to Olivia and Girl George. Those were the original “outside girls’ ‘ with bad boys like Sony, Cool and Gbanjah poised to follow. There is only me and Structure Fahnbulleh left of the Old Hellraisers who were unchained that night in 1963.

Bury the hatchet preferably not in each other’s backs, find a place in your hearts to forgive and love again. What a beautiful sentiment, a call to reconciliation and forgiveness, to lay aside our grievances and rediscover the love and camaraderie that once defined our community. Let us not allow the cherished memories of Snapper Hill to be overshadowed by bitterness and resentment. Instead, let us honor Sister Vivian’s legacy by fostering a spirit of forgiveness and understanding, paving the way for a brighter future for generations to come. And who knows, perhaps in 2024, another Mamulu will grace us with their presence, continuing the legacy of resilience and inspiration.

By. Henry Mamulu March 18, 2024

To all Pupu Platooners; those who were in A-B-C, said your S-O SO, memorized the Infant Reader, or in Primer one between 1960-1963. Attention! Right Hand Salute! Julius has fallen.

Julius Weeks, my seatmate in Saint Patrick’s Elementary nicknamed “Juli’ in 1960 has fallen. This was during the Congo crisis, the aftermath of the Korean war and during the early 60’s. America had a peculiar strategy for conquering West Africa, not with bullets but through the power of powdered milk. Mixed with water, it was like unleashing a tidal wave in your bowels, turning us innocent kids into “pupu pots” right in the street on the drilling line during gala day or flag day, when you couldn’t ask for any excuse to go to the toilet. Thus the term “Pupu Platoon” was coined with an elite corps of “Platooners” proudly stationed at Saint Patricks Elementary. The “Non-Fat Dry Milk” diplomacy of the US proved its worth within our ranks. 

Let me name the official 1st grade class, where Pupu Platoon was born in 1960-61:Baker Kantieh, Anthony Doryehn Gray, Theodore Borseh Wallace, Ralph and Anthony Taplah, Joseph Julu, Charles Nagbe, Augustine Myers, Eric and Samuel Davies, Phillip Cummings, George Morris, Harry Gargar, Alphonso Blamo, Paul Yahn, Faustinus Boyah, Christopher Sirleaf, Salia Kerue, Fred Bernard, Musa Kaba. Emmanuel Ledlum. Zinnah Cooper, Nathaniel Brownell, Timothy Sicklo. Issac Alpha, Magnus Jimilack, Ian Yhap, Michael Itoka, Crispin Jones, Hamilton Jones, Gerald Richards, Pinckney King, Martin Scott, Sayklay Koffa Nimley, Lawrence Mitchell, Tennikay and Benedict Sayeh, and Henry Mamulu. The teachers were James Bernard and John Tweh (Chippaychay). The  VP, Joseph Saye Guanu.

Right next to the first grade class was Teacher Gladys Scott’s Primer 2 class. The only class in the school that had girls, and Julius, Crispin, Michael and I were determined to be boyfriends to these lovely creatures. However, even for us hardcore first graders of passion, we could not go out with girls still in diapers. Hell we were men of character and so Julius suggested that we wait another year when they were grown and in the 1st grade and we were their seniors in 2nd grade. Then the affairs would blossom.

That same year we had all been “pupu pots” in the line while drilling and so it was a good thing that our romantic aspirations didn’t come to fruition that year. Can you imagine the horror of trying to “chase” those girls with the scent of battle still clinging to our breeches? It would have been not only cringe-worthy but downright mortifying! Just picture the scandalous headlines gracing the front pages of the Liberian Star newspaper the very next day: “Pupu Platoon Plasters Monrovia”! Oh, the shame! It’s a good thing we spared ourselves and those poor girls from such an indelicate encounter.

Promoted to 2nd grade and filled with anticipation of finally wooing those elusive 1st-grade girls whom we felt had now gone from diapers to panties, we proceeded straight to teacher Gladys Scott’s class, only to find ourselves in a classroom devoid of the fairer sex but instead inhabited by only boys. The school had become an all boys school and we weren’t forewarned. It was a betrayal of the highest order, orchestrated by none other than the clandestine forces of the Catholic Church (or so our young minds believed). Demoralized and traumatized by this diabolical plot, we resolved to take matters into our own hands. At recess, fueled by righteous indignation and the fervor of youth, the four of us, with Julius as our leader, convened and hatched a daring plan: to abandon our studies, forsake the playground skirmishes of cowboys and “Injuns”, and embark on a quest to reclaim what was rightfully ours – the hearts of those 1st-grade girls. We decided to run away from school and go to find our 1st-grade girls.

With hearts ablaze and determination in our stride, we bolted from the confines of the Saint Patrick’s Elementary schoolyard, following the irresistible call across the seas that was Broad and Randall Streets. Our destination? None other than the fortress-like walls of Saint Theresa Convent, where our beloved beauties were imprisoned and held captive. As we approached, we were reminded of the legendary punishments meted out to unauthorized intruders, like the legendary Bruce Williams and his ilk, who were soundly whipped because they had dared to tread upon those hallowed grounds uninvited. But we were not deterred, for we were different. With noble connections within those walls – my sister Judith, Michael’s sister Felicia, and Julius’ sister Fefe, a kickball star no less – we believed they would cut us some slack and we’d be granted leniency. With cautious determination and brave Julius in the lead, we scaled the walls near the dispensary, a clinic nestled within the convent’s grounds, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead in our quest for love. Oh, the lengths we would go for the sake of amour!

Sister Sinfore was taking her first-grade students back in when, with our little hearts pounding and adrenaline coursing through our veins, we ran up to those girls, only to be greeted by a cacophony of shrieks and cries of “your come for us oh” and “rogue, rogue” – words that struck us like arrows, leaving us shocked and mystified. Who would have thought that the objects of our affection would respond with such ferocity to our declarations of love? The situation quickly spiraled out of control, and just when we thought things couldn’t get any worse, looming on the horizon like a specter of doom, was none other than Mother Anopher, the formidable principal of the convent. Oh, how quickly our romantic escapade had turned into a comedy of errors!

Our motley crew of love-sick puppies, made a hasty retreat over the fence and onto Randall Street, our hearts heavy with the weight of impending doom and praying that VP Guanu would not have made his rounds and discovered us absent. The realization dawned upon us like a thunderclap – we were in for a “hell of a trouble,” for we had become nothing more than “dead men walking.” The Church’s punishment for such a transgression was not to be taken lightly. No, there were no mere Hail Mary’s or Our Fathers to absolve our sins. Instead, they had a program, a spectacle designed to instill fear and penance in the hearts of the disobedient. Led up to the stage like lambs to the slaughter, we would face the wrath of the nuns wielding their disciplinary instruments upon the backs of beasts like Jeffrey Laqua, in a ritual akin to crucifixion. Oh, the horror of it all! The very thought sent shivers down our spines as we hastened back to school, praying to whatever higher power would listen for mercy in the face of our impending doom.

The next morning brought with it a grim announcement from the nuns, their faces stern and their voices dripping with righteous indignation. Our crimes were grave indeed and they laid bare our sins for all to hear. “Running away from school!” they exclaimed, and “breaking into the grounds of the Convent and running behind the girls like a bunch of perverts!” Their accusations echoed through the corridors, painting us as the villains in a melodramatic soap opera. It seemed our fate was sealed, destined for an example to be made of us akin to the cautionary tale of the late Reggie Gibson and other students and their ill-fated swim in the Atlantic, where one of our own met a watery demise. Yes, the stage was set for an unholy consecration, a spectacle of punishment orchestrated by the school and church, with us as the sacrificial lambs slated for the Friday slaughter. Oh, how swiftly the tides of fortune had turned against us, leaving us to face the consequences of our reckless folly.

This was when I learned not to join Congo children in any endeavors. Little did I know, they possessed a knack for leaving their allies high and dry at the first sign of trouble. And so it was that Mrs. Weeks swooped in like a savior to pluck Julius from the jaws of impending doom, whisking him away to the safety of the newly erected Methodist Elementary School. As for myself, Michael, and Crispin, we were left to wallow in our misery, counting down the days until our inevitable demise – or as we affectionately referred to it, “the day of our execution.”

The dreaded Friday arrived, casting a shadow of dread over us who couldn’t even stomach a “mami put the pepper” (kala) or indulge in a “sweet mother” (kool-aid frozen in an ice tray with a toothpick) because stomachs churned with nerves as we awaited our fate. My dear ma reveled in the prospect of delivering justice with the two guava switches she had meticulously selected for me, her disobedient son, Mr. Ray Hay (Red Head). Oh, the humiliation of it all!

But amidst the chaos and despair, there came a moment of reckoning as my Mandingo Pa approached me, his gaze piercing through my soul like a sharpened blade. “Why, Henry? Why did you do it?” he inquired, his voice tinged with a mix of confusion and disappointment. And in that moment, channeling the bravado of R. Kelly himself, I looked him square in the eyes and declared, “we did it for love.”

My Pa’s reaction was a mixture of bemusement and silent acknowledgement, a sly smile dancing across his lips as if to say, “Ah, yes, my son, you truly are a chip off the old block but crazy nonetheless.” And so, with heads held high (albeit slightly bruised from the encounter with my mother’s guava switches), we boarded our “duazeh” (old car) and embarked on the journey back home, our spirits tempered by the knowledge that love, however misguided, had been our guiding light through this tumultuous ordeal.

Julius left Liberia early, maybe by the fifth grade and frankly I had not seen Julius since our elementary school escapade. Though our paths diverged after elementary school, there was always that one towering event that cemented our bond, weaving a thread of camaraderie that time could not unravel.

Then, in the early days of 2024, a familiar voice reached out to me across the miles, bringing with it a flood of memories and laughter. Julius, now living in Crozierville, Liberia, had sought me out, continuing to reignite the flame of our friendship with the ease of old friends reunited. In true “boys talk” fashion, he advised that I go to the gas station and buy an aphrodisiac called “Indian Honey”, urging me to seek out its charms in the pursuit of romance. I procured the elusive elixir from a gas station and eagerly awaiting the promised rendezvous. In our next conversation, I told him that I had followed his advice but regrettably the girl never showed up. This seemed to be a new twist on the absurdity of our shared misadventures, a nod to the second-grade antics that had forged our bond so many years ago. And so, we laughed and reminisced about the good times we had shared, finding solace in the memories of our youthful escapades.

Rest in Peace, Juli the Handsome, for that is how the Convent Girls called you – a testament to the indelible mark you left upon us all. Until we meet again, my friend, may your spirit soar free, forever etched in the archives of our shared history.

Look out for our latest book:

Ducor Place. By Michael Itoka, Ian Yhap and Henry Mamulu

by Henry Mamulu, May 2023

In her comeback  to the stage after  years of abuse by Ike, Tina Turner sang the release “What’s Love Got To Do With It?” Thank God in the 60s, I had already heard from the Beatles “I Don’t Care What They Say I Won’t Live In A World Without Love.”

Today many married and unmarried people bask in the notion of a loveless relationship but embrace the act of sex. Of course, that is in my estimate just simply copulation. Even the dogs do it and they too do not love. I mean “Blacky” the itchy dog in the yard impregnated his ma, his sister and that fine French poodle that Mr. Weeks had. Maybe “Blacky” loves his ma but that was it. Old man Sackie killed Blacky, ate him, and no one mourned. 

But not King Richard Ashford Wright.  Richard seems to love, even adore, and calls his wife ‘Momsy” not Queen Amanda Harris, her official title. Official? Yep!

You did not know that ‘Mandy Pandy’, the name given to Amanda by the secret admirers in the day, was queen for B. W. HARRIS High School and will go down into the history books with the likes of beauty queens from that illustrious academy such as Annie Monie, Ma Musu Wiles, Annie Broderick, and even Valeria Hall. Oh yes, Queen “Momsy” held her own. 

When he calls her “Momsy”, there is a special way his voice trembles that only a person who has loved fervently and is still in love can understand. What ever Amanda is doing I notice she stops and comes, because not her husband but also her boyfriend, lover and it seems also friend calls her. Me, I know real love when I see it.

But Amanda is not the focus here but the co-focus , a” help mate” to King Ashford Richard Wright, the Best Husband, lover to a wife, and may I say, father to children next to my son Henry and Terry Brown and perhaps Toyuwa that I know of.  Richard Wright is my “Father of Every Year”.

