Stella had gone to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Turning on the radio at 6:05 a.m., a strange, gravelly voice interrupted the national anthem. “The government of President Oliver Zuebala has been overthrown. He and his ministers are in hiding. The People’s Revolutionary Army is in control. Please remain calm. Stay indoors. Thank you.”
Bob Marley’s voice took over the airwaves. “Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights.” The song was played repeatedly during the day.
Stella’s knees buckled as she ran to her bedroom. “Amara, Amara, there’s been a coup,” she cried, shaking her husband’s shoulder.
“A coup! ” Amara sat up and switched on the radio at his bedside. The gravelly voice droned on. . . “due to increased corruption, nepotism, and tribalism. Please stay calm. Remain indoors.”
While Amara listened, Stella went to her daughters’ room. “Wake up,” she whispered to Miatta and Brenda as she switched on the light.
Miatta looked up, red-eyed. “We’re late for school?”
“No,” Stella replied. There’s been a coup.”
Brenda bolted upright in her bed. “Another coup? Oh my God!”
“What do we do, mama?” Miatta climbed into her sister’s bed and clung to her.
“Nothing. They said, stay indoors and keep calm.”
“Who’s they?” Brenda wanted to know.
“They call themselves The People’s Revolutionary Army.”
Stella left their room to peek at her sons, Gaiya and Benjamin, in an adjoining bedroom. They were sleeping soundly. As she gazed at them, she heard banging on the kitchen door and headed down the hallway towards it.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
“It’s me, Tita, the cook. Ma, there’s a coup.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” Stella reached for the keys hanging near the door. She opened it and Tita rushed in.
“Should I come to work?”
“No, go home and stay there.”
Tita lingered. “Ay,” she slapped her thigh. “President Zuebala thought he was God. See now. His time has come. He will suffer today, oh. You know what he said once? He will not suffer alone.”
Stella was too upset to discuss President Zuebala’s misdeeds. “I beg you Tita, go home.”
“Where else I going? I is a fool?” Tita turned and left.
Stella drew back the curtain and opened the kitchen window. A cool wind brushed her neck. Inhaling the earthy air, she slipped outside to revel in the dewy freshness but then thoughts of the coup sneaked up on her and she returned to the kitchen.
As she prepared breakfast, she ruminated on the ousted president’s administration. His government was corrupt. Salaries were in arrears. Inflation was sky-high. Incompetent ministers took bribes and hired their tribesmen. The opposition was buried in mass graves. How emaciated the president had looked when he grabbed power five years ago. Obese now.
By mid-morning fat, black houseflies buzzed around the untouched breakfasts. As she gazed out the window, she saw their neighbor and his friends, pounding drums, dancing and passing around palm wine. Stella wished she could join the celebration. But the coup had brought uncertainty.
Ratatatatat. Ratatatatat. Ratatatat. Machine gun fire blasted in the near distance. The neighbor and his friends gesticulated wildly. Then they fled into their houses. And Stella hurried to the bedroom to join her family huddled in bed near the radio.
“Anything new?” she asked trying to sound calm.
“Government officials are turning themselves in. President Zuebala is trapped in his mansion. His army is surrounded,” Amara sounded optimistic.
“Haven’t you heard the guns?” Stella asked. Her hands trembled as she touched Amara’s shoulder.
“I thought I heard some shots. The radio is God today. We‘ve been paying homage to it.” Amara forced a smile as he touched Stella’s hand. “You’re cold.”
Stella sat down on the bed’s edge. “Something is wrong, Amara. The drumming and dancing have stopped. Everyone’s retreated indoors.”
Boom, boom. Explosions shook the house. Amara jerked upright staring at Stella. “What the hell?” The children jumped up screaming. Then he dashed to the kitchen and they sprinted after him. He opened the door and charged outside.
Amara seemed gone forever. As she waited for his return, Stella sliced and buttered bread. She jumped when the door creaked and stared at the stocky brown man she loved dearly. Their boys, Gaiya and Benjamin, resembled him, had his large gray eyes. The girls in their early teens were tall, light brown and slender with thick reddish-brown hair like hers. What future do my children have in this country?
“I’ve been chatting with our neighbors,” said Amara, his face creasing. “They said the rebel leader is General Tweh and that truckloads of soldiers have been heading to the city to retake control of strategic facilities. The military is already in control of the radio station. Both sides are shooting like crazy on the main road. The rebels are trapped in some areas.” His eyes searched hers. Pain jabbed her forehead as she turned away. She entered the pantry and returned with soft drinks which she placed on the table. Brenda brought glasses.
“Try to eat something,” said Stella limply. She bit into a sandwich. But her mouth was dry and the sandwich tasted like cardboard. Outside, the sun was bright. We should be under a tree, she thought. Instead we are prisoners in our home. Amara locked the kitchen door and they retired to their bedroom where, feeling drained, she propped herself up on a pillow. The radio announced that the government was mopping up its enemies.
