After dinner I took a stroll around the town. It was pleasant to walk downhill into the cool, refreshing breeze, along the wide, well-lighted avenues, bordered on each side by an interesting mixture of old-colonial-style buildings and sparkling new bungalows and business premises, all suggesting comfortable living. Now the clangour of construction had given place to potted jazz music from open windows and passing cars, injecting a certain light-heartedness into the evening, flickering neon advertisements, laughter and the continuous blare of car horns.
Suddenly feeling tired, I headed back towards the hotel which, from its hilltop roost, dominated the skyline. I saw young soldiers at ease on guard duty in front of the executive mansion, groups of young Africans in front of a cinema’s gaudy façade, high-stepping young girls in short dresses for the young men’s appreciative whistles, and heard the intermittent wail of a police car’s siren. Where was I? I paused beside a group of young men. The billboard advertised the film “Baby Doll”. The subject was woman, the speech a kind of hybrid American, some accent-clipped Brooklyn, some long-drawn-out Texas, the attitudes Harlem. Each addressed the other as “Man”, as in British Guiana, where name-calling indicated formality. Music belching through an open window of the night-club adjoining the cinema, and the youths snapped fingers and flexed knees without any break in their conversation. Cool cats! What I needed was sleep.
While preparing for bed I switched on the radio. Pop music, or pop music interrupted by announcements or advertisements in a careful American-accented voice, each word clearly and slowly separated from its neighbour, as is the case with someone learning a new language. Pop music, most of it devoted to monotonous reiteration of teenage love. I remembered the Liberian consul in Sierra Leone telling me something about Liberia’s own cultural forms. I must look around very carefully.
Early the next morning I telephoned some of the people to whom I had letters of introduction. Lucky me! The first one had had a letter from Paris from a mutual friend and was expecting my call. “First things first,” he said. He had made tentative arrangements for me to visit President Tubman.
“He’s read your first book,” he told me, “and would like to see you. I promised to take you to the executive mansion as soon as you arrived. I’ll call for you just before ten and take you there.”
This was sheer luck. I remembered having sent an autographed copy of To Sir, With Love to President Tubman soon after its publication in England, but had entertained little hope that his crowded itinerary would allow time for reading it, or that having read it he would remember either it or me. I was excited at the thought of meeting this man, who had become something of a legend and a mystery.
My friend must have been an important official, because the soldiers on guard duty at the mansion snapped smartly to attention when our car drew up. He led me up a thickly carpeted staircase (this was more of an effort than it sounds, because the thick carpet was protected throughout its length by a thick, resistant, plastic covering which felt so strange underfoot that twice I stumbled and would have fallen but for his steadying hand), along a similarly carpeted corridor and into a large reception room. It was already crowded with men and women, black and white, sitting singly or in groups.
We were lucky to find empty chairs, and I looked around to take stock of my surroundings. All the Europeans seemed to be businessmen, if one were allowed to judge by the smartly cut suits and expensive-looking briefcases. One group of American men and women I guessed were missionaries, as in conversation they occasionally referred to “Brother” or “Sister” John or Mary, and spoke of tours of duty. Some of the Africans were well dressed, distinguished-looking men; others wore the wide, loose native garment of coarse striped cloth. There were several women present, some very smartly dressed and made up, but everybody seemed preoccupied with the doorway of the reception room, and glanced anxiously towards it at the least sound of movement from the corridor.
“Gosh, are all these people seeking audience with the President?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Each one of them. And what’s more, he’ll do his best to see them all. Excuse me.”
He left the room for a few minutes. It was quite amusing to observe the way in which everyone remarked upon his leaving and return, with glances in which was a mixture of hope and apprehension.
“I’d forgotten to tell the President’s adjutant that we’re here. He’ll call us as soon as the Old Man is ready to see us.”
“But what about all these people here?” I asked. If they too had appointments with the President, I could see little prospect of meeting him for some days hence.
“Oh, there’s no definite sequence with the Old Man. He selects whom he will see, and that’s that.”
“What about the adjutant? Does he list the applicants in a way to determine priority?”
A uniformed official entered and called a name. Someone followed him out.
“No, everyone has direct access to the Old Man. There’s no screening of any sort. It might take time, sometimes as much as a week or more, but he gets around to it. This room is like this every day except Saturday and Sunday, crowded with people, high and low, rich and poor. Some come to discuss industrial or other business ventures. Those Europeans near the door, for instance, I’m sure they’re here to put through some business project or other. The missionaries may be after permission to acquire land for a church or school, or something like that. Those gentlemen over there,” he pointed to the group of influential-looking, well-dressed Africans, “they’re cabinet ministers. I suppose the Old Man has fixed a cabinet meeting for some time this morning.”
“But how is it that cabinet ministers are waiting here with the rest of us?”
“Why not?” he replied. “They’ve got to wait until the Old Man is ready for them. He may have fixed a cabinet meeting for eleven o’clock this morning, but if something else turns up they have to wait. Perhaps he’s held up settling somebody’s domestic problem, but to him that would be as important as a matter of State.”