I do not know about you, but I am not a hard ass but rather a sucker for love. I like to see Ricard when he is taking his wife on vacation at the airport dressed like her. Only a strong man secured in his masculinity can do that. The man is not ashamed to wear the same shirt or outfit with her. Sometimes they look like twins. I love it.

I can imagine when Richard coming knock Momsy down. It not like you and that your battle ax who can give you small thing only pay day. “Come oh an anghnn, come do it quick because I got to go do sixteen hours”. Poor you, caught off guard got to work it up and before you know it, you now spill all over her white kitchen tiles. She blast the hell out of you for the quickie and huff and puff out the door. No, I can imagine Richard Wright with the apron on and nothing else.  When it like that she is your blue pill. Marvin Gaye say “you my medicine” Richard say you my root bottle. Momsy want it but with those droopy eyes know how to bluff. The girl been bluffing since kindergarten. Miss Tarty selected her queen for primer two for bluffing business.

Richard come dancing to the song “We outside”. A red Rose in his mouth but pekin not stupid he now move all the thorns. Oh, you tunga ! Momsy acting like she ain’t see him.  When my man spin round she see his nakiness and say,” Richard youhn tired with it”? In his best East London voice he says, “like honey it sweet” The last part he put small colloquial. Oh but looka. Richard was born in London but grew up across the bridge on Bushrod Island near Logan Town. Pekin got street in this case that swamp.

I used to see, late 70s early 80s this handsome, tall for Liberia well mannered, very confident young lad who smiled all the time at B.W. Harris. Oh the girls loved him and he knew it but he also liked to be around his boys I think Boimah Kiawu, Samuel Gooding and one Bugu kid, tall kind of dorky but just loved to be around this charismatic leader. Terry Brown. Owen Neal, The Fred Up, Christian and Theo Collins, Bon Jallah had left a history of academic prowess and social gathering at the school. The children made grades but drank Club Beer in the worlds of Prince Johnson “profusely”. This kid  and his gang picked up right where they left off and took it to the next level.

He called his gang of young  Monrovians “Rock Boys”. I was a teacher at Cathedral High School and they adopted me as a surrogate big brother. I was teaching this day and I heard a bang on the window it was one of them who said ” come to Emmett Dunn ma shop near Rivoli Cinema”. I got a substitute teacher and was down Broad Street before you could say ‘beer’.

The “Rock Boys” had about 12 emptied large Club Beers on the table and six fresh one. Richard the obvious leader gave me two to catch up and introduce me to the President of the student council at the school Pompey Green. Those young boys were deciding who  the next President of the Students Council of B. W. Harris was to be and had unanimously selected Richard Wright. I was at the caucus which crowned him King before I think they brought Nicky Dunbar to run the campaign.

I remembered Bugu drinking until he couldn’t breathe and doing my big brother part dared them to give him anymore Club Beer. Richard stopped them immediately and had them bring Bugu an Orange Fanta. Then like good little boys, drunk like skunks, they all went back to school. I was like “Damn! These Spartans are Groovers”. 

Richard is not ashamed to love Momsy unconditionally with his heart on his sleeves and even when he goes and buys a six inch Prada punts for her that the Devil is rumoured to wear also, still he not scared. A man like that has been hurt before by love  But my people thank God it is Momsy he got and not a real “barb wire”. Those girls when they cut your heart , you can bleed for life. Sometimes you can not recover. But thank God oh, all Richard got to do those times is stand across the way and look at her with his soul naked for her to see. Momsy leh stroll to him rocking his own self thing and say, “oh oh you got to look at me like that just because I went to Lafayette place for the week”? Then Richard can put his wounded soul away as Momsy will ask., “And the apron clean and we can get a rose from the shop”? “Looka him that all he like” as King Richard the loving hearted roars with laughter. Long live the King perhaps the best of us.

By: Henry M. MAMULU, March 2023

“Stories are made by the living but told when they are dead.”

First and foremost, for you defenders of the righteous, this piece was not intended as a tribute or an article to disparage anyone; for in these men was found a higher degree of good than that which is common. They were also revered by most who encountered them in their offices. But it was in their humanness, their ability to cope with everyday’s mundanity that this assessment is contemplated, because, as a matter of fact, I knew them intimately and personally. 

It would seem, a person’s greatest hour could come from a lifesaving invention or life changing idea. However, through the applause, the perceived hero could fail miserably at say, what most would consider a simple thing as having a loving relationship with another person. However, all we hear about is the achievement. The question was once asked, “if a tree fell in the forest and no one was around to hear it, did it make a sound?”

People are complicated and tend to not present all they are in their public persona perhaps for protective reasons. As a result, heroes are most of the time seen through a prism, a reflection and refraction of not the whole light, allowing only the most glamorous colors to be presented and accepted by their adoring public.

I say this because most of the time, the public person is so different from the private that it disappoints you when the alter ego eventually surfaces. They do not measure up to the, may I say, ”Man in the Mirror”. Personally, I find myself like that, alone I am a bore, but on life’s stage, I often radiate. Yet how many times does one scale that mountain to engage in a transformative experience? Most of life is spent down in the valley where you are expected to put the transfiguration to work, namely assisting others.

This was my reality of the Majesty, spoken of in awe, Human Rights Advocate, Archbishop Michael Kpakala Francis, and the stalwartly perceived Monsignor and Parish Priest, Fr. Dr. Robert Tikpor. Archbishop Francis has long since gone beyond “This Veil of Tears” and the last time I saw Monsignor Tikpor was in perhaps 2014 at Saint Kizito Parish, his last and final appointment. He scowled, from the pulpit, at a world he did not seem to recognize and wanted to be not a part of even though he was not yet declared legally blind. 

On a sidebar, I saw a movie at Gabriel Cinema, “The Scarlet and the Black” with Gregory Peck about the Nazi in Italy and the Priest, the Protagonist was so Tikpor like, however it was Archbishop Francis who stood up to would be tyranny and earned him the distinguished Robert Kennedy Human Rights Award in 1999. Interesting.

Walk with me back into time, a period where innocence frolicked unabated and fear remained in story books. Say perhaps 1958 -1959, as we emerged as a people of hope and not hopelessness. Let us enter the sacred, sacred in the sense that it was perceived as a holy place, sacred, as it was limited to a selected and privileged few, the grounds of Saint Teresa’s Convent on Randall Street South Beach in Monrovia. Never will there be a place in Monrovia with the aura of majesty, secrecy yet substantiveness as Convent School. With it’s Iron gate that seemed majestically impenetrable at the time, one was ushered into a world where the passions of young women were not allowed to run amok but channeled into a way that would produce a positive, trained and disciplined workforce, mothers filled of the faith of the forefathers, and loving wives to a would be still emerging and virginally considered nation. 

I was that child who stared at the imposing main building as the girls ran from the adjacent dorms to see who had come back from vacation and who had brought anything new. They were going nowhere but they were girls and like girls everywhere they liked new things. There was Olga Hash, half Lebanese, chubby I would think and friends with my sister: Olga had a great appetite; once she fell off the steps but kept her plate high and secure off the ground.  Vivian Mamulu was most famous and led Convent in sports and academics. Her much feistier sister Judith followed behind her. 

There was also Clara Doe, sister to Michael, Gabriel and Nyenkan. She was a distinguished dark Kru girl who mesmerized Monrovia’s imagination. Sonya Burrowes, also my sister Judith bosom, was fair and sister to Earl, Patrick, and another sister Beverly more my contemporary whom I think married Jackie Barnes. And who can forget the most famous girls from Kakata Majorie and Lois Holder. I think for a moment that they were also perhaps the richest girls in Monrovia at the time, Lorraine Rennie. I know my sisters said all the Tolbert girls Christine, Wilhelmina and another were there also. Forgive me for there were so many others but I was less than five years old and this was all I recalled. Oh yeah, Marie and Elizabeth Leigh, I think.

This must have been late January or early February as my sisters returned to the dorms at Convent after Big Vacation. That was how we referred to December to early February vacation. The one we took at the end of June was Small Vacation.  

We were greeted by Mother Superior and Principal the famed Mother Anopher who knew every parent and treated them as if only their child mattered. Sister Edina the original chi chi poly (someone who carried news) but mother to our nation grabbed the bags gushing with love it would seem as she usually did. Sister Sinfore who would begin my musical journey was a twenty something years old girl and glaring for the top window was the fearsome sister Eyebrow. Called Eyebrow (unibrow) because hers was bushy and ran in a straight line across her face. Behind her horned rimmed glasses, piercing blue eyes and seemingly ten feet tall, that woman conjured up nightmarish images in most young children’s imaginations. Yet, perhaps, she could have been the sweetest of all the nuns at Saint Teresa’s. As for me, I did not have the nerves to wait around and find out.

As my sister Judith took me to see her classroom, a fat, cherubic, the ones you would see on postcards of angels, puffy jawed, full crop of curly brown hair, mulatto boy ran by. I turned to look at him and all she said was, “that is Michael Francis”. It was as if she also perceived that he was going places.  

Michael was a strange one. At the time no one seemed to know his parents, his birth mother I met twenty-five years or so later but father no. It was rumored that he was Fr. Carroll’s son, but Archbishop Francis Caroll never remotely hinted that. And his mother, well she never pursued that route. However, it would seem as if Sister Edina had adopted him, and the boy was destined to be great. This was not 1960 yet because we had not moved back to Monrovia where I began to attend Saint Patrick’s Elementary. So, I was less than five years old at the time.

It may have been about 1959 or 1960 when I met the first Liberian Priest who had stopped by to visit my parents at our home on B.W.I Campus. My parents were teachers there, my father taught automotive I would think and my mom History. The name of the priest was Fr. Patrick Kla Juwle. He was a dull man I felt immediately, spoke too softly for a would-be Kru man and oh so demeaned as if he did not fart. Fr. Patrick was passive it seemed and that gave him a perception of dullness, but then again it could have been him simply wearing a holy mask or then again, his training on public behavior from the Seminary.

So, by the time I met another Kru Catholic Priest who wore his passion upon his sleeves and boomed his blackness from the pulpit like a force to be reckoned with, I too wanted to be a priest. His name, Fr. Robert Tikpor.  

Archbishop Francis Carroll had retired after building the Sacred Heart Cathedral, home of the Bishop, Catholic Hospital and Cathedral School, I served my first mass as an acolyte, a funeral to be exact with Francis Sebo and Anthony Taplah who were also altar boys and most fluent in Latin and boy did I mess up. At this time, the Pope must have been Pius VI for it was John the 23rd I do believe who reverted the Latin Mass to English. Oh yes, I too spoke Latin. However, on that day, I did not know when to rise, kneel or present the incense container to the priest to bless the people. The celebrant of this service was Fr. Tikpor. He did not lambast me as the other boys did because it was a big deal in the Catholic Church in 1960 Monrovia that an Altar Boys knew what he was doing. After the interment, Fr. Tikpor took us to a shop near the Palm Grove Cemetery and served us luncheon meat, bread and soft drink. It was for me it seemed as if he was washing away my shame because shame I was after my unholy mess up at mass. Michael Francis meanwhile was studying at a seminary perhaps in Ghana to become a Catholic Priest. 

Fast forward into the 1970s. Bishop Francis Carrol the last Caucasian to lead the Church in Liberia died after building Carroll High, Saint Mary’s in Sanniquellie. Incidentally, this was the place of Michael Francis’ first assignment where he taught some of the semi-literate non-commissioned officers who staged the 1980 coup including Thomas Weh Syen, and Thomas Quiwonkpa. Michael Francis described Weh Syen as a non-studious student who preferred to cut class and go play football.  

However, a new bishop was needed to lead the Church. Father Tikpor had distinguished himself in Monrovia but by wearing his passions on his sleeves was never politically correct for the environment it would seem. He was a bit too Kru, outspoken and telling the truth and things like that. Michael Francis spoke truth to power. However, with much fanfare, being Sister Edina’s adopted son and she was still alive and by now Grand Diva of Sisterhood, she carried considerable clout, close to and groomed his whole life by the outgoing Bishop, his rumored father did not hurt. Once again there was nothing to substantiate the gossip. So, with much fanfare, Michael Fracis was chosen Archbishop over Robert Tikpor who was by now a Monsignor one step below Bishop. As a way to soothe his pride, the Church sent Fr. Robert Tikpor to the Vatican in Rome in the late 1970s to do his Masters and PhD.  

