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God's
Mafia
Tuesday,
April 22, 2008
By
Mulbah K. Morlu, Jr,
Kemah,
an innocent primary school girl from the once
flourishing city of Sanniquellie, did not find it easy
growing up as a child, constantly recounting the
painful memories of that fateful hour at the Lutheran
Church. It is a day in 1990, one of such days that
leave unfading horrors in one’s life. She still
remembers how it all happened.
The terror-loaded nightfall reluctantly gave-in
to what would be a daybreak of horrors, as broken
window glasses came falling everywhere from the
collision of munitions discharged from heavily loaded
machine guns. Confusion erupted in the church as
fleeing attempts were made.
Many were still enjoying their sleep on church
pews before the outburst. Some never woke up, too
hard-hit by flying bullets to be alive. Others,
instantly jumping from sleep unaware of the
entrapment, ran into shooting soldiers and went down
easily as part of a 250,000 casualties of war.
In
the upheaval, Kemah’s father hurriedly took her into
his arms and desperately tried to seek refuge behind
the church's pulpit. The church surrounded, armed men
emptied their barrels in violent gun shelling at
defenseless people. Displaced civilians, most were
from the rural mountainsides of Nimba had been coerced
into bundle-totting runaways headed to the Capitol.
This seemed the best alternative as nihilistic rebels
roamed the countryside unleashing widespread terror
that placed human and chicken lives on equal value.
Now in the city, many sought and thought they found a
peace of some kind under the roofs of loved ones,
relatives and friends. That peace was short -live.
The
city, too, became hotter than Hell as rebels fast-encroached,
and so did evil. Families and friends’ homes quickly
transformed into slaughter chambers as the ears of
ruthless government soldiers itched for news of the
vicinity of certain tribes and their affiliates. These
despised tribes were easily located and after the
slaughter, the slaughterers would climax the spree
with lootings. In rare scenarios, the survivors and
escapees would relocate to new homes.
Hospitals
and the United Nations Head office became homes to
them. Lucky ones, by virtue of the mystique workings
of fate, succeeded in the survival game. At least,
they were given the opportunity to see a few more hard
days as landing rockets were to leave debris washed in
blood and flesh scattered everywhere. Others had to
embrace a new method of brutal murder. It was the
cruelest kind that made mothers disown their own,
choosing to live rather than die with a loved child
whose tribal links unveiled.
With
many selected homes now left to bear the burden of
stinking and badly mutilated corpses of sons,
daughters and their parents, the lucky-to-live could
think of no safer places than the House of the Lord.
After all, not even Liberia’s craziest killer and
anarchist, General Prince Tony-water, would kill a fly
in “The House of the Lord”. In fact, his admirers,
and even the devil has admirers, saw him as god-sent.
After a day of bizarre brutality, he would pickup his
guitar, with machine gun swinging across his chest,
and march through Bushrod Island singing Christian
songs.
But
the mere vocalization of Christian choruses spiced up
by street parades proved less sufficient to silence
the crying blood of slain husbands whose wives were
needed for Prince’s pleasure. These were the unlucky
ones who forgot to say their morning prayers and had
ventured into the streets seeking bread and
unfortunately met the prince of doom, General
Tony-water. And the ‘Prince of doom’s bullet
certainly hewed down these poor souls. Most went down
with the painful memory that their mulatto wives had
just entered a new marriage of compulsion with a
self-style rapist.
The
Prince’s archive further overflows with the brutal
records of slain victims whose only crime was to
belong to specific groupings that constituted the
despised tribes. And the few survivors of a mosque's
bloodbath in Nimba during the early mornings of the
90s continued living their miseries, tending to
indelible scars that keep opening as their punishers
flourish in fat jobs that money can buy. Whether
justified or not, the Prince’s growing abhorrence
against Mohammed’s adherents was about to lead to
one of the most demoralized and vicious aggressions
against a people whose rights are equally guaranteed
under our laws, like everyone else. The scene was a
full-size township hidden in the central heart of
Nimba County. In this town, the fore night had been
spent celebrating a traditional festival after
sacrifices were made to appease the gods for
protection against the enclosing fracas. The day broke
slowly lending natural light to the dwellers for 12
hours.
