Behind the Eclipse

by Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

  ‘Hm,’ he did not say much.

  ‘Pastor, please forgive me, I want to serve everyone, irrespective of their religion and other differences,’ I tried to explain to him.

  ‘George, it’s the will of God which is not your choice,’ he looked at me with a smile.

  ‘Get ready tomorrow morning; I know the director of the nursing school,’ he said while he was walking into his room.

  Next morning we went to the office of the nursing school of Conakry. A thin Indian man in a full suit with his round soda bottle like eye glasses on welcomed the Pastor Jean-Paul warmly. Their discussion proved that they were close friends. After a few minutes, the Indian man came and introduced himself to me.

  ‘I am Doctor Sanjay Sharma, director of the nursing school.’ He shook my hand.

  ‘I am George,’ I replied.

  ‘Pleasure to have you here George,’ he said.

  ‘You will have to study a lot, and this is a very responsible profession. We want our students to be life savers of this country and beyond its frontiers,’ he said with serious facial expressions that did not match with his round glasses.

  ‘Come on next Monday, we will start a new badge,’ Dr. Sharma said.

  I felt an empyrean sensation, simply happy and hopeful. I felt an airy feeling as if the life was a Dandelion. It was a feeling I had never felt before. The happiness that came out from having been able to do what I wanted to do, not what I needed to do or what some wanted me to do.

  ‘You still can stay in the church and go to school,’ the Pastor Jean-Paul gave me wings.

  ‘Thanks God!’ I said

  ‘Thank you, Pastor!’

  ‘You are a God,’ I said without thinking further.

  Upon completion of three years of studies in the college, I joined Donka Hospital in Conakry for my field practicum which allowed me to join an international non-governmental medical organisation that implemented country-wide programs in Guinea where I met a Kissi girl called Aminatta from Lofa, Liberia. Her round features and live gestures reminded me very much of the young age of Kumba. Whenever I looked at Aminatta, Kumba came to my mind. As we interacted with each other many times a day in the workplace, we shared things that we had faced in the journey of life. The more she told about her, the more I started liking her.

  Aminatta had lost her parents, her two children, and husband during the second Liberian war and found refuge working at the residence of the Country Director of the organisation where I worked.

  A few months after getting to know her, I proposed her which she did not think was serious.

  ‘Men chop and go,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘They give belly* and escape,’ she looked at me even without lifting her head and went back to work.

  ‘Aminatta,’ I called her again after a few weeks.

  ‘Why my man,’ she replied from the other end of the building, without budging an inch. I decided to sit next to her and talk.

  ‘Today we talk,’ I said in a firm voice.

  ‘I am busy,’ she tried to turn back.

  ‘You are not going anywhere,’ I remained firmer.

  ‘I need no man,’ she escaped.

  Another day, I met her behind the ward while she was carrying some food for Dr. Harris who was the Country Director of the organisation where we worked. I tried to ask her out again. She just vexed and looked at me just like a wolf at a bear.

  ‘I hate man and woman business.’

  ‘I hate man thing,’ she pushed me and rushed.

  After almost eighteen months, the moon had raised up in the night sky. Dr. Harris had completed his mission in Guinea and was planning to go to Liberia for his new assignment. Aminatta was busy all day preparing food for the farewell party, and everyone else was busy eating and drinking. Loud music and dancing had driven everyone deaf, and I was expecting Aminatta to come and join us. As she did not appear, I went to the kitchen to call her.

  Behind the house, she was cleaning the plates and baskets. The pale moonlight had fallen on her curves that almost made me sober.

  ‘Aminatta, today we talk,’ I told her.

  ‘What?’ She was reactive. That was our first interaction.

  ‘You do not know what I want?’ My voice was raised unintentionally.

  ‘You do not know what I went through.’ She broke into tears.

  ‘I was raped by Taylor’s people.’ She fell on the ground and started crying loud.

  ‘Aminatta,’ I tried to calm her down, but all my attempts were in vain.

  I felt that I was in the middle of a puzzle that I did not know how to solve. I had already developed feelings towards her and could not separate her from my problems, at the same time, I wanted a way out.

  I questioned my feelings. On the one hand, I was a nurse, churchman who had witnessed the sufferings of the victims of conflicts. On the contrary, I had my traditions and beliefs that had lasted for centuries. My society would not tolerate me marrying a victim of rape. They would call her a curse, wizard, and ill omen. Nonetheless, I had already lost my immediate family who would first question my relationship. Kumba had already children with another man, and she had grown old. She couldn’t bear a baby for me anymore. But if I stayed here with her, the social pressure would destroy our family as she had been already labelled as a victim of rape.

  After a few minutes, I came to the surface of reality and found out that she had not even given her word. I walked back to the party and joined the colleagues who were enjoying the food and the drinks.

  ‘George,’ Dr. Harris called me.

  ‘Yes Sir,’

  ‘You know I am going to your country.’ He tapped on my back.

  ‘It’s been a long time since I left Monrovia,’ I replied to him.

  ‘In case you come to Liberia, let me know.’ Dr. Harris gave me a hope which indeed cleared my puzzling mind. In case I go with Aminatta to Monrovia, no one would know about her story, and we would be able to find peace. I thought.