When Archbishop Francis Carroll reigned in the palace of the Vatican in Mamba Point, Susu Wallor, Francis Nyanpan, Stanislaus Sherriff and I would go to the Vatican and have lunch and take advantage of the library the Church had at the estate. There I met and had dinner with Cardinal Sergio Pignedoli, Secretary of State of the Vatican and Cardinal Jozef Glemp from Poland on their way to a conclave where John Paul 1 was chosen Pope. I was served a dry Martini by Brother William Haley, Principal of Saint Patrick’s High at this dinner. I would like to think that it was from meeting me that the two chose perhaps John Paul. 

From this same place, Francis Nyenpan got his scholarship to America after his father’s death and it was also from there that Stanislaus got his scholarship to study Medicine in Rome. I think it was from the same dinner. At the Commencement Service of The University of Liberia that year, Stanislaus was introduced to the world as the best student at the University.

Upon Archbishop Francis’ ascension, we continued our joint visit to the Vatican Compound. Our first visit went something like this. Hello Bishop Francis and he replied! “Oh, I got no food here oh only some eddoe soup they made Friday that I am still eating”. It was Monday. I never went back.  

The coup happened in 1980 just as Fr. Dr. Robert Tikpor finished his dissertation and returned to Monrovia. I was at home when I heard this booming voice from Dr. Tikpor calling me from the church: ”Mamulu what happened to us ‘aye yah’”. “Aye yah” was a word sent from God it would seem into the Republic of Liberia before 1980 that possessed the power to calm the savage beast. Literally, “Aye yah” could stop a fight before 1980 but after 1980 it seemed to lose its power and released in its stead anger. This was the first time that Fr. Dr. Robert Tikpor had come yelling for me from the Catholic Mission Yard but not the last. He did it again at 3am after Annie Broderick won Miss Liberia. I was sleeping through a night on the Lane when I heard by my window, “Mamulu, she did it, she did it with her brilliance”. She was Annie who had just been crowned Miss Liberia and Tikpor knew I had a soft spot for her and he was pouring his heart out with joy for her and sharing it with me. I never got up but just smiled and wondered, ”why me”? 

Both men, Fr. Tikpor and Fr. Michael Francis as priests were excellent Evangelists. It was a pleasant sight to see them walk from house to house spreading the good news of God. 

Well, one of the first things the newly installed Archbishop did was to hire Sister Mary Laurene, a founder of Cathedral School as Education Secretary. Sister Laurene in 1968 was a skinny no-nonsense Bernadine. She gave me a book, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, when I was a student at Cathedral School. It is about a bird who wanted to fly fastest. My mind has been racing since.  

However, as Education Secretary they initiated what seemed Draconian at the time a Concubanish Ban, no teacher could live with a woman if not married to her and if you had a child, “you better prepare for the Sacrament of Holy Matrimony”. No one was allowed to work in the Catholic School Systems without fulfilling those basic conditions.

Archbishop Michael Francis immediately established himself as a moral compass to steer the Church into the future. After he found funding to make ELCM, the Catholic Radio Station as competitive as E.L.B.C. the Government owned station; Archbishop Francis was seen to be able to walk on water or at least turn it into wine. And so, we as teachers at Cathedral trembled when we saw his shadow pass. The man had authority and wielded it. 

In the 1980s at the Youth Mass with Annie, Terry Brown, Patrick Wreh, Steven Toe, Munah Bedell, Byll Johnson, Joe Johnson, Joan and Edina Essa, Bill Sacky, Susu Wallor, The Gaba Dr. Fr. Tikpor started to introduce a famous General as “our favored son”. About a year later, the General had a falling out in 1982 or 83 with The Head of State. Monrovia was on high alert as an All-Point Bulletin was released for the arrest of the General.

It was the Fourth Marking Period on a Monday and we had just administered the first sets of tests at Cathedral High School. I came to visit my ma as I now lived in my own place with my son and his ma. I saw my ma rolling on the floor with Dr. Tikpor standing in the doorway. As soon as he saw me, he walked out the house. I asked Muma what was wrong, and she said ask Father. I ran after Monsignor Dr. Tikpor and asked, ‘Fr. what’s wrong”? He told me point blank, “the General they looking for is laying down in my car trunk”. I stood rooted, my mind racing. I immediately imagined I saw troops running into our house and this was unacceptable because we had at the time Legerhood two sisters Carmoline and Vivian staying there also. And for that one reason I could not allow them to be compromised. 

I gathered up my wits and ran to Jande Freeman Brewer’s house to her father Melvin who was Chief Accountant at Cathedral. I told him the situation and he gathered Phillip Williams, a recent graduate of Cathedral High School and Arthur Barclay Tech, who had become a trained Accountant at the school. We went down into Rock Town and got Samuel Weah Davies another teacher and we all went and got Wip Wop, Napoleon Jaeplo from KayKay Yard. We knocked a few Kebbe’s (Club Beer) for courage and came back to the Sacred Heart Cathedral. About two hours had elapsed.  

As we sat contemplating the next move, Monsignor Tikpor pulled up in his Opel Hatchback. He was not his robust self; he was exhausted and seemed frail, He said “I took him to Swing and he said it was not their problem”. William Swing was the American Ambassador. I then took him to his former teacher from Saint Mary’s, the Archbishop and he said ‘no’. “I then took him to the Principal of the Cathedral School, and he said he had no space, but I know what I will do”. Monsignor Tikpor walked into the dark church as we all went and peered into the hatch of his Opel. There in a fetal position, sneaking snot was the Strong Man of the 1980 Coup, depending on a Catholic Priest for survival. I told my crew to let us wait until Monsignor came back and then we left. We had no power to help the situation.   

Archbishop Michael Francis left Monrovia the next day. However, by five thirty in the morning, we who knew about the drama that was unfolding were already sitting before the Cathedral School door as Monsignor and another Priest left the Sacristy and went into the Mission House on Ashmun Street. We went to Mass that morning but the tension in the church, you could feel it. 

Meanwhile Archbishop Francis was driven to the airport to catch his flight outside of the country. It was unfolding like a script from a movie. I went back home to see my ma and she showed me a letter Monsignor had brought from the archbishop demanding that the General be out of the Catholic Mission upon his return the following week. Muma said the Monsignor was writing his letter to resign from the Priesthood. The fire was in Soweto. 

The Church is not a democracy or laissez faire system. It is authoritarian and the Bishop runs the show. Perhaps the problem was the compassionately passionate Monsignor Fr. Dr. Tikpor did not get permission from the all else hierarchically practical Archbishop Michael Francis to rescue the drowning General.  So was it a clash of training, or perhaps innate grooming, history from nature versus nurture of just how the men responded under pressure. However, do not forget, it was the archbishop who met the warlords and called them “evil men ” to their faces during the war, a direct aftermath of the General’s failed invasion years later. Back to the narrative.   

Very early every morning, we gathered before school and the children had arrived to observe the Mission house as Monrovia swelled with rumors. A famous one was that there was a submarine port at the mansion and it was from there a sub picked up the General. 

We’ll be drinking beer to calm our nerves and hearing all these stories while the guy was still at the Mission House. One day before the archbishop’s return, we saw James Smart driving the car early that morning. The Monsignor was in the front seat and a woman and another priest were in the back. By the end of afternoon school at five o’clock Monsignor returned. He looked at me and shouted “Mission Accomplished”. I just stared back at him and could only speculate because the less one knew it seemed the better. 

You want to remember people you look up to the way you see them, not like the way you know yourself. I recall at Cathedral School Rose Lama and a few others asking a nun if they went to the toilet. Sister just laughed. I am sure now she knows better than to assume they do not fart. 

Two years later, we awoke to the National Anthem being played on E.L.B.C. It was the voice of the General and he said he had captured the Mansion; the Head of State was in hiding and we should stay tuned. I jumped out of bed, got on my sneakers and began to jog around town. I met some Officers in full uniforms and medals that belonged to “Tango Tango this is Sunshine ”. However as soon as the sun was coming up, they got into their cars and left. I went and sat by the school as the door to the Mission House remained closed that Saturday morning. Monsignor who was also Parish Priest opened up. As soon as he saw me, he said ”He has done it, my son has done it and I am going to the mansion to meet him”. I told him not to go because there was something not right about everything, but he went. 

Years later I asked Monsignor what he thought was the reason why he was never chosen Bishop of Harper, Nimba or Monrovia. He said he had a fight with a Ghanaian Priest. I immediately remember a girl from Ghana named Gifty who lived by Massa Thompson house with her ma. Her Ghanaian mother would not wear panties deliberately when she passed by the Mission House not speaking to us but butt rocking. Soon as a Ghanaian Priest at the Mission saw her, he called her, shut the door and they disappeared inside. 

Tikpor said the priest was rude and so he head butted him and took out two teeth. The guy ran with his bloody nose and mouth to the Archbishop at the Vatican in Mamba Point. I was like “shit, Fr. is a true Babee and Klappe (Kru man)”.  I Loved him the more. He walked the walk.  

On this day of the General’s takeover, I sat on the fence on Ashmun Street across from the Church waiting for the Monsignor to return from greeting his son at the Executive Mansion on this fateful Saturday in 1985. He came back about 11am and had aged at least an additional twenty years. He was hunched over, gaunt and just exhausted from ‘his battles of trying to change the world, getting knocked down and getting up again’. This time it seemed like he was kicked in the gut. 

In shock I asked, “what happened”? The Monsignor said, “I met him”. Who? I asked. He said, “The Beast”, it was his name for the Head of State. Not “a beast” but “the beast”, the one from Revelation. I looked at this good man, a kind man totally consumed by I cannot call dislike but perhaps hatred for the man he referred to as The Beast. The thing I tell you, “It was killing him”. He seemed to drag himself into the Mission House by the Cassock one heavy, tired step at the time and then he shut the door. I stared at the door, my eyes welling with tears at the seduction of mankind to do its will. Soon after the voice of the head of State came over the radio and he announced that “The Beast” was back. The bloodletting ensued. WOW.

By Henry Mamulu – September 2022

Reality has become a diluted watered-down pastel-colored canvas of acceptability. The majority of us fathers would encourage our son if he said, ”daddy, I desire a sex change where my crawfish will be replaced with a fish. Also, my name is no longer Flomo but Klubo.”

Today all things are not only possible, but permissible. Even friends whom I grew up with have said it was inappropriate to speak ill of the dead, even if that person’s unrepentant actions caused our exile, suffering, death, or all of the above. “Let them have their state funeral and leave it with God,” they exclaim. History however has recorded that even the dead has been dragged out of their crypt, hanged, quartered and even beheaded.

In 17th century England, ‘the one who would be king’; ‘the one who led the forces of Parliament against the Monarchy’; ‘the one who had the King deposed’; ‘the one who beheaded King Charles I’; ‘Lord Protector of the realm’, Oliver Cromwell, was exhumed in 1661 from his ‘restless place after death’, dragged through the streets of London, hanged, and finally beheaded. In case you didn’t get it, this was all AFTER his death and burial.

My opinions and feelings about Guanue and others who have wronged us in Monrovia remain the same, in life or in death. This is all that I am, the “truth sayer”. Therefore all my efforts to ‘parley’ with the opposing side bestows a feeling of hypocrisy within me, the pressure against muffling the evils of the dead in a society that ‘dances to the Gbemah or the “buga” even in life (not to speak of in death) with the pervasive evil that plague us all only buttressed by the precedence that has been set centuries before me, Oliver Cromwell being only one well recorded example. Gbawu “pronounced  (ba woo)” ghetto slang meaning blood brother”, let talk so, let talk so.

Saye Guanu was a man with a singular purpose and that purpose was to change the trajectory of Liberia under the tutelage of the True Whig Party, particularly William Tubman, and transfer its rulership to the ‘indigenes’. This was irrespective of whether there was a majority or whether there was competence.  They were going to make up the “competent”, he reasoned.

As sure as our forefathers met the foe with valor unpretending, Saye set about his business with purity unending. Among the progressives it would seem, Boimah fashioned himself after Fidel Castro, Tipoteh after Julius Nyerere, but Joseph Saye, Mao Tse-tung. Joseph Saye Guanu lived and breathed this and it became a mantra.