The
dawn was good and promising and the fowls peacefully
flew overhead, creating the impression that the
weather was conducive for the hurrying farm season. It
was Friday, meaning everyone stayed home as the
aged-old custom demands in many villages and towns.
This was the day of rest, the Sabbath of the
villagers, and it brought much relief to the despisers
of hard work; the weak, the lazy and wayward kids
would bundled around the blacksmith hut, listening to
the folktales of elders who themselves were enjoying
their share of sour palm wine being poured by an
apprentice ironsmith. A sling throw from the
blacksmith’s hut stood the only mosque in town. It
was a reliquary that warned incoming strangers that
the values of Islam were well alive and entrenched
here.
It
was now sunset, a set time for the fulfillment of one
of Islam’s call for a five day prayer routine.
Though rumors of war reigned nearby, devote Muslims
viewed the critical era as a scarring dispensation to
draw nearer to their God. Like previous Fridays, the gathering of these worshippers had
begun at midday leaving the revered place jammed under
thirty minutes. Young women nursing their young were
in the midst and the elderly slowly lowered themselves
on spread mats, hoping the God they serve would
lengthen their days to see their grandchildren grow up
to chase young girls. The irritating sounds of trench
mortal guns echoed in the distance but never shaking
the determination of the Moresque devotees to offer
their prayers.
Moments
after, unexpected rebels wearing red T-shirts emerged
from no where in such a professional maneuver that had
the mosque placed in a semicircle with little room for
escape. A fiercely dressed man carrying a scorpion on
his shoulders and bearing the resemblance of a
remorseless General led the bandits. He spoke in raw
English as though it were a second language, then in
Mandingo. But the gesticulation and aggressive
verbosity that was characteristic of his raw speech
unveiled an extreme kind of mordacity that reflected
his disapproval of these Moslems. He spoke a few more
words that made it seem like he was giving his orders.
In
an instant, guns were lowered from windows and doors,
leaving screams, cries and extreme anxiety amongst the
worshippers. Some were crying for mercy as the man who
would later be identified as Senator Tony-water stood
smiling, seemingly amused by the weeping and shouts of
his would-be victims. The noise heightened, more
shouts, groans and voices in native languages were
echoing. Then, the mosque felt into a dead silence and
buzzing flies swarmed amongst bodies littered with
bullet holes that were as deep as the envy that
propelled such brutality. The anomalous smear of blood
easily conquered the fragrance blowing from the petals
of blossoming trees. And the rest of the village’s
occupants had their reasons to now be miles away from
this terrible scene. As fearsome quietude engulfed a
once lively town, the foot sounds of the executioners
quickly fading into the evergreen forest that shielded
them for their next operation, the devil’s brother
had just completed a mission that was to continue in
other places.
Mutatis
mutandis (in reverse), similar fate awaited hunted
tribes of Nimbaians who had nowhere to hide except
hospitals and the United Nations shelters. Being
chased out of homes and displaced dwellings, they went
to the last place that was considered a refuge from
evil. The church. For the first time in months, Kemah
and many other occupants in this church slept and
dreamed dreams that painted a future they wanted. A
glimmer of hope you wish for in a crisis situation of
the kind. Finally, the fear of being rounded-up and
shot before neighbors was now of the past. “This is
the House of the Lord, “a strong tower…the
righteous run into and are safe…””, she dreamed.
It was
now well after 2: a.m., and the cool breeze that was
gestured by the Atlantic easily sent many to sleep in
the worship hall of the Lutheran Church. A few mothers
were sitting up changing diapers of their babies as
flickering candle lights came under the constant
threat of the blowing wind that had now changed its
gentleness, blowing with unfriendliness as though
angry over an evil not yet revealed.
