Liberian Literary Magazine
Uncle
Pewulo
was
probably right in making
such a generous offer, but I
just had enough of one
woman. To be involved with
another so soon, I felt was
premature. I told him I
would
consider
his
proposition at a later date.
After two months, I drifted
to Tapeta. Here, I was
enticed by a friend to
accompany
him
to
Bokonjede where he had a
prosperous gold creek. He
claimed he had so many
beautiful
girls
at
his
operations that one had a
difficult time selecting the
one to sleep with.
I never realized how
rewarding travelling can be,
until one morning, while sitting
on a log by the roadside
thinking of where to go next,
a pickup drove up.
“Where to?” The driver
asked.
To be candid I had no
special destination in mind.
But since the impatient
driver insisted, I told him,
“anywhere.” - “0. K., jump
in!”
“Good friend, you got any
loads?”
The
carboy
shouted
with beaming
eyes. He found a seat for
me in the over-crowded
duazet, a one and a half
ton late forty model Ford.
Soon we were heading for
Saniquellie. The dilapidated
vehicle
managed
to
negotiate the long and
rain-washed road without
falling apart. Just as we got
in sight of the town of
Saniquellie, the gas gave
out. The irritated passengers
threatened to headload
their belongings the rest of
the way.
Promoting Liberian literature, Arts and Culture
The carboy was dispatched
to the nearest gas station
and saved the situation
when he came back with a
few gallons of gas. “I swear
to God I will never trade this
duazet for a new pickup,”
the driver boasted proudly
to his carboy.
“Boss, God bless we for
true. I knew a three quarter
tank wouldn't reach us
here; but I wanted to try
something so we can save
on gas.”
“Go way from here, you
dam fool. Why didn't you
tell me so we could fill the
tank in Ganta? Look at your
head and mouth, like a
hungry time porcupine,”
the driver scolded and
kicked at the carboy
jovially.
At the Saniquellie truck
depot, many persons were
waiting for friends and
relatives. Waiting there, but
not for me was an old
acquaintance from my
youth.
“Compin!” Karmo yelled
when he saw me. He
dashed towards the pickup
and
embraced
me
excitedly. “And what wind
14
blows you to these parts?” It
had been almost three
years when last I saw
Karmo. From boyhood we
had known each other
simply as Compin, a
corruption of the word
company.
In the rush and confusion
to collect the fares, both
driver
and
carboy
overlooked me. I turned
around to Karmo and said,
“Compin, but how, this
truck brings me all the way
from Tapeta and ...”
“Hush you mouth. Say
thanks to God and let's get
the hell out of here.” Karmo
advised.
My friend piloted me
through a maze of twist and
turns, until we finally came
to an imposing house
facing
the
chief's
compound. “I don't know
what your mission is yet,
Compin, but this is your
home.” Karmo offered and
ushered me into the first
room at the beginning of a
long hall. A charming
young lady greeted us at
the door.
“Compin, this is Gbiti, my
wife.” Gbiti and I snapped
fingers
in
traditional
greetings.
“Here is a seat,” she
offered and took my
mbeke, the carryall raffia
bag which I used for light
travelling.
“Gbiti, here is the stranger.
A personal friend from way
back. What do you think we
should do for him?” Karmo
inquired.
“I don't know, you are the
man. Anything you say, the
food will soon be ready.”