The philosophy was that the Settlers were bad for Liberia. As my Ma used to say “show me your friends and I will tell you who you are” because if you hung out with Saye you heard him preach this. The man lived and breathed destruction of the settlers and their descendents and I daresay anyone who appeared to be in sympathy with them. For me that became his legacy.

If Mao had built modern China using the blood of the people as the liquid for the mortar he used in the foundation, then so was Saye’s visionary nightmare for Liberia.

I admired the man for his clarity of purpose but yet feared him as I knew what he symbolized and embodied. Inside of Saye laid the idea that would bring about the end of days as Monrovia knew it and during the Civil War, it was achieved for all practical purposes.

Liberia established by the Pioneers was to be destroyed. Saye believed that he had been born into an oppressive society and his colonizers were everywhere, boxing him within an oligarchy ruled by foreign slave masters and only the edge of the sword could liberate him. He was uncompromising and steadfast about that.

Joseph Saye Guanu was handsome and dark. He was lean without any body fat in the early 1960s. My earliest recollections of him were in Kakata and then Saint Patrick’s Elementary School (SPES) circa 1960 -1964. Like 98% of people living in Monrovia, Saye Guanu walked everywhere he went. There was no one who had a lot of clothes in the early 60s and Saye was no exception; yet, he was always neat, clean, pressed, polished and seemed ready to be sprung into action at a moment’s notice if the clarion call sounded. His personality was that of a switchblade, appearing harmless when folded concealing the lethal potential once released. Joseph Saye Guanu never seemed to laugh or reveal that he had a sense of humor. 

Unsurprisingly then, as one of our teachers in our earliest formative years in first and second grade SPES, he never told us a joke, sang a song, or told spider tales; but just seemed ready and waiting for the day of reckoning. Notwithstanding his good looks, his expressions appeared without passion, always seeming to stare in the distance, looking beyond you, as if envisioning the demise of the hated “Americo-Liberian” way of life, whatever he perceived that to be. This is not a joke.

At Saint Patrick’s Elementary, Joseph Saye Guanu was Assistant to Father John O’Donovan, the Principal, and John Tweh who was popularly known as “Chay-pay-chay”, the dean of students. Guanu, a Gio/Mano man and Tweh, a Krahn man, prepared us for the future that was to come. Chay-pay-chay (as we named Tweh) acquired the nickname because he seemed to relish the style and finesse that he exhibited while meting out punishment with the rattan; delivering a stinging and painful lash with just a flick of the wrist. He appeared to be ‘chipping’ at something as you prepared for the stinging lash, calculating the precise distance from the butt that the elasticity of the flexible rattan would need to deliver the most effective contact. With a flick of his wrist, the rattan would be set in motion and the elasticity of the cane would allow the completion of its journey to precisely the spot where his eyes seemed to be fixated. For him, it was an art, and we, his subjects, were the objects that he used to perfect that skill. However, all in all we loved John Tweh. He was funny, engaging and taught me how to sing and stand up before a crowd and express myself. There was a human side to him.

Saye Guanue, on the other hand, initially was not a rattan man. His form of punishment of choice was for the student to pinch together his fingers. Then using the ruler he struck on the fingers with the sharp end of the ruler driving the nails painfully into the hand. Looking back, it appeared as if these two were given the divination to go “back Into the future” and see the civil war and became purveyors in 1960-1965 at Saint Patrick’s Elementary of things yet to come. Even the Catholic fathers who endorsed and allowed corporal punishment to an extent recognized the cruel and unusual nature of this punishment and put a stop to it, causing Guanue to now graduate to the “standard” rattan. Now rattans come in different sizes. Chay-pay-chay preferred the slim flexible ones that would “whistle” in the wind when thrown. Guanue’s choice was the thickest permissible cane, with hardly any elasticity, and, opposing the finesse of Tweh, Guanue followed through with every broad stroke. It always seemed to be brutal. By contrast, Guanue needed no nickname. His name seemed to fit the bill, sounding as ominous as his character.

Teacher Guanu, a brilliant history Instructor, disliked the indomitable history book sanctioned by the True Whig Party  “Heroes and Heroines of Liberia” by A. Doris Banks,  an American married to Richard A. Henries. He felt it did not portray the  people he  championed, the masses, at their best and would declare this publically at every opportunity. Those opportunities were never wanting because folks, this book was a part of our history curriculum and Guanue must have considered it sacrilege to be required to teach this dribble. Personally, I felt “Heroes and Heroines of Liberia” was a bit shoddy and leaned heavily in favor of the settlers. However, the fact that Guannu, like most of us, could do nothing about it appeared to be a source of great frustration and angst which he, by his actions, appeared to take out on the children that he felt were honored, by association, by that history book. In my opinion, he went the way of the coward, finding every excuse to project his displeasure on our backs and behinds at a time when boys had to be boys, youthful and exuberant, frisky and mischievous, and sometimes bad but never intentionally evil. He went after the children of that History book in the early 1960s flaunting the broad strokes of his ‘mortar pecil’ for emphasis. After all, corporal punishment in school was also state sanctioned and gave a legal foundation to Joseph Saye Guanu’s innate cruelty hidden behind “I am preparing you for the future”. All that beating just to arrive at sanctions and “buga yo” today.

Now this is where in previous writings, men such as Christopher Nippy, a School mate and good friend forever and Charles Neal, dare I say an apologist, differed with me. The problem was (and perhaps I did not realize) that Liberia was a deeply fractracidal society held together mainly through the statecraft of William Tubman. It did fall apart five years after his death. 

Now Nippy a  Kru boy, Taplah Kru boy, Blamo also Kru, Arthur Zoh Bassa, Nathaniel Zehu may have been more privileged under Guanu as opposed to Julius Weeks, Randall Cooper, Ian Yhap and especially Henry and Patrick Mamulu whom he may have viewed in particular as “Sell Out To The Cause” and “Congo wannabe” (want to be). Hear me out because from 1979 until now I have experienced a form of reversed prejudice in Liberia that perhaps Nippy experienced in the 60s. This is prejudice that goes beyond looking for a job but rather experienced just in the neighborhood where folks just don’t want you around and desire the worst for you. It seemed as if they were better Liberian than you.

Explain to me why Guanue disliked Pinkney King so ferociously. He seemed to beat that boy every chance he got. Frankly we were bludgeoned into a state of terror at the thought of meeting Teacher Guanu at school.  The thought actually made you sick. I knew students who would spontaneously burst out into tears as Mr. Guanu approached and would sniffle and wipe the snot off their noses as he strolled by. In his presence terror preceded sorrow.

For the majority of you reading this, the early 1960s Monrovia was a Western Style City nearly bereft of all the trappings of Africanness. It was there but kept in its place. We were the children of that environment however unhealthy you may find it today. As for me, I have always straddled two worlds. My ma was Congo and my pa Mandingo. I was the last of five children to Teacher Ora Dennis and Moses Mamadi Mamulu, referred to in the 1960s as “Buzzy Boy” because his ma was from the Lorma Tribe of Lofa County. I was the baby of my family, born in Cooper Farm by Aunt Maggie Cooper at Public Health where now stands Mamba Point Hotel next to the American Embassy.

Do not get this twisted. Teacher Ora even brought a “rattan“ for me at school but so did a lot of parents in the 1960s. But for Guanu and Chay-pay-chay to whip us until our backs were purple and bruised was  “cruel and unusual ” because this was the first time we left home to be on our own. Frankly, we were still babies.

In those days, it was not unusual for a five-year-old to be in class with a ten-year-old. Some people started school later, some had just moved from deep in the hinterland and others were perhaps servants to people in Monrovia. It was not unusual after you made friends with a student then his parents came and got him to go help drive the birds because the rice had ripened at harvest. A decade before, children came to school butt naked at Saint Patrick’s Elementary.

The benchmark in our class was a student named Harry Gargar. Harry must have been at least five years older than us and knew his place in the world living with his Uncle Mr. Gargar from Telecom. He was mature beyond the grade level. Even his notebook was neat, no two subjects were in the same copybook as compared to me who tore out sheets and made ships to float down the newly installed drainage during the rains. 

This one day,  all our notebooks were inspected. Just like me, half of the class had sheets torn out of their notebooks. History was mixed with Spelling, Math and Writing together and so Guanu brought us up to be punished. Everyone I think got about five but me, the man gave me twenty-five lashes. My back turned purple. I went home and Ora decided to beat me for something. When she hit me my back got bloodied. She took off my shirt, yelled and cried. I think she cried because she felt sorry for me, seeing the damage that Guanue had already inflicted. But she also could have been crying because she had been overtaken by Guanue as the winner of the trophy in the game of corporal punishment. She realized that she was no longer champion and could never develop the skills to regain the title. Like Muhamad Ali, Guanue was the undisputed champ but the bar was now set to such an uncomfortable level that even parents who owned you were not able to go. I was in the first grade and loved to play ‘cowboys and injuns’ as Roy Rogers. Learning was the furthest thing from my mind. You might say that the only possibly good thing that may have come out of that era of Guanue was that he made everyone rethink the application of corporal punishment.

By 1962 a mass migration from England arrived into Monrovia. Michael Wilson and his family’s butchery came. Also the Williamsons: Eric was already born, a kid called Magnus Jimilock and Pinkney and Derrick King also came. Pinkney like me did not know math but with the beatings I got at home, Ralph and Anthony Taplah konking my head, and after getting whipped every morning for lateness in first grade because I came from Kakata every day to Monrovia to school had transformed me into a student who was no longer afraid of the whip. Pickney on the other hand was from London and had not seen a Rattan.

It was in the middle of the rainy season and you have never seen rain like this. Those days it rained non-stop for seven to eight days straight. There were no raincoats or umbrellas strong enough for the torrent of water that flowed down every street. Every child by then ran green snot from the nose which we wiped on our uniforms shirts. All 60 or so of us came to school that day, Pinkney took off his rain boots and put them at the back of the room. The boots smelled like something had died inside two weeks earlier and decomposed. Guanu was passing by and came into the class for an inspection and he too smelled the “funky rain boots”. He asked who the shoes were for and when Pinkney said they were his, Teacher Guanu started beating Pinkney. After about a dozen or so lashes Pinkney appeared to be in shock. He did not know why the man was flogging him so unmercifully and all Pinkney could say over and over was, “that my boots”, “that my boots”. The more he recited this, the more furious Guanue became and the fiercier his wrath was as he kept beating the kid. We were so scared not knowing whom this miniac would jump on next but Guanue had picked his victim for the day and this was the day that Pickney would pay for the impunity of Doris Bank’s book. Finally, Pinkney broke free because it seemed to have reached a point where Guanue had lost it. Pinkney ran out of the building, back into the heavy rain and disappeared in the stormy weather. As for the rest of us, we quietly peed on ourselves in fear and thankfully it was not noticeable because the rain had already drenched us.

The next morning at flag raising assembly we heard the moo of Nathan Crawford’s Pa’s truck followed by Mr. King in his “duazeh” (colloquial for old car) of a pick up truck. Before the duazeh could come to a full stop Mr. King, a farmer and a hell raiser of a man was out of the truck and on top of Guanu. We erupted into cheers as Mr.King punched the hell out of Teacher Joseph Guanue. That Friday a program was held and our whole class was laid (put across a table and whipped) “Chay-pay-chay” style with the approval of the White Fathers, O’Donavan, Davies and NDB, Never Draw Back who was actually Father Clonan.

About three months later, Teacher Guanu had an assembly outside the front of Saint Patrick’s Elementary. This time he was going to punish a Kru boy. It seemed innocent at first, just another occasion for an equal opportunity flogging by Guanu but then again I looked closer.

The “Kru Boy” in Monrovia never had anything to be ashamed of. If you noticed most of the older “Kru Boy” never seemed to participate in the political agitations that caught Monrovia during Tolbert time. They had jobs, were the middle level bookkeepers to most firms and had attained respect as students, athletes and bluff boys.  And so the “Kru Boy” never had to change his name to fit in as opposed to children who came to Monrovia from the hinterland. Laghan the boy from our farm whom my parents fostered, changed his name to Anthony when he started school. However, the “Kru Boy” never suffered that fate. D.Twe remained D. Twe, Sayeh remained Sayeh and Forkay Nippy remained Forkay Nippy. As a matter of fact, the most popular boy in Monrovia that every Americo-Liberian, Settler or Congo wanted to be, love to or just be seen with was a Kru Boy Andrew Pyne. He has remained until this day the most popular Monrovian.