  ‘Sir, I would like to go back to my country if I get a job,’ I told him with my usual loyal tone.

  ‘Once I get there, call me. My Guinean number will work for the following few weeks. Do not forget to call me. I would rather like to have you as our head nurse than someone whose history is unknown.’

  The following weekend Dr. Harris left Guinea. I joined him in the Jeep to go to Gbessian International Airport to wish him a safe flight.

  I was watching him walk towards the departure lobby. Just before he was about to enter the departure gate, he said, ‘See you in Liberia.’

  ‘See you soon Sir,’ I said aloud full of joy.

  I returned to work after my trip to the airport and met Aminatta. Her face was just like the sky over Conakry in January. She did not even lift her head to look who was just beside her.

  ‘Aminatta,’ I called her name.

  ‘What is wrong,’ I asked gently. I thought that she did not want to face me because she happened to disclose what she encountered in Liberia.

  ‘All is ok; I understand you. I know you better now,’ I tried to convince her that I would not take her situation as the others did.

  ‘I fear to lose my job,’ she started sobbing.

  ‘Dr. Harris left, but there will be another person coming soon to the same house. You are not going to lose your job Aminatta. Do not worry. Your contract is with the organisation not with the person.’ I explained to her.

  ‘And you know, I might get a chance to go back to Liberia for the same job.’ She looked at me even before I finished what I was telling.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Dr. Harris will take me,’ I replied looking into her eyes.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘If you are not sure, keep watching. In less than a month, I will go to Monrovia.’ I said with confidence though I was n
ot fully sure about what he said. But I knew him as a person who always kept his word.

  ‘Aminatta, I feel for you. I would like you to be my woman,’ I told her again.

  She looked at me and did not tell a word and left the ward.

  After a few weeks, I received a call in my office.

  ‘Hello, George, This is Dr. Harris.’ When I heard the voice of Dr. Harris, I became numb with excitement. I knew what he had to tell me.

  ‘How are you doing Sir?’ I asked politely.

  ‘I am good, how are you?’

  ‘Good sir,’

  ‘Can you come to Monrovia before the end of next week?’ His question was loud and clear enough. I did not want to bargain. I agreed.

  I went straight to Aminatta, who was still upset since the replacement of Dr. Harris had not arrived.

  ‘You know, Dr. Harris called me,’ I told her in a low voice.

  ‘True?’ She could not believe her eyes.

  ‘Yes I will have to go next week,’ I said keeping my eyes constantly in contact with hers.

  ‘Aminatta, I want you to come with me, I beg you,’ I pleaded her.

  ‘You go and find me a job!’ She turned back.

  26

  Early Monday morning the following week, I was about to start my journey back to Liberia after over one and a half decade. I met the Pastor Jean-Paul and thanked him for all what he had done for me since the day I came to Guinea.

  ‘You are a very determined man,’ he said.

  ‘May God bless you!’ He added with his usual friendly gestures.

  ‘Thank you!’ I expressed my gratitude to him.

  ‘You can stay in the church in Yomou tonight,’ he gave me a key.

  ‘There is one man called Oliver who lives near the church. Give him the key when you leave!’

  After almost a day long trip, I reached the old church where I first served as a churchman. The old brick building which was half built remained the same as I saw it on the very first day despite some new cracks and floss on the walls.

  Next morning by six I crossed the border and took a shared Yellow-machine to Monrovia. Passing Lofa where I was born; Gbarnga where I met Rev Maurice that changed my life, along the gravel roads, reached Monrovia in the late afternoon, but the city was not the same as when I crossed the river Du in 1990.

  Along the Tubman Boulevard, there was nothing but the debris of buildings damaged by shelling and fire. Once lively street clubs and restaurants in Congo town were just ruined and the whole road was haunted. Many government buildings that remained high and prestigious had blackened and abundant. The paved roadways network and well-maintained street lighting system in Monrovia had already added to the history that Librarians boasted of before the other West African nations. Instead, well dressed and tidy Liberian outlook had changed into a culture where people wore anything irrespective of its purpose. Signs of extreme poverty, suffering and desperateness had conquered the pride and prestige of being a Liberian.

  ‘My man. A fresh thing for a hundred liberties. Come! First deal of day!’ As the taxi slowed down in the traffic at the Boulevard-junction in Congo town, one girl around 15 years, reached me through the shutter that was left open and said. I was shocked to see the transformation. No girl went on prostituting on the streets of Monrovia before the war. I thought of Kumba and her children.

  At every single junction, there were young men who were on crutches and wheelchairs. I could not believe my eyes what had happened to our nation. Greed for power and corruption had brought nothing but misery and destruction to the land of Liberty where many other Africans used to come on vacations in the 1970s.

  ‘We stop here,’ the taxi driver grumbled. Everyone started jumping out just like the dogs that were unchained after a few days. I pulled my little bag in which I had my clothes, shoes and other necessities and got into another Yellow-machine that was going to Sinkor, Monrovia where Dr. Harris was living.