Without
warning, a heavy automatic gunfire erupted from all
sides of the church’s edifice and showed no sign of
abating for at least ten to fifteen minutes. Amidst
the volleying bullets flying everywhere, shouts were
heard and dead bodies littered “Mount Zion.”
Many human trees in the church were hewed down
leaving their children without shield for the future.
Kemah’s mother now lied in a pool of blood, totally
unrecognizable. She had tried to jump out the window
and a broken glass cut clean her stomach leaving her
intestines laid waste in a heap near her dead corpse.
The
father, in utmost perplexity, took Kemah in his arms
and ran for cover behind the holy place, the pulpit.
As he took to his heels, he could see a portrait of
the Lord Jesus with outstretched arms seemingly urging
him on.
Come unto me…I will give you rest…I am
the way… he
reflected the Lord’s voice through the scriptures.
His
confidence surged and he grew assured that he would
make it. Only a few steps kept him away from the
safety of Jesus, he thought, taking the Savior’s
portrait more serious than the artistic skill work it
represented. Just
then, a man wearing a makeshift choir gown emerged
from the main doorway carrying something that
Kemah’s father thought was a cross. It was, in fact,
an AK-48 automatic machine gun. The gun-totting child
soldier, without wasting time, rushed forward, taking
a dead aim. He lowered the gun and walked some more,
stepping over corpses badly pierced by the
aggressors’ bullets. Many bodies were in sight. One
was a body of a child with huge opening in the skull
as though it were a coconut with top roughly blown
off. Another corpse lay close. The bullet had made its
way into the neck, twisting upward into the face, and
leaving the head without a face. The approaching
child-soldier was now on the pulpit with his gun
lowered at the back of Kemah’s father who was knelt
before the huge Jesus portrait, praying with his
daughter stocked to his chest.
The Lord is my shepherd…
the man prayed, consoling himself in the verses.
The
gunman cocked the trigger at point blank range, and
Kemah’s father unabated his silent prayers, now
sobbing in hasting tears.
“Though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death….I will fear no evil…for thou art
with me…
Before
he could say the next line, there was a loud thud and
Kemah thought she felt something hot splashing down
her face. She opened her eyes, praying not to see the
reality of what she imagined. At first, she thought
what she saw was a properly boiled cream of wheat
scattered everywhere on her clothes. In a flash, she
felt herself growing cold by the splash she felt, now
knowing what it was. The warmth her father’s tender
arms brought her was no longer there. He had fallen
backwards; his head off his shoulders as he fought to
exhale in vain, blood rushing out instead from the
stem of his neck. Kemah looked in disbelief as her
adrenaline pumped blood faster than ever. She fought
to wipe the whitish cream-like substance from her
ragged dress.
When
she realized it was her father’s scattered brains,
she screamed, and as she fell into a coma, her eyes
twinkled to a photograph that had fallen from her dead
father’s pocket. It was a portrait of the “Iron
lady” who was so much admired by Kemah’s dad as
the revolutionary that armed the red-haired Army Major
to free “His pepper bush.” Though Kemah now lied
in coma and her survival reliant on slim chances, 18
years later, she may still have an opportunity to
learn the facts or fictions about her own tragedy; but
would she also cherish that photograph when she grew
up and read the facts, not from Madam Iron’s
“book”, but from the many historical sources that
would tell a better story?
Perhaps,
she would learn from the ‘book’ waiting to be
published by winners of the Liberian catastrophe, and
history is always written by winners, not losers. This
is our dilemma, indeed, our challenge. the Liberian
conflict travesty, unlike others before or after it,
is even more interesting; “Truth” forums are for
the weak and victims, and the accounts of supreme
actors, most of who are now in the elitist’s cadre
of power, will be read in books! Whether this hook,
line and sinker of elitists’ dishonesty will be
painfully swallowed by an economically crumbling
Liberia is a decision left to a socially-caged people
that should choose to die standing, than live free on
their knees.