Furthermore it is safe to assume that after the Tubmans, Tolberts, the Doe Family was right up there with Michael, Clara, Gabriel as a  popular family. Vivian and Scholastica Doe’s father was a Liberian diplomat serving as Ambassador to various countries, Buzzeh (Theodore) and Ernest Wallace’s father was a high ranking official in the Police force, The Yuoh family was as comfortable as anyone in Mamba Point, The Sayeh family, neighbor to the Smythes on the Old Road, were some of the most educated and enlightened and E. B. McClain had famously and indisputably “duxed” Liberia College in the 1930s over the favorite Jimmy Dennis. Even Saint Patrick’s Elementary was known unofficially as “Kru Boy “School. Therefore when we looked at the Coup of 1980, the first enemy declared by the The People’s Redemption Council was an educated and trained Kru Boy, the Ranger Jebbo. The first person executed Thomas Weh Syen.

I am sure that Guanu with his poisonous and infected worldview as far as I am concerned must have abhorred the the idea that Patrick Minikon a “Kru Boy” worked loyally with the True Whig Party as Director of National Bureau of Investigation the equivalent of the American FBI and Pitman Swen as Director of Interpol for all of Africa without harboring one subversive thought.

I raise those two points because in hindsight, flogging one student was no occasion for holding an assembly. Assembly was held as a gathering of the entire school to raise a point, demonstrate a fact, or inform us of an upcoming event. This day Guanu chose to conduct a public flogging. What was the message? The message it would seem was that Guanu most likely saw the ‘Kru Boy’ as a collaborator and facilitator of the perpetuation of the largesse of the Settlers and their children. And although he could not stop it, he would do what he could to stunt that growth. That is not to say that the boy was innocent of any wrongdoing, but the manner of execution of the punishment was hardly commensurate with the crime.

The ‘Kru Boy” was hoisted up in the air, two students holding up his legs and two assigned to his hands, suspending him face down to receive his beating. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth way before Guanue dropped the first lick right on the buttocks. The kid writhed in pain, twisting and turning to relieve the possibility of being struck in the same spot by two consecutive licks.  After a few more licks he could not maintain that position and turned over completely just as Teacher Guanu brought down his rod of correction. The Kru boy was stuck directly on the scrotum and the front of his uniform pants just where the zipper was oozed red. Koiyan Marwolo was shaking and Pinkney was ready to bolt. However, Jon Tweh (Chay-pay-chay) intervened and the “Punishment” was aborted but the wound to this boy’s “manhood” seemed unforgivable and needed urgent medical attention.

About a week later, we saw Teacher Guanu going to the bathroom apparently to take a dump. Let me describe the bathroom at Saint Patrick’s Elementary in the 1960s. The bathroom had a pit latrine that ran through a grotto which one squatted over and did their business as the waste was carried by water that constantly ran in the pit. There were two windows, each about six inches by twelve inches. If the windows were large enough for us first and second graders to climb through, we would have used that route many days to run away from school. But no, it appeared too small and a bit too high for us so it was never, in my recollection, used as an escape route. The bathroom itself was dark, dank, stinky, and a bit scary. However, so was everything else.

A few minutes later, the Kru boy who was punished by Guanue days before, followed him into the toilet. We looked at each other and soon heard voices as an argument ensued in the bathroom. Then we heard the bang of what sounded like a gun. We ran out of class as the Kru boy bolted for the front door but there was no trace of Saye Guanue. Apparently, he crawled out the six by twelve window and escaped. The blue smoke could still be seen in the unventilated room and the smell of gunpowder was pronounced.  Saye Guanue never came back to Saint Patrick’s and it is still a mystery to us how he escaped the bathroom because he never came through the door. Soon we heard he was in America, loving the place but hating the people who were born there.

Saye met all the PhDs in America who incidentally hated the folks from America who settled in Liberia.  In their stay abroad they learned how to bring down the True Whig Party. They were taught by the enemy of Liberia how to destroy the nation they felt no affinity for and falsely told they will help them to give back the nation “stolen” from the indigenous. 

My contention I guess is by now Guanue should have written a new History Book along with Sawyer and Mayson that would have replaced the one by Doris Banks. If he has I have not seen it or it has not been important enough to be taught in any institution of lower or higher learning that I know of. The reason why none of the Progressives have written anything definitive in terms of History and the classroom is maybe because they do not want to be held responsible for the way they think.

We do not remember the tenets of the Progressives message that have changed the course of our lives from an academic point of view, as say Thomas Jefferson and the Declaration of America’s Independence which every citizen in America must recite. However, their impact on modern Liberia may just be as eventful. What we know and remembered of them was what they allegedly accomplished in the dark. Things they have not taken responsibility for. In the light of day, they have recited everything the Founding Fathers of the Republic of Liberia wrote just as every other student and citizen. I have found this most disturbing. Teachers by day, subversives by night.

So by now Tipoteh, a decent musical fellow should have composed a new anthem that reflected the dreams and proclivities of the “indigenes” and a flag different from the Red, White and Blue. Instead, at every national event, they too sing ”in joy and gladness with our hearts united” along with the true believers of those words. There is something fundamentally twisted in all of that. 

Frankly it is akin to taking one’s finger and juking it in a dying man’s butt hole and saying it will not provoke him when the saying is for that “you should five across the eyes for juking your finger up a dying man’s butt”

I too am a bit disgusted with “All Hail Liberia Hail”’ because the concept of a race benighted has been rendered so foreign to successive generations as to seem unattainable. Secondly, physically,  no one under thirty years old seems to know the correct melody to the Anthem of the First Republic. In this the Third or Fourth Republic, I, Henry Moses Mammadi Mamulu, will man up and declare the old republic dead, and shout long live The Gbemah Republic of Liberia whose anthem I here declare is ‘They Lie’ by Takun J.

In The Cause Of The Struggle, The People Continue.

By Henry M. Mamulu

I am convinced that the true enemy of Liberia is not a Liberian. It would seem that  he was the one whom Liberia  greeted as an equal with a handshake, looked him straight in the eye, and called him by his first name. This, of course, was in the 19th Century, a time when all other black men bestowed the title ‘Master’ upon their true enemy. Over time, the master was called many things: ‘faithful friend’, ‘trusted partner’, ‘partner in progress’, and even ‘Tango’ by ‘Honorable Sunshine’; if you know what I mean. And now the one who, after decimating all that has been good for Liberia, is surprised that we also need him to remove our “kaka” from the streets and using our first president, who more than likely fled a potential lynching in America to found a black African nation, to make the point on his birthday. Things that make you go hmmmm… You’ve done everything for us since 1980. Why stop now?

Appropriately named, Tango is smart and is always aware that without accomplices, he, she, it, or they (whatever pronoun you prefer) cannot successfully accomplish diabolical goals. The old adage, ‘it takes two to tango’ applies in this case, or as we say in Liberia, ‘one cent can’t make noise’. And so Tango, true to its name, chooses a dancing partner from within the ranks of those it chooses to destroy and in the same manner that you have bestowed on him his ‘Master’ title, the Master bestows on you his own appropriate leadership title, raises your ego to heights that you never thought you’d reach, and sets you loose to decimate the population that were once even your tribe (the war) and those who lived near you.. Those are the “overt” ones. They die in disgrace. The ‘covert’ ones die and become ‘heroes’ in a land that has only known sorrow and destruction for its people since the ‘Mossadegh’ style color revolution of the late ‘70s leading to the Murder of President Tolbert and most of the Liberian government in April 1980.  Remember the song, “Color Him Father, Color Him Love”.

You see the hatred for Liberia stemmed from the fact that the boy who left  the slave Master in the USA and returned to Africa, after 20 years, a slave for all intents and purposes, asked that he be given a seat at the dinner table since he too had now achieved the title, Master of Household.  If the slave boy had forgotten his place. They were going to put him back, and they put him back on April 12th,1980.

You were never told this. Instead you were told to focus upon how the Settlers made your people, the indigenous of Liberia, tote their chamber pots. Because of this, your rage ran unabated. They showed you who to fight against but never who to fight for because nothing anyone has done since 1980 has benefitted the Republic of Liberia. Oh, it benefitted a few. Take Samuel Doe, a decent enough chap, what he did for sports per se was good. It benefited Salinsa Debah, Kelvin Sebwe, Joe Nagbe til this day. Without football, Weah would never be president. But the very football, has Liberia benefited from it? Have we gone to the World Cup? Liberia will never benefit from fusah (colloquial for fart) when nearly all its brightest citizens, Krahn, Gio, Bassa, Loma Gola, Kpelle, Kru and Congo, irrespective of tribe or ethnicity, live in exile.

On the other hand, you saw the enemy of Liberia, your ‘Master’ as a friend, and with assistance from your new ‘friend’, you attacked the Congo people, which was your master’s plan all along. He told you to do that. He showed you how to do that and he guided your hand as you did it, all the while whispering “freedom from the slave master”.

You see if you believe that Mrs. Tolbert, on the morning of April 12th, 1980, as her husband the president was being killed and our nation plunged into a long, dark and winding road to illiteracy, disease, social and moral breakdown, saw in the mansion a white hand in a black glove and blue eyes under a ski mask, then you must believe that it was he who trained, sent and financed the overthrow of the True Whig Party and the Settlers. One can not be without the other. Nobody has apologized for this event that plunged the nation on the road to self mutilation. Someone has said somewhere, ‘GOOD JOB”.

After suffering the indignity (in their minds) of having to sit and treat Liberia as an equal, Liberia’s true enemy searched and found “the Disgruntled Few” (just as in every other society). These were citizens that became angry because of a perceived slow pace of social and economic change. Some were angry because they felt that they were denied family inheritance and that had lessened their public persona. Others became mad because they felt that the nation’s wealth was not shared properly. Notwithstanding, all were angry, and put in a pot called politics. This however does not mean that Liberia was in any way ideal for everyone. No place is!

The True Enemy pretended to feel the pain of the ‘disenfranchised’ indeginous Liberians when their own disenfranchised citizens remained so then, and even today. And so  they asked, “how can I assist you to influence, improve or change things for the good of the people whom the Settlers met”? 

Remember they were slaves masters for 500 years and never cared for the slaves who were black. But you negros think that they will care for you. In building #55 Bowen Street, Parkhill, Staten Island, a guy called Ziama said indegenous Liberians were allowed to come to America without visas. It was Tubman who stopped them just so they could suffer in Liberia. He was a college graduate. I asked: “Were black people in America allowed to do anything in the 50s and 60s?” If they came, where would  they be allowed to stay? Like babies you have been fed lies from a bottle.

They presented ways in which they could help, found common ground, trained their local “connapors” (connivers) to execute (propaganda and such),  financed them, and unleashed them upon a country struggling to cope with the winds of change (Arab Oil Embargo, Cold War, Cultural Revolution).

I met Amos Sawyer when he was a student at the University of Liberia. It was called LU back then. Amos was in class with my sister Vivian and would stop by our house every so often. 

Vivian is perhaps the best all around female student athlete (academics, sports, social) Liberia has produced. She was the Captain of the LU and Lone Star volleyball teams. Upon graduation, she finished third to Linus Dickens, an American who was valedictorian. Amos Sawyer was the salutatorian. A boy had distracted Vivian it would seem and the result was Air Rennie the Baller from Young Eagles, and of course, Ledgerhood Rennie.

Fast forward and 10 years later, Amos returns as Dr. Sawyer and, along with Dr. Tipoteh, Dr Boley, Dr. Fahnbulleh, and the Political Rock Star Bacchus Matthews. Like viruses attacking a healthy cell, these PhDs immediately plunged the nation into a socio/economic and political maelstrom the likes of which had never been seen since before the early years of Independence when freed black men were still fighting against slave traders on the grain coast and Matilda fired the cannon. However, the entire world during the 1970s suffered a global economic meltdown brought about by OPEC (The Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries) after raising a barrel of oil in 1969 from $3.50 to $13.00 by 1973. 