I could not easily grasp this. “But how can he cope with it all? Surely his adjutant or someone else can relieve him of some of the less important cases?”
“To him each case is important and he deals with them all—no middlemen. And the people love it. Any man or woman with a problem knows where to appeal as a last resort.” He smiled. “Sometimes even as a first resort.”
“I’m wondering,” I whispered.
“Wondering what?”
“Wondering why a President should adopt such measures. Is it that he loves his people and wishes to maintain personal contact with all of them at all times? Could it be that he might find such an arrangement profitable to himself in that he could discover all kinds of useful bits of information? Is it possible that he trusts none of those nearest to him and considers it safest to insulate himself with popular contact?”
“No one can stop you wondering,” he replied, “but I’d advise you to do so yourself. A lot of us remember the days before the Old Man took office. Then nobody could even see the President, at least none of the common people, so, whatever the reasons or motives, nobody has any grumble these days. If someone is in difficulty and needs financial help—or any other help, for that matter—all he needs to do is have a talk with the Old Man.”
“I would imagine that places a considerable burden on the President,” I replied, “for it must happen that very often matters of state must claim his attention over the problems of individuals, no matter who they are, or how important their problems might seem to themselves. If each day it is necessary for him to devote a lot of time and energy to the personal problems of so many people as these assembled here, you’ll soon be in the market for another President.”
“You just don’t know the Old Man,” he said, smiling. “He’s as strong as a bull.”
“Could you tell me something about these people h
ere?” I asked.
“Guess I could, about some of them,” he replied. “Better still, I’ll introduce you to some of the ministers. Couldn’t have picked a better time, with them all here.”
He led me over to the group of cabinet ministers and introduced me to the Hon. McKinley A. de Shield, Postmaster General, the Hon. Charles D. Sherman, Secretary of the Treasury, the Hon. Harrison Grigsby, Secretary of National Defence, the Hon. Jacob Milton, Secretary of the Interior, the Hon. Dr. Nathaniel N. Massaquoi, Secretary of Public Instruction, the Hon. Joseph W. Garber, Attorney-General.
Strangely enough, with the exception of one man, the Secretary of the Interior, I did not have the feeling of being with Africans. These men, in their smartly tailored suits, narrow, high-fashion shoes, grooming, speech and mannerisms, reminded me of affluent American Negroes; they were handsome men, who evidently lived well and carried with them a casual assurance of their own power and influence. For the most part they acknowledged the introduction perfunctorily, as is sometimes the case with men too immersed in very important matters to spare much attention to small fry.
The Minister of the Interior, however, invited me to sit awhile beside him, inquired into my reason for visiting Liberia and the probable extent of my itinerary. He seemed surprised to learn that I was not African, but told me of another Guianese, a dentist, who was fast building up a great reputation in the country. When I told him that I hoped to travel into the interior, he immediately promised to place such facilities as I would need at my disposal.
Unlike most of his colleagues, he was slim and very dark, with a thin face and very prominent nose, on which rested heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. As he spoke, gold filling glinted in his teeth, and he had the easy, relaxed air of a man accustomed to talking with people informally. His speech was not elegant, and I would hazard a guess that he could not boast high academic honours, yet I liked his simplicity, and he seemed sincere in his expression of interest and wish to help.
Afterwards I was introduced to some of the women; some dressed rather extravagantly, I thought, but understandably one wore one’s best for an interview with the head of state. Next I met three elderly men dressed in their narrow-striped national robes and cloth skull-caps. These introductions were carried out in a dialect, so I could only bow in acknowledgement of whatever it was they said.
Back in our places, I was asked, “What did you think of them, the ministers?”
“I was intrigued by the Minister of the Interior,” I replied.
“Don’t be fooled by his speech,” I was told. “He’s a very important man and wields a great deal of influence. Ever hear of Ghana’s Krobo Edusei? Well, he occupies about the same role here. He knows the people of the interior, speaks their languages and has their confidence. He’s very useful to the President.”
Time was slipping by, every chair in the room was occupied, and I overheard a remark that an adjoining waiting-room was equally crowded.
“I think it unlikely the President will be able to see me,” I suggested, “so I’ll call it a day and attend to some other things.”
My companion seemed shocked at this and literally stammered his protests. “You can’t do that. You’re supposed to wait until the Old Man sends for you. He knows you’re here and might call you at any moment.”
“But we’ve been here nearly two hours,” I argued. “And I’m sure all these other persons have much more pressing business than mine. I’m here only to pay a courtesy call.”
“No matter,” he replied. “The Old Man knows you are here and it would be very discourteous for you to leave now. Don’t worry about the others. Some of them come here day after day until they see him. For instance, that gentleman over there”—he pointed to a neatly dressed, handsome man—“has recently been appointed to an important post in one of the ministries and he’s here to say ‘Thank you’ to the President, so he’s waiting for the opportunity.”
“But could he not write a letter of thanks?”
“Perhaps, but it’s customary to say it in person.”