Hence,
realizing that the status quo fits a perfect
description that set the stage for the Sirleaf-Taylor
notorious partnership, and though many years have now
passed since the ill-starred blood buster scenes were
acted by disingenuous elements depicted in the above
bi-scenarios, the screams and tears of victims the
likes of little Kemah, still echo across the land.
Whilst known military and pseudo-political actors
cannot escape their apportionment in the Liberian
anarchy, white-collar aficionados of power must
similarly be visualized and placed on the pedestal for
a bias-free scrutiny. This, in addition, is the
challenge we are faced with, and it is a part of the
dilemma. And, as we fight to shake off the cobwebs of
entrenched anarchy, corruption, abuse of incumbency
and waste in the national system, the eerie
eccentricities of our leaders, which continually
project a demonic aura, again, adds to the overall
national challenge and complicates our dilemma.
True,
our challenges are not few. With a too-embarrassing
economic ill-performance in the hands of the much
appraised skills of Mrs. “Harvard-trained
Economist” so-called, the current composition of our
‘repackaged government’ unveils long-harbored
suspicions about the subtle agenda of a power bloc
that strives to revive the carcass of the century-old
oligarchs. To add to the suspicion, familiar names
associated with the recruit and training of Charles
Taylor and his mercenaries, are not hard to find
occupying influential positions in this government
where they are a power unto themselves. LPRC’s Harry
Greaves, Dr. Amos Sawyer, Hon. Dew Mason, Dr. H. Boima
Fahnbulleh, and many others, are key actors dominating
(in shameless pretense) our political platform just as
they did during the modification of the National
Patriotic Front of Liberia. Far more badly, forasmuch
as our state’s policy crafters continue to walk in
the fetor shoes of their predecessors, the same shoes
which offending odors gave rise to the insurgencies of
the past, they bid our destiny to inevitable
whirlwinds.
Moreover,
natural and divine laws forbid the success and
stability of the echelons of a regime that bears the
Teflon of toppling its predecessors for the last 28
years; to stretch it further, if it is true that our
foundation was erected upon the principles of
Christianity--in fact, our declaration of independence
was signed in the providence Baptist Church—then, we
can concur that Liberia bears a certain mark of
divinity and cannot be separated from the move and
semblances of God.
Undoubtedly
so, as David’s fingers were too stained to built
Jerusalem, yea the Lord’s Temple, so is the current
Liberian leadership; without prejudice, a country
which foundation is firmly rooted on Christian
principles cannot be redeemed by blood-stained democratic mafias. And worse of
all, the unrestraint denials and blatant practice of
falsehood after the demise of a republic by the
current power sharks, puts the matter beyond salvation
by given divine requirements. And yet, nothing gets
better except the flowery speeches and more
contradictions, and more sufferings, and more hunger,
and some more corruption, and then the end of another
failed regime; indeed, signs of the end sprawl on
every public wall. Do we pray for failure? God forbid!
We intercede for change, but even unrepentant sinners
have their destinies…
Concurrently, contrasting
to her boasted policy of intended departure from the
grisly practices of the past, the soles of President
Sirleaf’s professed democratic shoes has already
scrawled disgusting footprints in our socio-political
sands. These disheartening backpedals blur our sight
when we attempt to draw a distinction between
Sirleaf’s and previous regimes she so successfully
dethroned. More troubling to our national political
psyche is the dandyism and inane hypocrisy that
characterizes the performances of known government
officials whose stance for an upright political order
in prewar Liberia knew no bound.
Certainly,
we are in times when every Liberian must psyche him or
herself to face a new challenge, and that challenge is
not to bring about a Bropleh-type ‘Renaissance’
that seeks to evict school kids for the building of a
hotel to celebrate Madam’s birthday; ours must be a
true renaissance that creates affordable health care
for all Liberians, create programs and policies that
enable the ordinary person to provide for his family,
put our roads in better shapes unlike the poorly
refurbished Jallah’s Town back road, and upgrade the
capacity and efficiency of the public and private
sectors to accommodate our unemployed and not to
paradoxically downside unwanted folks.