“Gaiya, you want to play Bingo?” asked Brenda, turning to her plump, younger brother who was rolling on the carpet.
“Okay,” Gaiya answered. “Nothing else to do.”
“Yea, I’m bored,” said Benjamin. “I’ll play, too.”
“And me too,” chimed in Miatta. “I’ll get the game.” She rose and headed towards the door.
Ratatatatat. Ratatatat. Gun fire blasted just as Miatta grabbed the doorknob to fetch the game from her room. She turned back screeching. The boys bolted onto the bed and clung to their parents.
Another burst of gun fire followed a dog’s yelping and fists pummeled the front door. A bullet whizzed through the bedroom window, shattered it. Stella grabbed Amara. More pain jabbed her head. Amara jumped up, shaking.
“We’d better open the door before they fire again.” He seized his keys from the bedside table.
“Open up,” voices yelled.
“Coming, coming,” Amara shouted as he ran down the hallway to the entrance.
Shaking, Stella raced after him.
Bam, bam, bam! Gun butts splintered the door.
Unlocking it, Amara faced six armed soldiers and a civilian. Pushing him aside, they barged in. Stella glimpsed her motionless dog. Seeing blood oozing from its head, she turned away, sickened.
A soldier, pointing his gun at Amara’s head, demanded he open the pantry. Without protest, Amara unlocked it. As two proceeded to empty the pantry of food and drink another turned to Amara.
“Le’ go, le’ go,” he ordered as he marched Amara to another room.
Looking around, he tossed about books and boxes. Finding nothing of interest, he shouted again, “Le’ go, le’ go,” pressing his gun at Amara’s back as he shoved him up the corridor.
Upstairs, two others joined in the raid of the children’s rooms. And moving on, they entered the main bedroom, where the children, clutching pillows and screeching, huddled on the bed.
“Shut up,” a soldier ordered.
The screaming stopped.
As the pair searched the room, a fat soldier in sunglasses guarded the family. They stopped when they came upon the stereo set equipped with a microphone.
“You’re under arrest,” they told Amara.
“What for?” Amara asked, puzzled.
“For transmitting messages to the enemy,” the fat soldier answered.
“What?”
“You deaf? We have evidence you been transmitting messages to a member of the Zuebala government.”
“Me?” Amara pointed to himself, his voice quavering. “I don’t know anyone that well in the government!”
“You Minister Bawala’s friend.”
“I don’t know the man,” Amara protested. “I’ve seen him on TV. I’ve read about him. That’s all.”
“That’s what you say. I know differently,” the fat soldier retorted.
From the bedroom door Stella recognized the civilian waiting down the hallway. He was a man whom Amara had saved from cholera. Why was he here with soldiers?
“We’re taking you in for interrogation,” the fat soldier told Amara. “Le’ go now.” He shoved him forward.
“I beg you, I beg you, I’m no wannabe politician.”
“Shut up or we’ll strip you and flog you in front of your family.”
“Please, don’t hurt daddy,” Gaiya begged. He jumped off the bed and gripped the soldier’s arm.
“Move away from here,” shouted the fat soldier, shoving Gaiya to the floor.
“Leave my children out of this,” Stella implored. “They’ve done nothing to you.” She jumped between the soldier and her son.
“Don’t touch my children,” Amara begged. “Just don’t touch them.”
“So wha’ you goin’ do ‘bout it?” sneered a tall soldier whose stomach hung over his belt. “Next time you open your mouth, you dead.”
“We wasting time, man,” said the fat soldier in sunglasses. “Take him to the barracks.” As the soldiers propelled Amara down the corridor, they struggled to dislodge the children who held on to him. Stella, neither screaming nor crying, joined the fray.
Then the civilian spoke. “You know doctor, these fellas will forget the whole thing if you give them something.” Everyone turned to face him. The dark, pox-faced man had been lingering in the background observing the search and interrogation.
“Yea, give us some cold water. We might drop the charge,” said the fat soldier.
Stella surveyed his triple-chin. Are these the people we wanted to save us from Zuebala? She shuddered. God help this country.
“Give us some cold water, man. We may consider your case.” The fat soldier glared at Amara. Two soldiers and the civilian escorted him back to his bedroom. Stella and the children followed.
In the bedroom, Amara reached into his closet and brought out a brown envelope which he handed over to the fat soldier.
“What’s this? Four hundred dolla? You value your life? Ha, ha, ha. Le’ carry the man.”
“Wait,” Amara said. Sweat drenched his shirt as he returned to the closet and brought out another envelope marked school fees. “Here,” he said. “That’s all I’ve got.”
The fat soldier counted the money. “All right,” he said smiling, “now you talking.”