That set me wondering. How many more paid officials were similarly sitting, waiting, waiting? And what about the jobs they were supposed to be doing? The ministers were also waiting, so perhaps they had left the running of their departments in the hands of competent staffs.
At this moment two other well-dressed men entered the room, carrying neat briefcases; they joined the group of ministers and there was general handshaking and laughter. (It suddenly struck me that the handshaking I had seen in Liberia was quite different from any I had before encountered. On releasing each other’s hand, thumbs and middle fingers were pressed and withdrawn with a loud, snapping sound.)
“Who are they?” I asked.
“The younger one is the Hon. J. Rudolph Grimes, Secretary of State, and the other is Dr. Edwin M. Barclay, Director of Public Health.”
Whenever my companion mentioned a personality, he gave the full name, complete with initials, in very much the American manner. Now, as the great men exchanged pleasantries, he told me a little about them, but in that little I was surprised to discover how closely interrelated they were, either directly or through marriage.
“Now the whole cabinet’s here,” he whispered.
Again the uniformed official entered and called names. This time the group of missionaries collected their pamphlets and followed him.
Mid-day now, and my patience was worn very thin. Conversation even among the ministers had subsided, and each person seemed occupied with his own thoughts while keeping an eye and ear on the door. Suddenly there was a simultaneous struggling to stand up, as into the room stepped a short, sturdy, bespectacled figure, looking cool in short-sleeved shirt and neatly creased slacks of Shantung silk; his slim brown shoes were brightly polished, and in his left hand was a large cigar.
“The Old Man,” my companion said, urgently nudging me to stand.
So this was the President. As I looked at the man some of the things I had been wondering about were immediately explained. There was no doubt about his self-assurance. He stood in the middle of the room, looked about him, spread his arms in an expansive gesture and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I must apologize for keeping you waiting, but in spite of all my efforts I cannot see any more of you this morning, as I must now attend some urgent discussions with my cabinet.” (At this, their cue, the ministers began collecting their briefcases.) “Where’s Braithwaite?”
I stepped forward, and he extended his hand to enclose mine in a surprisingly powerful grip.
“Sorry, I cannot see you now, young man,” he continued. “As you can see, I just couldn’t make it. But get Mr. Baker, here, to bring you around at six this evening. I’ll try to give you a few minutes then.”
With that he turned and went out, followed closely by his ministers, and leaving behind, like an echo of his presence, the strong aroma of his cigar.
“Let’s go,” my companion said, and we joined the moving line down the stairs and out into the sunshine. Now I was able to appreciate the large number of people who had been waiting inside. Mr. Baker led me to a restaurant nearby with the bold sign “Heinz and Maria Bar”. It was cool inside, air-conditioned and elegantly clean.
Over our meal I asked about the people who had been waiting to see the President. Why so many women?
“The Old Man is like everybody’s father or uncle,” he explained. “Many of those women go to ask his help in resolving their marital problems: errant or neglectful husbands, marriages on the rocks, things like that. Very often it only requires a word from him to bring things into line, as no man would deliberately incur the Old Man’s displeasure. Sometimes a man has lost his job, so his wife appeals to the President. I saw at least two men there this morning who I know wish to ask the President to reinstate them in their jobs.”
“Would he?” I asked.
“Perhaps. It all depends. Nowadays it
is very rare for someone to be sacked from a job, especially a government job, because no head of a department would like to receive one of the Old Man’s green slips.”
“What are they?”
“It’s like this—suppose you are employed at one of the ministries and you’re regularly late, or careless, or something like that, so that finally the chief clerk becomes exasperated and fires you. You or your wife might then get an audience with the Old Man and beg to be reinstated. You might even claim that you were wrongfully sacked, and, with a wife and children to support, it would not be too difficult to present a very touching situation which might move the Old Man to sympathy and persuade him to give you a green memorandum to your boss suggesting that you be given another chance. Such a memo would, in fact, be a directive, and you can see that nobody would wish to receive one of them.”
“But does that not open the way to all sorts of abuses?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he replied, “but it might also be said that it prevents abuses. If the Old Man did not occasionally intervene in this way, there’s no telling what would happen. Before the Old Man took office you could lose your job or be given a job according to someone’s whim or how well you could grease certain well-placed palms. Things are very different now. Perhaps you would like to see something of the town? After we’ve eaten I must drop in at my office for a little while, but I’ll pick you up at your hotel at three o’clock and show you around before it’s time to meet the Old Man again.”
Mr. Baker called for me soon after three o’clock and we set out on a tour of the town, beginning with the hotel itself, which, I learned, was constructed directly over the town’s huge new reservoir. Here the road started, between the landmarks of the Monrovia lighthouse and the life-size bronze statue of Liberia’s first President, J. J. Roberts. From here one had a clear view of Mamba Point and the elegant red-roofed villas and bungalows of the embassy and legation officials of foreign governments, which nestled against the sloping hillside, surrounded by low stone walls and cultivated shrubbery, while the blue sea provided an exciting, restless background. Hardly any grass to be seen anywhere, except for a coarse, broad-leafed variety carefully tended in front of the hotel.
A Kind of Homecoming Page 21