Today it’s $125. A  gallon of gas is sold for $10.00 IN Liberia but there will not be a coup. Tango will call Sunshine and sunshine will send “small thing” to stabilize the economy. Recently, a renowned US Economist, discussing the economic shock that western countries are experiencing today as a result of the fuel crisis fallout from the Russia-Ukrainian conflict, equates it to the effect that the oil embargo had on the world in the early 1970s, Liberia being no exception. But the PhD collaborators, which included an economist, chose to ignore all the facts in favor of pleasing their benefactors.

Back then, Liberia, with its gas guzzling and archaic leftovers from the Second World War, was not prepared for the economic assault brought on by the price of oil.. The PhDs Sawyer, Tipoteh, Fahnbulleh knew all this but decided instead to declare the inflation and economic hardships that Liberia was going through as isolated: a product of corruption and nepotism on the part of The True Whig Party and The Tolbert family specifically. They needed a motive to begin their destruction.

For this, I can give Bacchus Matthews a pass because he did not flaunt degrees  even though he knew the inflation Liberia experienced in the early 70s was not Liberian made. The distinct differences between him and his ‘friends’ besides the degree was that of his following. Bacchus’ followers were grassroots, organic you might say. The populace that the PhDs slowly indoctrinated and became  commandants and comrades were in the schools and universities: Sawyer and Tipoteh at LU, and Dew Mayson at Cuttington, just to name a few.  The following that Bacchus had could have been used to do the country some good but the choices made by the strategists put Bacchus’ groundswell of support on a collision course with the Government. Once the avalanche started, Bacchus had no more control of the situation. A perfect example, the 1979 Rice Riots. Bacchus brought a very orderly group. Soon rock-throwing elements joined them and the march turned into a full-scale looting. Monrovia was stripped bare of everything  in every store from 12 noon to 6pm. The city was under siege.

I think Bachus, alleged God son of President Tolbert, realized too late that he had now become the front man for a ‘color revolution’ in Liberia and the machinations of the ‘masters’ and their operatives were in the shadows.  Perhaps that is why Bacchus eventually may have sought a measure of redemption by working with President Taylor to the chagrin of his former comrades. 

Each of  the would-be revolutionaries called the other ‘comrade’ a word borrowed from the Communist Revolution of 1917. They seemed to have fashioned their persona to resemble Julius Nyerere, Fidel Castro, Jonas Savimbi, Robert Mugabe and such. It was nothing to see one of these ’progressives’, as history will remember them walking down Broad Street sporting a black beret, military boots and black pants and the trademark beard.

As the clarion call for social change crescendoed to a fevered pitch during 1970s Liberia, the Western Press became involved. While the Western Press called Nelson Mandela a terrorist and openly supported Aparthied in South Africa, American journalist Mike Wallace came to Liberia with the pretence of clearing the air in a ‘fact finding interview’ as to what was going on with the slaves who had left America a century before and founded Liberia. The President of Liberia, always cooperative and agreeable towards foreigners, fell for the journalistic ruse. Mr. Wallace interviewed President Tolbert and his son A. Benedict. This interview was perhaps a year before the famed Rice Riots of 1979 and about two years before the coup d’etat and filtered and colored the eyes of the world and Liberians as to how they saw the Tolbert family, the Congo people and the country as a whole. The ‘color revolution’ was in place and their backers were doing their part to make sure to broadcast a perception of Liberia to the outside world that would give ‘justification’ to its eventual destruction by any means necessary.

Even though slavery was abolished in 1864, the American Civil Rights Act was put into law a hundred years later in 1965 granting blacks the rights to vote. The proponents and beneficiaries of black subjugation had determined that the oldest black African republic, with no colonial assistance, could not be seen to be successful in its undertakings; that is, to put it simply, “black people cannot be seen to be governing themselves”; and so the machinery was set in motion, complete with foot soldiers and media collusion, to color Liberia as a country only worthy of ‘pariah state’ status.

 Wallace stood on the beach in Liberia and focused on how the freed slaves came to Africa and said they had come to civilize the natives and make them good Christians. Name me one Missionary Society that went to any part of the world and did not try to civilize the people and introduce Christianity. A missionary family went to Hawaii from Boston to christianize and civilize the ‘natives’. Hawaii is still occupied today after a vibrant monarchy was removed from power. However, this time, Mr. Wallace made sure that when it came to Liberia there were hints of  deceit and subterfuge in the works of the Settlers. He made it seem as if the Settlers used Christianity as a tool to enslave the indeginous.

Next Mr. Wallace asked President Tolbert how he could be a married man and have children out of wedlock. He implied that this appeared commonplace in Liberia. These questions were neither right nor wrong. They were good questions. 

What Mr. Wallace did not tell you was, President Thomas Jefferson, a married white man, was President of America and keeping Salley Hemmings a slave in the back room borning children out of her. Children he Mike Wallace never recognized as children of an American President What Mr. Wallace did not tell you was that President John Kennedy and his brother Robert had a torrid relationship with the actress Marilyn Monroe. Theories have hinted that they had her killed when she wanted to go public about the affair. During this same period, French President Metteraind died and his married family sat on one side of the church and the girlfriend and children sat on the other side. The President of America was there and did not complain. However, when it came to Liberia, they colored the settlers as beasts who exploited the indeginous Africans and were whore mongers. I mention these stories because they were not lost on Dr. Sawyer who himself was an historian but he and his comrades were instructed as to what to choose and what to let go. 

The Movement For Justice In Africa (MOJA) in the 1970s was not a rice growing organization but one that brought freedom to Rhodesia and other African countries through the barrel of the AK-47. Today you all want to paint MOJA as a rice and cassava growing group. If MOJA was in Liberia (and it was), it desired the True Whig Party to be overthrown and it desired the overthrow to be launched from within the ranks of students. However, G. Bacchuss Matthews’ strength lay within his ability to appeal to the ‘yannah boys’, the daily laborers at Freeport, and the so-called ’gronah boys’. 

Liberia in the 1970s was a hotbed of ideas and nowhere else was hotter than the University of Liberia. At LU, we learned about Mao Tse Tung and even about the Tao Religion, from Zoriasterism to Buddhism. Dr. Sawyer taught Liberian History to standing room-only students. Several times I audited that class and was blown away by the wealth of information and sheer brilliance of the man. Amos Sawyer was a gifted teacher. No other person could have accomplished the subtle indoctrination of young minds shrouded in a history course better than he, the critical race theory of our time.

Meanwhile Liberia moved closer to the edge. These new PhDS were different from the Liberian male of the 70s. They all grew long beards, kept their heads bushy, wore baggy jeans that dragged in the dirt and did not wear shoes. Their preferred footwear was sandals  whose soles were made from  car tires, held by straps made from the inner tube of the tire. These  shoes were called Tipoteh, an eternal legacy to the esteemed economist.  The entire look was unkempt and not fashionable. It was about the militancy of it all. However as soon as the coup happened they all changed into double breasted suits tailored in France and leather moccasins from Italy. The struggle was over or was it just beginning for the ones they came to liberate?  

A pivotal point in the whole sordid mess was the mayoral elections between Dr. Sawyer and Chuchu Francis Horton of the True Whig Party.  It was interesting that both candidates chose soccer teams from Rock Town, Babe E (Robert Ellis) yard. Dr. Sawyer’s team was Soweto with Steve Nyanti and Greatest Kojo. Chuchu Horton’s soccer team was Tabella with Sam Davies, Carlton George, Ben Nyantee and me. Sawyer’s symbol was a country broom made from the rice sheaves,  sweeping away the trash that belonged to the True Whig Party. Was this wrong? No. What was pathetic was that the True Whig Party was toothless and had no answer for the coming Revolution. What was wrong, only the planners who were not Liberians saw the far reaching and long term effects of the movement on the stability of the nation and the west coast of Africa. The effects we still suffer today are negative.

Midway in the Mayoral Race, it was apparent that Dr. Sawyer and the Revolution was a runaway victor. They were just too organized for Liberian politics. By morning, every school campus would have pamphlets delivered overnight that colored the True Whig Party and the Congo people as Petit Bourgeoisie who have grown fat on the sweat of the honest indeginous Liberian.

The term Bourgeoisie had actually cropped out of the Industrial Revolution as England moved from an agricultural society and into factories and machinery. So the Bourgeoisie were the new money. They were not Aristocrats born into wealth and title but rather farmers, cobblers, seamstresses, owners of ships who were able to make enough money, hire enough persons to be recognized by the Aristocrats. By calling the Congo people Petit Bourgeoisie implied that they were pretenders at being industrious, and hard working. In the end, they successfully orchestrated the congo vs. country charade and under the cloak of this farce gave their nod of approval to the murder of President Tolbert and many astute Liberians.

Fast forward again, the Liberian Civil War was launched by Ellen Sirleaf and the Progressives, according to Prince Johnson during his testimony at the TRC. But honestly, Prince Johnson didn’t have to tell us. We heard countless interviews on BBC’s ‘Focus on Africa’ including the ‘bring down the mansion’ directive. She maneuvered and got her intellectual buddy Amos to be Interim President for all the hard work of removing the hated Settlers and their Congo children. That was the big payback.

President Sawyer came to America and stayed at perhaps the most expensive hotel in America, the Waldorf Astoria. It was during this trip that he purchased his first and perhaps only home not in Sinoe County but I believe Reston, Virginia or Gaithersburg, Maryland. The State of the Presidents of America or close. 

On Sunday Dr. Sawyer was interviewed on the Gil Noble Show, the biggest platform in the world at this time, hosted by a black man. Gil thanked Dr. Sawyer for coming, and complimented him on how Presidential he looked. Gil asked, “Mr. President, is it true that the war in Liberia is prolonged because of the foreign influences?” 

Those days there were no cell phones so my wife at the time had hooked me up with three-way so that Vivian Reeves, Christie Smith, Chuku Anderson and I were all in a conversation on the same call. We all watched this interview and felt this one question was the defining moment of Dr. Amos Claudius Sawyer’s life. A yes or no. Tell the truth, make the Devil ashamed and save a life. That man answered, ‘well we all know that tribalism is a problem”. Amos was no longer a freedom fighter but another African politician enjoying the sweat and the blood of his people. That Amos decided to deflect the importance of this poignant question to tribalism seemed to shock even the seasoned journalist Gil Nobel. It was obvious from then on that the rest of the interview was a mere formality with no real substance.

Gil looked at Dr. Sawyer and seemed embarrassed at how he allowed himself to appear cowardly, punkish and just a weasel of a sissy at the moment of truth. That day, I lost whatever remained of my innocence and hope in the Liberian male. I would be just like Dr. Sawyer on the Gil Noble show if I did not tell the truth and shame the Devil.

And so, as our country mourns the death of another pivotal figure in its history, the question I ask myself is: “what was this man’s role in making Liberia a better place?” Look around you. What is there to celebrate? Dr. Sawyer advocated for change in a Liberia that had one of the highest credit ratings in the world, arguably the best medical university in West Africa, working electricity, working water and sewer, a flourishing educational system, a semblance of law and order, a leader of the OAU and champion of freedom movements in Africa, food self-sufficiency and countless other attributes too supernumerous to mention. And what has Dr. Sawyer bequeathed to us? Look around and decide for yourselves. But since you want him to be a hero,  we will still give him a hero’s homegoing and perhaps see the bearded Black Berets on hand as pallbearers. We can only hope that the younger generation that he has trained, unlike him, will enter Liberia into their consciences and in their continuation of the struggle in the cause of the people will truly exhibit noble objectives.

I thank you. “In the cause of the people. The struggle continues”.

A tribute by Henry Mamulu

Alhaji was dead long before he expired. Perhaps he died of a broken heart, an unfulfilled dream of existence so carefully planned, he never anticipated the vicissitudes of life with all its uncertainties. 

We met at the all-boys school, St. Patrick’s in Monrovia in 1971, I came off my most successful academic stint at Cathedral and met Alhaji in the 10th grade. He had already been at St. Patrick’s along with Varmunyah Sherriff, Anthony “Teacher” Gray, Oliver “OBlay” Blay, Boikai Sirleaf, from what seemed to have been the 7th Grade.

Alhaji had just written his first article perhaps to dispel the rumor that a new student would join us, one Charles McGee already hailed as a great thespian. Yes, he was competitive like that. In Alhaji’s article, he equated the usage of the word ‘Brother’ as an identifier for young men who smoked weed. His article suggested that you can identify these miscreants for they greeted each other as “Brother”.