“You a rich man, doc,” the civilian said. “You people loaded. Look at this house. Ge’ your car keys. Le’ go.”
With guns pointed at his back, Amara reached for his car keys on the dressing table. Then they marched him to the door. In the garage, two soldiers waited with food and drinks they had looted from the pantry along with other spoils they had snatched. They commanded Amara to open the trunk into which they loaded their loot. When done, they squeezed into the backseat with three others while the civilian and the fat soldier sat in the front. They leaned their guns out the window as Amara started the engine and drove off. The children wailed as the car sped out the gate.
Stella trudged back to her bedroom, the children, clinging to her and crying. Wheezing and heaving, she crawled into bed and gathered her children around her.
Hours later, Stella woke to blackness and the quiet breathing of her sleeping children. Somehow sleep had taken her despite an overactive imagination. It saw her husband, tortured, murdered and disposed of in the rumored faraway mangrove. It had kept her awake for a while and had become a burden. The phone lines, which worked occasionally, were out of order. Neighbors remained indoors battling their own fears. Her racing thoughts took up where they had left off, ate away at her nerves, numbing her desire for food and drink. She watched over her children. They were all she had left and she would claw the eyes out of anyone who tried to hurt them.
Stella took the clocks down. She wanted to stop counting hours, forget time. Then she heard a puttering car, keys rattling, slippers flip flopping. She put her hands on her ears to block the sound out, closed her eyes tightly but it became louder and ceased in front of her. She opened her eyes. There stood Amara haggard and dirty. She felt into his thick arms and screamed, “Thank you God, Thank you God,” waking the children.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” they cried jumping at him.
“We thought they had killed you,” Miatta and Brenda wailed.
“Me too,” cried, Gaiya.
Stella clutched Amara and fell back onto the bed with him and the children. Tears, sapped by approaching despair, welled and flowed like a bursting dam as they hugged and kissed the man they loved, had almost given up as dead.
Two weeks later Stella was awoken by knocking on the bedroom window. Kpor, kpor, kpor. It rattled the glass window and Stella’s nerves. “Who the hell could that be at this Godforsaken hour,” she muttered as she slid out of bed to open the window.
“Who else,” she grumbled when she saw Old Man Toweh, the watchman. “What is it?”
“A man come to see doctor. He wife having baby.”
“Can’t they go to the hospital?”
“He say the baby coming out.”
It was not what she wanted to hear. The city was still under a dusk to dawn curfew.
“How far is it?” Stella sighed.
“Up the road, ma.”
“O.K,” Stella groaned, “I’ll tell Amara.”
She closed the window, reached across the bed and shook her husband. “A woman in labor.” Amara scrambled out of bed.
“Are you mad?” she cried pulling at him. “Can’t you forget those damned patients for once?” Tears welled in her as she seized Amara and held on to him.
Amara, freeing himself, hurried to the closet and reached for his clothes. He dressed quickly glancing at his watch. 2:00 a.m. The curfew ended at6:00. He grabbed his medical bag and looked at Stella. She watched him from their bed, arms folded. Tear flooded her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” said Amara kissing her forehead before slipping out the bedroom door.
Stella’s eyes scoured the ceiling. Shadows of trees, whipped up by a breeze, danced eerily upon it. She heard Amara’s footsteps clattering down the hallway, heard the car sputtering out the gate. Her heart raced. The memory of his kidnap stalked her.
An hour later, she was pacing the floor, her stomach knotted, when her ears, tuned for the sounds of his return, picked up the familiar droning of Amara’s car. Assured of his safety, she snuck into bed and pretended to be asleep.
Climbing into bed, Amara turned to Stella. “I know you are awake.“
Stella faced him. “I die a little every time you leave us.”
“Honey, I had to go out tonight so that my knees would stop shaking. Otherwise I would never be a father, a husband, a defender of this family again.
“But Amara I…..”
Amara placed a finger on Stella’s lips. “Let me explain. Two weeks ago I was a transporter of looted goods and wounded renegades, a mender of wounds. I saved the rebels lives. They let me go unharmed, except for my battered pride. They humiliated me in front of you and the children. I felt like a weak, shaking mouse.”
“Well I love my mouse.”
“Weak?”
“Yes.”
“Quaking”
“Yes.”
“The rebels might be buried in the mangrove now.”
“We’re sure of that.”
“The bastards have lost this round.”
“You should be glad.”
“And Zuebala reigns once more.”
“Right now, Amara, I neither care about Zuebala nor the rebels. I have you and I’m not letting you go.” She pulled him close. “You’re not a mouse at all.”
“Maybe a big rat,” Amara chuckled.
“No, you’re my husband and father of my children. But promise me. No night visits for a while.”
“OK. I promise.” Amara kissed Stella on her forehead and switched off the light.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
Published in Sea Breeze Journal of Contemporary Liberian Writings November 2008 edition.
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