May-June 2025 Blog: Pieces Inspired by Liberian 1985 Attempted Coup, Althea Romeo Mark
The short
story and poems below were inspired by my family's experience during the 1985 attempted
coup in Liberia.
The Coup
Stella had gone to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and as she turned 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.” It was a song that she would hear
played repeatedly throughout the day in the increasingly unstable Walateyo,
West Africa.
Her 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. “ Oh my God! Well,
I will not be seeing any patients at the hospital today. The last day on earth
for some patients, Oh. And not just patients.”
He shivered while his stomach churned at the prospect of the impending
upheaval.
While Amara listened to the unfolding coup on
the radio, Stella went to her children’s rooms. The girls, Miatta, age twelve, and Brenda, age ten, were still sleeping. The boys, Gaiya, age eight, and Benjamin, age five, were in their rooms, too. They usually woke at 6:30 a.m. on a school day.
As she gazed at the boys, she heard banging
on the kitchen door and headed down the hallway towards it.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
“It’s me, Tita,. Ma, there’s a coup.”
“Yes, I’ve heard.” Stella reached for the
keys hanging near the door. She opened it, and Tita, her cook, rushed in.
“Ah should come work, Ma?”
“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 opened the kitchen window. A cool wind brushed her neck. She slipped outside the kitchen door to revel
in the dewy freshness and inhale the earthy air, 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 three months in arrears. Inflation was sky-high. Incompetent ministers
took bribes and hired their tribesmen. The opposition was buried in mass graves
in a rumored mangrove. The president was emaciated when he grabbed power five
years ago. Obese now.
By mid-morning, the children were up and aware of the political turmoil. Everyone had lost their appetites. Fat, black houseflies buzzed around untouched breakfasts. As Stella 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
another round of instability. During the first coup, government officials were
taken to a beach and shot. Twelve of them.
Ratatatatat. Ratatatatat. Ratatatat. Machine
gun fire blasted in the near distance.
The neighbor and his friends gesticulated wildly, then fled into their
houses. 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. Around noon, explosions shook the house.
Amara jerked upright, staring at Stella. The children jumped up screaming. He dashed to the kitchen, and they sprinted
after him. He opened the door and charged
outside.
Amara seemed gone forever. As Stella waited for his return, she 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 brown eyes. The girls, like her, were tall, light brown, and slender with thick reddish-brown
hair. What future would they have in this country?” Thought Stella.
“I’ve been chatting with our neighbors,” said
Amara, his forehead creasing. “They said the rebel leader is General Tweh and
that truckloads of government 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 the buttered bread.
But her mouth was dry, and the bread tasted like cardboard. Outside, the sun was
glaring. We should be sitting outside
under a tree, she thought. Instead, we are prisoners in our home. Amara locked the kitchen door and the family
retired to their bedroom, where, feeling drained, Stella 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.”
“Yeah, 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. Gunfire 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 gunfire followed with a
dog’s yelping. Fists pummelled 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 Amara
aside, they barged into the kitchen. Stella glimpsed her motionless dog. Blood oozed from its head. She turned away,
sickened.
A tall, stocky soldier in a blue helmet, appearing to be the leader, pointed his gun at Amara’s head and demanded that he open the pantry, which stored drinks and food they had stocked up on: canned foods, scarce goods like salt and sugar, and a 100lb bag of rice.
Without protest,
Amara unlocked it. Then two soldiers,
behind their leader, they called Bropleh, leaned their guns against the
kitchen table and proceeded to empty the pantry of food and drink.
The head soldier
turned to Amara, “Le’ go, le’ go,” he
ordered as he marched Amara to another room along the hallway. Looking around
the room, two soldiers, their guns strung over their shoulders, tossed about
books and boxes of papers. Finding nothing of interest, the lead soldier
shouted again, “Le go, le go,” pressing his gun on Amara’s back as he shoved
him up the corridor.
Upstairs, two other soldiers joined in the
raid on the children’s rooms. And the leader, moving on, entered the main bedroom, where the children,
clutching pillows and screeching, huddled on the bed.
“Shut up,” he soldier ordered.
The screaming stopped.
As a skinny soldier searched the room, the other soldier, in sunglasses,
guarded the family. The lead soldier
stopped when he came upon a ham radio.
“You’re under arrest,” he told Amara.
“What for?” Amara asked, puzzled.
“For transmitting messages to the enemy,”
the soldier answered.
“What?” Amara rasped.
“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 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 wha’ you say. I know differently,”
the lead soldier, Bropleh, retorted.
From the bedroom door Stella recognized the
civilian waiting down the hallway. He
was a man whom Amara had recently treated for cholera. Why was he here with
soldiers?
“We’re taking you in for interrogation,” the lead soldier told Amara.
“Le’ go now.” He shoved Amara forward.
“I beg you, I beg you, I’m no 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 from here,” shouted the 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.
“Please don’t touch my children,” Amara
begged. His knees buckled as he looked
at his daughters. “Just don’t touch them.”
“So wha’ you goin’ do ‘bout it?” sneered the
head soldier standing in the hallway. “Next time you open your mouth, you
dead. We wastin’ time, man, Take him to
the barracks.”
As the soldiers
propelled Amara down the corridor, they struggled to dislodge the children who
held on to them. 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, Amara recently treated,
had been lingering in the background observing the search and
interrogation.
“Yea, give us some cold water. We might
drop the charge,” said the lead soldier.
Stella surveyed his red eyes.
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 head
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 lead
soldier.