The Gala Day of St. Patrick’s came as soon as school opened in March. We started school on the 5th and the 15th was Gala week. Our female counterparts from St. Theresa’s Convent would join us to begin the festivities. By this time I had joined Charles Martin, Chuku Anderson, and Rudolph Eadie, already at St. Patrick’s and we formed the most popular boy band of the 70s, the Junior Temptations modeled after The Temptations, a famous American Band. Monrovia literally belonged to us. However, at the Gala celebration, something spontaneous and unusual happened. Alhaji sang a song, not just any song but a song by the former lead singer of the Temptations. The song ‘My Whole World Ended’ by David Ruffin. This was perhaps providential.

Alhaji’s delivery was not good but great! His voice nearly rivaled the growl of Chuku Anderson and his stage presence and natural charisma was intoxicating. I was stunned as he seemed to be the one person who could capture Monrovia away from the Jr. Temps.. Well by Monday, soul brother Kromah was gone and back was the guy who wanted to be tops in everything. You had to be close to Alhaji to witness those moments when his alter ego would emerge revealing a totally unfamiliar but relatable and enjoyable character. But those moments were few and far between. That year he gave himself the name ‘“Thombor”. It meant the palm tree that stood above all others. Boikai Sirleaf just called him”Posi” for position.

I sat in the same 10th-12th grade with Alhaji and he wanted to be our Valedictorian so badly. He worked assiduously to achieve this goal. However, his plans were thwarted by Anthony Kekurah, an unassuming young man who was not only studious but brilliant as well. This does not take away from the prowess of Alhaji even though I never felt he was as naturally gifted as a Kpadi Williams or Anthony Gray but he was arguably the most disciplined of our generation, Frugal with time, attentive to his dress, I think it is safe to say, Alhaji in 10th grade may have been more disciplined than say, Alex Cummings in C.W.A,. who was no slouch kitten himself.

Alhaji had it all planned out. He would become the youngest President of Liberia. If you knew him as well as I did, you would assume that he decided this in first grade. However, he had a hiccup. He was Mandingo as I am. Today, it seems, we are simply hated but in those days we were both hated and ignored and so Alhaji had to find the next best thing, a wife because “he who finds a wife finds a good thing”. He picked Clarice Simpson. Now, now hold your horses, I think he loved her dearly! Who wouldn’t? She was beautiful, a great athlete at the prestigious B.W. Harris School and Grand Daughter or niece of C.L Simpson Sr, With a calculating, not wasting of energy mind like Alhaji’s she could get him into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. He had it all figured out. 

We graduated and enrolled at the University of Liberia. I went to study Chemistry after going to summer school for the darn thing. Soon with my other brotherly activities, I was flunking out of college. Alhaj enrolled in his Political Science, an area that seemed to come naturally to him, and soon was duxing. The coup came around and Samuel Doe Head of the Military Junta was a football fan and liked Barrolle. Alhaji maneuvered himself to the presidency of Barrolle, a strategic maneuver I might add, that placed him front and center in the desirable crosshairs of Doe. Thereafter he was appointed Managing Director of LBS and Minister of Information, and it was rumored that Doe was seriously considering him as a replacement for the Vice Presidency. Alhaji donned his army fatigue, sometimes with an uzi in tow, and followed Doe everywhere, including on one occasion, to Nimba County in the middle of a contentious situation that had sprung up between the tribal peoples of Nimba including the Mandingoes. Alhaji had finally rebounded from the decimation of his ‘congo’ dreams to pole position within the clan that had destroyed that dream. He was on top of his game and on top of the world. It was a script that Hollywood movies were made of. You see but for the change of events, Alhaji would have joined the True Whig Party and the Masonic Craft.

Enter Ellen Sirleaf and her war machine that cost Doe his life, shattered Alhaji’s dreams of pomp and pageantry all over again. And the demise of 250,000 of us. Alhaji was still resilient and in 1997, he was not done for. He ran as a presidential candidate for the All Liberia Coalition Party and was topped only by Charles Taylor and Ellen.

One day in the 2000s I am in Philadelphia. I hear people wailing, the gnashing of teeth, and rending of clothes. I followed the sound of anguish and came to a mosque. I asked what had happened and they told me it was the anniversary of the Massacre of Bakadu, a town in Lofa, I walked back to Woodland Avenue and asked what had happened. The young man in the store said the town was attacked by the rebels. Men, women children, and even dogs were massacred. He (this young man), was one of the many Mandingo boys that jumped into the Lofa River and swam across to Sierra Leone.

He further went on to say that in Freetown they were trained to come back and fight in Lofa particularly. They were given drugs, told not to bathe and young Muslim lads whose bodies knew no pollutants returned home as animals. They, he said were the ones who removed fetuses in Lofa and Alhaji Kromah was their leader

It would be easy to understand and sympathize with my classmate. Here I am, have done everything you asked. Never tried pot like some of my brotherly classmates, studied hard, married right, and just when I am within reach of my long-sought-after prize,  you bring this senseless war to deny me my gold medal. It was about that palm tree that was to stand above all others and Alhaji had been foiled once again and he had no recourse but to fight in the only way that he didn’t know-how. For us, his classmates, it was difficult to visualize him as a rebel fighter or even a leader of a rebel group, a guy never played or took a push-up in high school and barely passed PE in college. However. his brilliant manipulative skills would be no match for the likes of ‘The Iron Lady’, especially after having such high visibility with the ‘enemy’. And so his ‘tactics’ changed, he joined the ranks of those who have destroyed what they profess to love the most and contributed in making his own dream an impossibility. Alhaji’s “world had ended” and he “died way before he was pronounced dead”.

There is a lesson here somewhere. Live a little, love a lot for, however, you may have planned life in its shades of grey, it has a way of overturning the best-kept plans. God bless. A great man has fallen.

A tribute to Jeremiah and Carlton – By Henry Mamulu

Right before Jeremiah and Carlton found the big times in the car business, they both were gypsies drivers on Staten Island, Park Hill. This was a business now recognized by the Borough of Staten Island that was established by Bon Jallah, Ian Sheriff, Jeremiah, Carlton,  Bill Martin, Terry Brown and Vanshield Togbayahn. At this time Jerry and Carlton shared an apartment with Terry and I.

One night right before we left for a gig on Long Island, I heard noises in the bathroom. I opened the door and there was Jeremiah bouncing up and down saying, “Who you rootin’ for Jeh, Jeh, I can’t hear you Jeh,Jeh”. I asked him “what’s going on man”? He said, “I am psyching myself up”. Throughout his ailment I would call and sing on his voicemail. “Who you rootin’ for Jeh Jeh, I can’t hear you Jeh Jeh”.  That same night we couldn’t get Carlton to wake up from sleep. He had worked every waking hour that week, seven days straight and his body and mind needed the rest. Jeremiah told me what to do to get him up. I took a handful of coins, shook them close to his ear, and he shot up saying, “where the gig at”?. The kid was getting used to the sound of money.

An incident occured that established the legend of “Jeremiah” in New York. Jerry was a cab driver and student at Staten Island Community College. Between school fees and bills, his registration or insurance lapsed. That same day George Gbenyon came to town and we wanted him on the island. Jerry went and picked up G.George . Hurrying back to present G.George to the boys, Jerry went through the light. A police chase ensued. Jerry,  afraid of trouble, drove to the Base, The Cab station. He  jumped out of the car and hid under another.

Police arrived. Surrounded G. George with a shotgun pointed at his head. The Police dog found Jerry under the car and the police got him. After checking them out they found nothing and so asked Jerry, “why did you run”? He replied in the most perfect accent. “I am from South Africa, when we see the cops we know we are dead”. The police laughed so hard and the first African they got to know was Jeremiah . That opened the door for all of us to become friends with Police officers. Later, Sulimah Tunis was driving using someone’s car. The police pulled him over and called him Maima Kamokai. Tunis answered “yes”. 

Monrovia had seen many Popular High School Boys, the mid sixties had the original Batman and Robin, the basketball Tandem of Bruce William and William Ward. Bruce  silky smooth passes to the dead eye Bill. The late sixties saw out of C.W.A The Woochers. Amara Freeman, Joachim Acolatse, Reginald Goodrige, Edwin Jerome Cooper and Lowell Wesley who opened Peyton Place. Students came from all over the world to dance there. B. W  Harris had Jimi Yhap and Julius Boikai Fahnbulleh, we saw Jimmy McCritty and Amos Sloan play ball at MC. I lived through all but there was nothing like 10 Speed and Brown Shoes, Jeremiah and Carlton.

The previous eras did not have the level of competition Jerry and Carlton faced. These two were students at Cathedral School where the most handsome boy was Ericson Miller and the girls let him know it. Madison was graduating into Kadafi to evolve into Mad Dog on the purse of Mona and every Oldma available. His gang included Anthony A. ‘Thogwa’ Thogba. Hutchins was becoming Eddy World as his basketball skills enamored his class “Cocha”. He had his own following Jr. Gibson, fresh from Cape Palmas, Eddie ‘Black Sambo” Dula who started getting drunk from 7th grade. This group was called ‘Survivors” or ‘Surver’ for short and also included Boikai Kierwood. They only sold Eddy World to girls ”who Pa had shop so they could drink free”. ‘Black Sambo’, a real dirty way pekin will ask for change after they finish all the liquor on a school night. 

Cephas was Benson and Vanshield his sidekick. Joyce Sackor was turning into All NBA with her finger rolls, Angie was starting to grow that bungar that will become her greatest asset in basketball. She shook it, defenses dropped. There was Theola, Annete, and Everline Farley leading the way as floor general. Chistine was developing that shot from the corner as Nadi Nah came to America on Thursday and was  back on Monday. But nobody touched 10 Speed and Brown Shoes, the children had news, charisma and students and parents loved them. They were clean and Jeremiah was the undisputed King.

Oh do not get it twisted, Siena, Mamu. Ophelia, Decontee, Fonati, the Brapohs, and Easy Like Sunday Morning Chuku were stars in their own right. Most popular girl in Monrovia was perhaps Sadaitu, Madonna was becoming a traffic jam but Anette Anthony already was. There were the Sharp Sisters and then there was Cash Madam Mona.  

Jeremiah was most of all funny, a natural comedian who everyone loved and gave opportunities to. Carlton, his thing was hustling the money. Jerry would come to America for a week, buy some cheap stuff, tie, belts sneakers, t-shirts that Carlton would turn in a major business selling everything 30% of the original cost at the next basketball game while Jerry kept them laughing. The perfect scam, Jerry made you laugh while Carlton picked your pockets. All legitimate. They were young, good students, better looking, Jerry with his pop eyes, Carlton curly hair and button nose, lady killers who made their own money, the world was at their feet and they were not 20 years old. Talk about ‘born to win’.

I met Jeremiah in 1978 one week after Sister Rose Gabriel’s tragic accident coming back from Gala festivities in Buchanan. Jerry was a six grader and his class was across the street in the Parish House away from the main Cathedral Campus. His mates included Theo Dennis, dux, Chatwanie, sal,  C. Prick, Claren Jones,  Herman Blumnthal, Rudi Belinazzo, Jerry Lagama,  Gabriel Lama, Louse Lama, Thelma Cruso,  Angie George, Babe Ora,  Selcon Bedell,  Christiana Nathan, Domayoh Wilson. Audrey and Laureen Kromah, Nick Andrews, Vanshield  and teaching these kids became the beginning of my career in Education. Even then, Jeremiah was the king.

It was with this group that I began to coach Nick, C. Prick,   Blumenthal,  Clarence, Van, Jerry how to play basketball. Jeremiah became a flashy point guard, better even than Andrew Clark but lacked stamina. His game lasted 10 minutes flat. But that was enough time for him to woo the crowd.

He met Carlton in 10th grade after Jeremiah came back to Cathedral from a stint at St. Patrick’s. It was like they knew each other from birth. 

Fast forward Cathedral School hosted its Gala celebration on Staten Island in 1988. The basketball team was Jeremiah Nagbe PG, The Wicked Lu SG, Ericson Miller c, Vanshield SF, Carlton Carr PF. After beating two teams because of the brilliance of Jeh Jeh, we met Zion in the finals. Zion had Abu Williams, Morale Walker, Peter Kpahn. Moses Hook, and Grisby. Zion had Barrolle.