  ‘Bakers apartment complex, 9th street, land-side, Sinkor.’ I had written down the address on the other day, and it was not difficult for me to locate the building as Sinkor was relatively a less populated elite quarter of Monrovia. We stopped near a white colour high wall, and a generator was beating emitting a lot of noise and smoke. We used to have hydro power stations that provided continuous electricity to the nation, but today that was history.

  ‘Hello George. You are very punctual,’ Dr. Harris appeared greeting me.

  ‘How was the trip?’

  ‘I am ok Sir,’ I said.

  ‘You can stay here for a few days till you find a place and tomorrow on you can start work in our clinic in Douala-market area,’ he said during dinner. I felt that I was self- actualized yet I wanted Aminatta to be with me.

  ‘Sir. Aminatta was planning to come back to Liberia too,’

  ‘Oh really?’ Dr. Harris looked positively surprised.

  ‘I did not know that.’ He paused.

  ‘If I knew that I could taken her to work here,’ he added.

  ‘You have somebody working for you?’

  ‘A boy comes on and off.’ His reply gave me some hopes.

  ‘Shall I ask her to call you?’

  ‘For sure, I would rather go for her than anyone else as I know the quality of her work.’

  I started my job right away from the following day. On the very first day, immediately after I reached the clinic, I made a call to Aminatta and told her that she could have the same job in Liberia with Dr. Harris which she did not believe.

  ‘You are lying,’

  ‘You will get a call from Dr. Harris this week,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’ She was not convinced.

  ‘Stay in the office this week,’ I warned her.

  Before Aminatta came, I rented a small room in a community house near Sinkor. It was easier for her to go to work though it was quite a distance for me to reach the office.

  On a day in a rainy September, Aminatta came to Monrovia and started working at Dr. Harris`s place, and on and off, she was assigned to the clinic in Red Light market.

  I used to go to the office with Dr. Harris because he was living in Sinkor and I was happy with my job as the head nurse that I believed as one of the most rewarding jobs that a human being could do.

  Life had become routine again, and we had just started seeing the future in our dreams, and I had a great expectation that my country would recover from the devastating impact of the two civil wars that erupted one after the other, just like the volcanoes in the circum-Pacific belt.

  27

  While our lives were being consumed by the time factor, even though the recovery of my nation and the country was in a constant struggle with no signs of life being back to normal, three more lives had been added to our lives: Princess, the first, was an adorable girl, just a carbon copy of Aminatta but with slender body like mine, George II, our first boy, carried some identifiable features of mine to the next generation and the last one was named after the Reverend Maurice in honour of all what he did for me. Unlike the city I left decades ago, Monrovia had become a place of impossibility where nothing could move. The prices of vegetables, dry rice, and meat had risen to the skies as farming had stopped altogether due to multiple displacements, and no one dared to go to the bush for hunting because of the rumours that there were still rebels in the bush. As a consequence, ‘The Pepper Coast’, once in the history of Africa, was importing pepper from Guinea and Ivory Coast. Liberty—official currency of Liberia had fallen into the trench of inflation. Every single necessary thing was nearly not affordable for the commoner. However, grace to Aminatta`s constant attempts and attitude of never giving up, we managed to keep a small amount aside every month after paying the rent to Lebanese landlord who used to stand before the door of our room on the 28 of every month, and he would not move until 20 United States dollars clean note w
as placed on his palm. Aminatta used to put some money aside every month, after buying all necessary groceries and food items, a couple of second-hand clothes and fuel for kerosene lamp that was excluded from our budget later on with the introduction of Chinese lamps.

  In the mid dry season in 2013, we managed to buy a small piece of land near Kakata highway on the outskirts of Monrovia.

  ‘My man, I happy o,’ Aminatta danced the whole day in the land. She was overjoyed like never before. Just like a girl of ten she ran rounds and rounds in the land. The children were laughing at their mother, but I knew how she might have felt.

  ‘Aminatta…today we celebrate,’ I told her and went to the shop next door to buy a couple of beer as I knew when we started drinking, the neighbours would join us merely to have a drink than to wish us success. Certain things that were typical of African society could not be easily changed even though they had to change: such as the participation of neighbours in your little private celebrations converting it into a community feast and finally making you pay for all what they ate and drank.

  With a couple of neighbours, their children and parents, we celebrated our first step of stability as a family.

  ‘I will build a palace here,’ Aminatta cried at the top of her voice making the crowd laugh because she sounded more drunk than sober. I was also dreaming of building our palace one day soon on this piece of earth. I wanted my children to grow up under a peaceful roof for their own even though my childhood was not blessed with luxuries. They were growing like little trees which would shelter the wounded earth of my county and purify the poisoned air for my nation to breathe. I did not want them to go through or at least witness what we had experienced in our lives. Neither conflicts nor Bush-curses I sought in the store of Liberian future.

  ‘Papa, this is our football ground,’ George II told me showing the empty land. I smiled. He had felt the sense of ownership and had his own dream. Even though Princess did not verbalise what she might have in her dreams and the smallest one was too young and he was enjoying the fresh air away from the city. As their father, I felt the weight of my responsibility with a growing ambition for a better tomorrow.