“Wha’ dis? 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 head soldier counted the money. “All right,” he said, smiling, “now
you talkin’.”
“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 garage 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 four others while the civilian and the lead soldier sat in the
front. They leaned their guns out the windows
as Amara started the engine and drove off.
The children wailed as the car sped out of 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. In her mind, she had seen her
husband tortured, murdered, and disposed
of in the rumored mangrove. These
thoughts had kept her awake for a while, but had also numbed her.
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, wanting to 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, looking drained and dirty. She fell into his thick arms and
wailed, “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, which had been sapped by approaching
despair, now flowed like a burst dam as they hugged and kissed the man they
loved, a man they 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 eyes 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.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” said Amara, kissing her forehead before
slipping out of 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 of the
gate. Her heart raced. The memory of his kidnapping 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 rumored
mangrove now.”
“
Well, hearing what they said happened to their leader, we might be sure of
that,” said Stella.
“ I heard they ate that man. The flesh of a strong man will make you
strong our neighbor said. The bastards have lost this round,” said Amara.
“You
should be glad.”
“And Zuebala reigns once more.” Amara sighed.
“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
REVOLUTION AND REGGAE
(LIBERIAN FAILED COUP 1985)
Daylight is changing guard with night
and the radio blares “Get up, stand up
Stand up for your rights”
No national anthem.
Suspicion is soon confirmed
a monotone voice interrupts
the laid back reggae tract
“The people’s Revolutionary Party
has taken over the government
stay calm, stay indoors.”
“Get up, stand up
stand up for your rights.”
Bob Marley doesn’t know
his song has been hijacked
and drummed into heads
knees weak from fear
do not allow us to stand up.
We gather round a kitchen table
uneasy because of the rat-tat-tat of gunfire
and the singing of drunk “patriots”
prematurely celebrating the coup d'état
celebrating the climb of tribesmen to power
counting on nepotism to rise in stature
to climb the social ladder.
We pray to ride out the storm
‘cause a revolution like a hurricane can
change directions, leave death and destruction
in its path as it fights to stay alive.
We switch the
radio off
some standing up for their rights
are taking men away
to unknown destinations
despite the pleas of wives and children.
The change brings death for some
slaughtered by men putting them in their places
showing who is the boss, exercising their rights
in the name of destiny and “Get up stand up,
Stand up for your rights,” newfound anthem
hostage of a nebulous cause.
© Althea
Romeo-Mark, If Only the Dust Would Settle 2009
Liberian Curfew / Althea Romeo-Mark
Posted on April
4, 2010AuthorNicolette Bethel 10
Commentson Liberian Curfew /
althea romeo-mark
Our village comes to life
when cocks crow.
We close our doors when
chickens nod in their coop.
.
We dare not get bitten by
snakes or scorpions.
We dare not fall into
a hallucinating fever.
Imprisoned dusk to dawn,
we dare not go into labor.
.
The trip in a wheelbarrow
to the nearest healer,
will be our death warrant.
We do not give the soldier an excuse
to be ”boss-man.” We do not give him
a reason to test his weapon.
.
There might be no time
to place a cross on our grave.
We do not want to be buried
like diseased cattle.
© Althea Romeo Mark,
Published in Tongue of the Ocean: Words and Writings from the Islands,
ed Nicolette Bethel, 2009
Uninvited
She can’t say no to
armed hitchhikers
in military
uniforms when they wave her down.
She could speed up
and feel the hail of bullets
slicing through the
car frame, piercing her body.
She wouldn’t live
to tell the story.
So she stops and
smiles, pretends to be polite,
even though she
could be one
minute away from
becoming a ghost.
All four climb in.
Guns, pointing
perilously out windows,
gape at fleeting
scenery.
Stone-faced
soldiers stare straight ahead
as if on a special
mission.
She feels her knees
wobble under her skirt.
Her mind in
overdrive, she sees her body
like a large rice
sack lying on the roadside next to firewood,
raped, mutilated,
lifeless.
A voice behind her
interrupts her
deathly vision.
“Stop, we getting
down here, ma.”
© Althea Romeo,
Mark The Nakedness of New, 2018
The 1985
Liberian coup d'état attempt was staged by General Thomas Quiwonkpa, who had been a
leader of the 1980 coup along with President Samuel Doe and later the founder of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia (NPFL). On 12
November 1985, one month after elections were held, Quiwonkpa, supported
by about two dozen heavily armed men, covertly entered Liberia through Sierra Leone and launched a
coup against Doe. The coup resulted in a disastrous failure, and Quiwonkpa was
captured and, on November 15, was killed and mutilated by Krahn soldiers
loyal to Doe,[1] who
reportedly ate parts of his body.[2]
Samuel Doe also
announced in a radio and television broadcast that anyone found on the streets
after a 6 p.m. curfew would be considered a rebel and executed immediately.
Following the coup
attempt, Doe's forces massacred thousands of civilians in retaliation.[3]
See Wikipedia for References
Brief Bio
Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea
Romeo-Mark is an educator and writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands.
She has lived and taught in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia (West
Africa), England, and Switzerland since 1991.
Althea Romeo Mark, who
writes poetry, short stories and personal essays, is the author of two
full-length poetry collections, The Nakedness of New and If
Only the Dust Would Settle, (English-German), and four chapbooks, On the Borders of
Belonging (2023), Beyond Dreams: The Ritual Dancer, Two Faces, Two
Phases, Palaver, and Shu-Shu Moko Jumbi: The Silent Dancing Spirit.
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