Abu Williams had become a Super STAR, defeating Nigeria in Liberia on a nasty dunk. Morale Walker College Player of the Year at a school where he , Kpahn and Abu starred at. Cathedral, we had 500 of our girls chanting “who you rootin for”.

That day belonged to Cathedral as we kept Abu practically scoreless in the second half. It was the finest hour of Carlton, a man no one considered a Great Baller but that day it was as if he danced slow dance with the Great Abu. He kept his head on Abu’s chest and everywhere he went Carlton followed, denying him the ball, ”keeping greatest of its blocks”…

Jerry came down with the ball, he did his famous spin like Iverson, saw the streaking Vanshield heading for the hole, flipped a no look pass towards Van.  Out of the blue in slow motion I saw a hand that pushed the ball away.  The body that followed the hand was Abu, and he was already down court. As he laid it up the whistle sounded. We had a one point lead at this point but that basket ensured Zion the cup. I went on to win MVP that day and the following season the title went to Fish. That was the last time I played with 10 Speed and Brown Shoes. 

Many years later, I had relocated to Newark and needed a job. Carlton and Jeremiah took me to Autoland, one mile of used and new cars. This place was huge. There was Ian Sheriff, an aggressive salesman, Chauncey Gibson, smooth as silk, Jeremiah making people laugh while he made them buy cars, Carlton Carr racking it up and growing in the Finance Department.

Jerry and his sister Batico had always been close. In Monrovia, he brought her around, vacation time. She was a mission girl. Well she got married to “Roger Moore”, Aaron Davies and Jeremiah spared no expense for his darling baby sister. I remember he and Calton walking in with the drinks of those days, Moet and Chrystal. Henny flowed like water for it was on that day as common as water from a well.  

I would meet them in Liberia 2016 but so much had changed. We greeted each other with “Who you rootin’ for”. I miss those days. Hang in there Carlton. You will see your friend again at the appointed time. Be strong, be blessed. Too Black Too Strong.

By Henry M. MAMULU

“Please lock me away, And don’t allow the day, Here inside where I hide, With my loneliness”

“I don’t care what they say I won’t stay In a world without love”

“Birds sing out of tune, And rain clouds hide the moon, I’m OK, here I’ll stay, With my loneliness”

“I don’t care what they say I won’t stay In a world without love”

“So I wait and in a while, I will see my true love’s smile, She may come, I know not when, When she does I lose, So baby until then”

“Lock me away, And don’t allow the day, Here inside where I hide, With my loneliness”

“I don’t care what they say I won’t stay In a world without love” – The Beatles

I grew up in a touchy/feely society; a world where everyone practically knew everyone else and even called the foreigner cousin.  Sunday was the time when no one, not even the crazy man near the Catholic church went hungry. Everybody sent food to the home of the other. Yes it was  a world seemingly filled with love.Men greeted each other with the “traditional handshake” which ended with the snapping of the fingers, so loudly you  heard it half a block away followed by honest to goodness smiles. There was no pretense. 

The women were no different. They greeted each other with lavish kisses lovingly planted on both cheeks while staring each other in the eyes. Even when we were chastised most of the time,  we were spanked with the palm of the hand as if to mete out punishment and soothe our bruised bottom and wounded pride at the same time. 

And so as we traversed the granite strewn paths of our childhood my companion Michael Kwame Itoka and I would become lost to the world and discover ourselves again in songs from the “Beatles”. We sang Lady Madonna, Let It Be, Elenor Rigby, but one such song which haunted me so much said “ Please lock me away, and don’t allow the day enter here where I hide with my loneliness. I don’t care what they say. I wouldn’t stay in a world without love”. 

 Loneliness, it seems, resides in a world without love.

There was nowhere on earth like this my home, not China with her constant fractional  fracases, not America forever caught between the angst of  black and white,  not France with nightmares from the empire  or Germany with the specters of two World Wars lurking in the shadows and not going anywhere. 

Oh how I wish I knew then what I know now, “I had and lived in a piece of paradise”. But It made them mad AND SO THEY WAITED AND PLOTTED; for yes. If they were filled with jealousy and anger at how happy we were, now, our failures joyfully resonates as their fulfilled joy. 

We are no longer touchy/feeling, no one greets the other with a kiss. On the contrary,  everyone loathes the next with a madding, fever driven  passion. We are  now content “to live in a world without love” 

One day Michael asked, “Bluesy ”,  yes he called me Bluesy, “do you know what Diablo means”? I said that’s Spanish for the Devil. He said, “it means the one who knocks. So if you have a chink, a scratch, a crack in your armor, your life habors a weakness, a fault as it were, Diablo, some call him ‘Accusser”  will chip at it every day until he enters within your armor and destroys you while you still wear the garb thinking you are safe. 

As I Look back at my life as my birthday approaches, my mortality sits in a corner of the living room, all dressed up as if going somewhere, I see the hand of Diablo chipping away at everything I ever was and had hoped to be: country, family, legacy, everything as if I did not matter and was of no consequence; a washed up.

Somewhere they said ”resist, and he will flee”.That same place they said ”the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak”: Yes, the flesh was weakened by things presented to you by “the one who knocks”. Things we found enjoyable in our ill spent youth.  

Finally, the  entire world is in Diablo’s diabolical grip again. In Theology I learned it took the Death and Resurrection to release the world the first time. So how did this happen? It happened whilst we slept, the majority of us still nursing a social hangover even in these times marred by one phrase, “Social Distance”. We awoke  and discovered “Social Distance”,  dangled like bait before frightened humanity who seemed more confused by the bright lights, beating drums and blaring horns  that accompanied the instructions on what is approved distancing as compared to what will actually happen if the perimeters were broken. I have heard them talk about the New World Order. I think they achieved it finally. It arrived on the wings of COVID19, the engine that ushered in “the world without love”.

What will follow next; perhaps the Second Coming? Not so fast, for as we said back in my country, “ some  more now happen”. Yes there’s more to come.

However, how moronic and ironic can it get, you will go out to socialize but keep your distance so as to remain within the borders described as safe. Someone has played you for the fool my friend and told you, ‘you are free”. Free to do what? 

 From now on, your “Freedom Pass” will allow you to take the kids to school, after they are vaccinated with “Safe Distancing “drugs, go to work and be home just when the sun goes down and of course to go to the store and get food. You see it, your isolation can not be inhumane. “You have  got to eat honey”.. “You got to be strong to make that  money and pay (The Man) for keeping you in “Safe Distance”.

Old people said, “joke is joke,  play is play, but when you stick your finger in a dying man’s butt you will provoke him”.  “Yeah right, that’s why they are old”. “Who here able to become provoked”? “We want be safe”.And now as I look in retrospect, Diablo was always in my little piece of Paradise never allowing it to be what it ought to be, a place where all men could be free for  it is a rule that when you resist Diablo he flees.  Consequently, for him to enter as he did someone must have left the door ajar just enough for him to slip. in..  

In College I was invited to do an Honors Course. One of the books I read during that period was “The Dead Sea Scrolls”. These were parchments placed in earthen containers by a group of monks 200 years before the birth of Christ and were found by a nomad shepherd in the 20th Century. These scrolls contained amongst other writings the entire Book of Isaiah and Daniel and so for me authenticated the Bible as an inspired work. In the Scrolls a name was given as the one who would introduce The Day of Perdition,  a time of great suffering for and in the world. A day set aside from the foundation of the world by “The one Who Knocks”. The name of these enemies of mankind as recorded by the ancient watchers was the Kettim interpreted to mean The Greek. 

This does not imply that the Nation of Greece has an evil plan for the world. No. The average Greek is in the same boat as the average Togolese or Guinean. He just does not know it and thinks his station is better. The Greek OR Kettim  is a system, a World Order that originates from ‘The One Who Knocks” and is given to the Greek and inherited by Rome and transferred to a power into today’s market.. 

This system challenged the First Century Church leading to the death of all the Apostles of Christ for all the Earth at that time was under one rule, ‘the One Who Knocks” and the banner of The Roman Eagle. Even the unlearned fisherman Peter, the First Bishop of Rome saw it at work. He called it Hellenism which implied the culture of the Greek, the thinking of Aristotle as it were, the spirit of the West. 200 years before the birth of Christ, the Kettim was identified as the greatest threat to freedom and freedom in its purest form was experienced by me in my little peace of Paradise. It made them mad.   The Dead Sea Scrolls said the symbol of the Kettim was the Eagle.

Alexander’s army flew under the banner of the  Eagle. The Romans carried the double Eagle which was inherited by the Germans. After Alexander was poisoned by his Generals and died suddenly the world he conquered was divided up into four parts by four of his top Generals  

History and Scripture tells that out of Syria came a General that attacked Jerusalem. He declared himself a God and sacrificed a pig on the altar in the Holy of Holies in Jerusalem, his name, Antiochus Epiphanes. What is most astounding about Antiochus was his sacrifice was able to stop the daily libation to God. He stopped the daily sacrifice.

Epiphanes was not a semite, an Arab and Ismaelite, A Median  as you have been made to think are the enemy of the Truth but was a Kettim, a Greek. History demonstrated that the Arabs under Salahaddin captured Jerusalem, religious freedoms flourished as much as was possible under those conditions..  Christians. Islamist, Jews, Saracens were allowed to exist side by side in Muslim dominated Jerusalem. And then came the Crusaders out of Rome and Jerusalem became a slaughter house in the name of God killing Jews and Arabs and everyone else with equal enthusiasm.

“So what is going on Mr. Know it All Mamulu? Please tell us”.

It is difficult to say with the information that the “Kettim ” provides on the internet what is truth and what is lie. They have planned for centuries waiting for the right moment in History when culture, society, technology everything is so affected and vulnerable to do what they are doing now. Even you, you  know that something is wrong but what, can’t exactly say because the ones who control the news are deliberately  mixing in half truths.. Yet it lies right under the surface staring at you, monitoring your every move and mood.

However, personally, I know it is about you and the whole COVID19 thing as real as the science is, it is not the focus but you, “humanity’ this fight has always been about Humanity.

I think it is the book of Job that asks “who or what is man that you should care for him, make him a bit lower than an angel and even die for him”? It seems as if  since the foundation of the world, something or someone has as my daughter said when she was young, “don’t jealous me”. Yes something, someone has always “jealous  humanity”. Every time Jesus met someone he either said “peace be still, or fear not”. He said I have not given you the spirit of fear but of a sound mind”.

But look at you, you are reduced to a sad, scary lot,   so scared that even when you feel sick , fear does not allow you to go to the hospital. You believe that it is there the “Boogeyman “ will catch you. So more persons are dying from pressure, organs failure due to stress and someone is looking at this and recording it all. It is an experiment on fear and the effects of it on the human body. That’s what Mr. Mamulu thinks. Oh do not dismiss COVID19 for a moment because there must always be a physical,  COVID 19 component attached to the Spiritual, Fear.

This scenario was planned long ago and tested incrementally on a small scale as was the Ebola outbreak in West Africa.   

You see Diablo is a spirit, but the Kettim is a man and man must eat. Someone will profit from all this eventually. For your children to go back to school and you to work, it may be required that there be some kind of medical clearance. Who owns the facilities, the Greco/Roman. and who are the Doctors, his children trained from generation to generation in every discipline” whilst we slept in our ill spent youth”. Every cent they have spent in this experiment will be gotten back ten fold. Already, there are stores where  one can not enter without a mask. Humanity has already been conditioned to feel  that the virus will leap upon it and attack from 10 feet out.. Stores are not receiving cash because it is too personal only a card will do. There is no limit to where this thing will go in the creation of the New World; a World Without Love. 

They plan to punish Africa for being the one place where the rules are not being adhered to. People there know something is not right and to remain in isolation and wait for whatever they have planned next is just not smart. For that kind of independent thinking men like Bill Gates, Hillary Clinton are predicting that the next wave of COVID19, a stronger strain will hit Africa and decimate the continent. And it can all be blamed on ‘ the Africans did not follow the rules”

They have us folks. Life is a choice of God or man. Who will you choose? As for me and my house we choose the Lord. Next Shock wave to your battered immune system, ‘Water Shortage in West Africa” During the rain season more than a 100 inches fall each year. A Month after, the region is scrambling to find a drop to drink. Nobody saves any and the few wells are not enough. Well whilst you yet slept after the last dance, someone bought up the freshwater, stored up the remainder and will sell it back to you. This is what I know. I will not tell you to wake up for no one woke me.