To increase the tempo of
the debate, except our socio-political priests of
yesteryears intend to add more sins by ignoring vital
facts, they will embrace the hard truths that they
have made void the declared purposes of their fight
for change. That is, if the ongoing Liberian scenario
lends any definition to change, as this government
would have us believe, then the deaths of Presidents
Tolbert, Doe and, the undemocratic regime change of
the NPP-led government were unnecessary.
Of course, these previous regimes cannot stand
up to any conversation of moral political uprightness,
knowing that they, as well, were as morally decadent
as the power that now propels the state since 2006.
And, for these mafia-styled power players to
orchestrate the downfall of past governments just to
ascend an equally monstrous regime, makes our crisis a
jigsaw puzzle waiting to be assembled in darkness.
Notwithstanding, the
current power hypocrisy and how the President is
rapidly growing new egoistical horns amidst infectious
enthusiasm should be expected to enlarge. In fact, the
quote is till true that ‘men go far greater lengths
to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they
desire.’ This is why ‘Team Ellen’ is ready to do
more than the 25 years it took to grasp power in order
that the existing generation of aging elites will
spend a quiet retirement outside prison confinements.
Severely haunted by a
twenty-five year terrible wrongs against the state
plus a common knowledge of systematized corruption in
the ongoing hierarchy, ‘Regime change’ is the
greatest sum of all the Sirleaf’s fears. With the
continent swinging its worrisome pendulum of anti-corruption
judiciary, which often comes into effect at every
power switch, key actors must find a way to maintain
the status quo so as to avoid the curse now pursuing
former regime chiefs. A clue for the yet veiled
campaign to re-elect President Sirleaf or a choice
confidant of the ranks unfolds in the preceding lines.
This hatching strategy is a deck of cards being
played close to the chest whilst brilliance political
dribbling disorganizes the frontlines of unsuspecting
oppositions.
Those with the
sophistication to understand the strategy of the tuft
hunters will appreciate why the anti-corruption
barometer has turned out to be the proverbial lion
pacing up and down a cage, roaring toothlessly. This
explains why the President’s office has gone out of
the way to provide shield for LPRC’s Greaves who, by
the most minimal standards, is corrupt beyond
allegation. Who would have thought that the
anti-corruption heavyweight would tolerate the
creative diplomacies (briberies) of many of her
administrators, like Greaves who had to employ the
tactics to divert attention from an ill-acquired oil
contract?
But the infectious
tolerance of the president in these instances is
designed to strengthen the financial munificence of
her campaign as we drag nearer to the neo-predictable
presidential elections in a few years.
Since time is of the essence, the financial
contributions of well-placed cronies in power have
become an unquestionable requirement. This consensus
demand justifies the capital flight from certain
high-profile revenue generating agencies and
ministries, which must do so to service the interests
of the elite collectivity.
Is
this not why the evidence of corruption at the LPRC,
NASSCORP, to name a few, have become exceptions to the
anti-corruption yardstick, and is about to frustrate a
hardworking Auditor General? Howbeit, the corruption
Teflon of these conscienceless anti-democrats may roll
on for a while as I return with GOD’S
MAFIA II, THE REALITY OF ROGUES DEMOCRATS.
By
then, I hope the moguls will brace up for a
muster-call for all Liberians to mobilize against the
oppressions of the people; for change, which comes not
by passiveness, but by the unrelenting decisiveness of
a mobilized, informed, and guided society, must come;
even now.
Activist
Mulbah K. Morlu, Jr., can be reached at godsprince2001@yahoo.com.
Cell: 002316626209. He resides in Sinkor,
Monrovia-Liberia and Teshie Nungua Estates,
Accra-Ghana
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