“What is happening, Ian?”
“Honestly, not a great deal that we can see. Our hotel is on the beach near the British Embassy and we are looking north toward Mamba Point and the Mamba Point Hotel, the current seat of the provisional Liberian ruling council. This appeared to be the focal point of the heavy gunfire that broke out shortly before dawn this morning. Nothing much is happening now…. There is a faint haze of smoke around the tall, white hotel building… that appears to be all.”
“Have there been any other outbreaks of fighting in the area, Ian?”
“We’ve heard rumors of some gunfire around both the ECOMOG base outside of the city and at the Barclay Training Center, the headquarters of the Liberian Armed Forces. We have not been able to verify this, however. There is a security cordon thrown up around the hotel, and none of the press here have been able to get into the field yet today.”
“Do you feel that you are in any danger, Ian?”
“No, not really. Everything seems quite calm, quite orderly, much as it has been here in Monrovia for the past couple of months. A very polite officer from the ECOMOG forces came through and assured everyone that this lockdown is only temporary and that there will be a press briefing on recent developments sometime later today…. By the way, that sound you might be hearing is a Nigerian Army helicopter circling over the city. It has a loud-hailer system working, advising the populace to remain calm and stay off the streets. The same essential message is also being broadcast by KISS, the Monrovia radio station, interspersed with the usual African pop.”
“What do you think is taking place, Ian? You’re our World Services man in Liberia.”
“I honestly don’t know, Ann. We’ve had a couple of extremely quiet months here. It actually looked as if the long Liberian nightmare was over. The cease-fire between the Liberian Military and ECOMOG forces and the remaining rebel factions upcountry seemed to have been holding. There were ongoing negotiations to form a permanent representative government and to draft a new constitution…. Brigadier Belewa, the ECOMOG force commander and a most remarkable man, has been working tirelessly for a permanent end to this long-festering conflict. I hope this isn’t a setback for the very successful and enlightened policies he’s been putting into play here.”
“Ian. We’ve been in touch with our man in Lagos. He reports that the Nigerian government has been out of communication with both the ECOMOG garrison and the ECOWAS headquarters in Monrovia since late last night. They are apparently also in the dark about what may be happening there in Liberia.”
“Ann, there is one thing I can comment on. We have seen a number of military patrols in the downtown area… peace keeping patrols, I gather. They all seem to be conformed in the same way: six men, three teams of two. One of the patrols is below us in the street now. Two of the soldiers are obviously Nigerians from the ECOMOG forces, while two of the others appear to be Liberian army. The last pair are armed but in civilian clothing… a rather ragged-looking couple of individuals… I have no idea who they may belong to. One of the lads here suggests that they might be members of one of the rebel factions. I’m not sure how that could be.”
“Ian?… Ian?”
“Stand by, Ann. We have something here… Ah, we have a development… I have just been handed a flyer that was delivered to our rooms a few moments ago. It’s a notification of a press conference to be held at ECOMOG headquarters this afternoon. The purpose of the conference is to, and I quote, ‘clarify recent events taking place within Liberia for the world community’… Bloody hell!”
“What is it, Ian?”
“This document. It’s signed ‘Brigadier Obe Belewa, Premier General of the Liberian Union.’”
Private Jeremy Makeni yawned mightily and tried to defy the overwhelming urge to sleep. Lance Corporal Rupert, the soldier who shared the night’s sentry duty at the Port Master’s dock, had surrendered to sleep an hour before. Stretched out and snoring with his head propped on a coil of rope, the corporal relied on luck or Private Makeni to wake him before their relief showed up at six o’clock.
Granted that they showed up at all. The personnel of the Freetown garrison force were lax about such things, even as the fighting raged inland and on the eastern border.
Angrily, Makeni straightened and again began to pace the sentry-go he had set for himself. Was he not a soldier, even if only guarding a rickety wooden pier miles from the battle line?
When the notice had come calling him to national service, Jeremy had been overjoyed. At last, here was something better than working in his father’s chophouse. At last, an opportunity to do something more than sweeping floors and washing kettles. At seventeen, a chance to be a man instead of a boy.
Pausing at the head of the pier, Jeremy looked out across the darkened waters of Kroo Bay and listened to the sluggish lap of the waves against the pilings. His father hadn’t understood, of course. He couldn’t see that it was time for his son to grow up. Jeremy caught him trying to pay dash to the government man to have Jeremy’s name taken from the list.
He and his father had argued then. Not as father and son, but as one man with another, with men’s anger and pride for the first time. They had not spoken since.
Jeremy still suspected that money had changed hands behind his back somewhere, however. Instead of being sent to the troubles up around the refugee camps or to defend against the Liberian threat, he had been assigned here after completing his month’s training. To the fat and sleepy Freetown garrison.
Out in the bay, the lights of an anchored ship cast glimmering golden streaks across the oily water. It had not been there when Jeremy had come on duty. It was common for a vessel arriving in Freetown after dark to anchor in the road-stead. The pilot would go out in the morning to collect his fee and his dash, and the harbormaster, after doing the same, would clear the vessel to dock.
Jeremy turned and began to pace back down the worn planking, stepping over Corporal Rupert’s sprawled legs. Damn! Why couldn’t his father have left well enough alone! The fighting had begun and here he was, stuck in the city, four blocks from where he had grown up!
Jeremy’s steady footsteps faltered. The fighting had begun. And maybe soon enough it would come to him. The government boasted about the victories they were winning in the field, but the rumors didn’t match up. There was a battle going on out along the Kenema highway, and no one had heard anything from upcountry in days.
In such times, maybe it was not such a good thing for him and his father to also be at odds. After all, his father did remember the bad days back during the civil war. And who could blame a parent for worrying about an only son?
Jeremy Makeni grinned, his smile flashing in the darkness. After he was relieved on duty this morning, what would happen if he walked into his father’s cafe and called for his favorite breakfast of benchi and bread. After arguing as two men, perhaps now they could also sit and talk and laugh as two men. Still smiling, Jeremy turned.
Abruptly, the smile left his face.
A steely smear of dawn showed in the sky, revealing a long row of shadows slinking toward the harbormaster’s pier. Over the lap of the waves and Corporal Rupert’s snoring, Jeremy heard the mutter of a throttled-down engine. And beyond the swampy miasma of the shoreline, he smelled the metallic exhaust of an outboard motor.
A launch of some kind, long and low and painted to match the darkness, was creeping in from the bay. Towed behind it were a string of smaller rubber boats, each loaded with a huddled mass of men. The first hint of daylight gleamed on a rifle barrel.