Mabee's House

"This way!"

I can barely see. Casimir is leading me through darkened streets to Mabee's house. There are no street lights in Gbarnga town. A generator lights up a bar in the distance.

Otherwise I'm relying on my feet and the carrots my mother coaxed me into eating as a child. She promised they would help me see in the dark.

Mabee, short for Mabeatrice, is the cook at the Catholic Compound. She is a tall woman with a strong face and a solid figure. I can always tell when she makes my meals because they always taste ten times better than anyone else's efforts.

I'm down with a terrible cold. It takes all my might to walk, and with each step I keep thinking my bed would be a much smarter option.

Fluorescent orange flames light mounds of the town's garbage along the side of the road. The grey smoke bends towards us and I cup my hand over my mouth and nose.

The ground squishes beneath our feet and Casmir tells me it's because of the fine wood chips mixed in with the soil and sand.

Why are we doing this? This was Casimir's idea. And he's making me walk all this way.

Casimir had told Mabee I was ill and she invited us to a home cooked meal. It's an endearing thought. One I can't appreciate right now because of my throbbing headache and impending phlegm.

I have never been to Mabee's house before. I always see her in the kitchen over a coal stove or walking with her lady friends along the path to the pastoral centre. But I am intrigued to see how she lives.

"This is it," Casimir says quietly. I'm always softened by his patience when I have none left.

Her door is slightly ajar and the inside is glowing with orange candlelight reminiscent of a forgiving sunset.

We remove our shoes at the door, lining them up with the existing four pairs on a patch of concrete.

Mabee smiles a toothy grin. The candlelight makes the space between her two front teeth even darker. She gets up to greet us and then sits back down across from her seven-year-old daughter and her two female friends.

She motions for us to sit at a small wooden table under a big bowl that's covered with a plate and two empty bowls. The bottom of the burning white candle is stuck onto a ceramic blue and white fish with wet wax.

Sweat is already running down my face and chest. There is no breeze and the smell of smoke from the garbage fire twists through her front door.

I scoop the soup with an oversized spoon into our empty bowls. But Casimir insists that I eat all of it because he says he wants me to get well. I tell him we should share but he insists that he already ate at his house.

It may just be the best soup I have ever swallowed. She used the potatoes I brought her from Monrovia, some fish from down the road, onions, and small cabbages that could be mistaken for brussel sprouts if you didn't know any better.

The soup is savoured the way it should be. Although I can't taste all of the flavours, I feel grateful. And immediately regret my harsh thoughts on the way here.

Mabee continues talking to her friends, and doesn't invite us to join them. At first it seems odd. Coming from Canada that may be seen as rude. But it's not at all. She wants me and Casimir to enjoy a meal together with no interruptions. It's not said, but understood.

Casimir gives the cake we brought to Mabee's little girl who thanks him and brings it to her mouth with two hands as she stares at her mother and the two visiting women.

Their seated shadows cast moving shapes on the wall. A framed picture of the virgin Mary is the only other image that joins them.

After drinking what's left of our bottled water, Casimir suggests that we head back to the compound. I nod.

"Mabee, thank you so much for this soup. It was so good. You are an excellent cook!" I say.

She smiles and looks down humbly. I'm unable to explain how thoughtful I think she is and that I know it will help clear my cold.

"Mabee, I am happy for her!" Casimir exclaims. He's referring to the soup loosening my congestion. She laughs and we say goodnight.

We pass through the front door and out into the darkness. The fires have burned black. And all that guides me across the bouncy ground is Casimir's hand and his confidence to lead the way.

Visiting Francis

It's been more than two weeks since I've seen Francis. We usually meet at Gallah's place; a local bar at the bottom of the hill where Radio Gbarnga sits.

Francis and I never make a time to meet. We just happen to run into each other. Usually it's more often than not.

I'm sitting with my Liberian friends, Mulbah and Joe, and three other men I'd never met before, under the shade of Gallah's porch.

Beads of sweat run down my back, staining spots on my shirt a darker shade of blue. I pour my beer, listening to them talk about the latest political candidate running for office in Gbarnga.

My elderly friend still isn't here. He used to be the representative here in Bong County.

"Where's Francis?" I ask Mulbah.

"He was here earlier today, asking of you."

"I keep missing him!"

"He told me to tell you to visit him at his house."

Mulbah puckers his lips, and kisses the air, making a budgie-like sound. It's how Liberians get one another's attention.

I'm always amazed how the innocent chirp is able to penetrate the roar of the engine. A motorbike pulls over.

"Take her to the old man's house. Francis." Mulbah commands.

The pen pen driver nods. Everyone in Gbarnga knows Francis. Even though he's retired, he's highly respected.

When I arrive, Francis's wife Vivian is sitting on a plastic chair in their courtyard, listening to a news report. She has a small silver radio to her ear; its antenna stuck sideways to receive a signal.

She looks up. "Why hello!" she says beaming. "You came to visit us!"

"Yes, it's been too long!" I reply.

I look around, but no sign of the 73-year-old man.

"Is Francis asleep?" I ask.

Vivian laughs. "Yes, lets go and wake him up!"

Giggling along with her, I follow Vivian up two steps and through a sitting room. We pass a young girl with short braids tied in her hair. A granddaughter perhaps.

Vivian opens the door to their bedroom. And Francis lies shirtless, eyes shut.

She shakes his foot. He nearly jumps out of bed.

"Hello, hello!" he smiles, grasping for my hand with both of his. "What a nice surprise!!!"

"Here," he moves over. "Sit beside me." He doesn't want to get up yet. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you. I have missed you so much."

"I have missed you too, Francis."

I'm just as excited to see him. He always likes to give me advice. It's always sound and wise.

Also, he has an amazing sense of humour. He's able to demoralize those around him without really offending them thanks to his smarts and his charm. And of course, his reputation.

He used to work with Peace Corps, training new recruits about local food and how to live with few comforts from home. He was a lawyer, a judge. He initiated and approved laws in Bong County.

When people see him at Gallah's place, they bow. They shake his hand with two of theirs, a sign of respect.

He takes it all in stride. He receives them and is kind. But I can tell he thinks it's all a bit exaggerated. Though, I've never said anything like that to him. Not that I couldn't.

"You and all your questions!" he always says.

Francis shirts himself while I use their bathroom. I follow him outside.

"Don't say anything about my slippers!" he jokes.

I look down. Ladies shoes. Red straps with buckles hold the souls to his foot. He mutters more about the fact I shouldn't be saying a word. I stay silent and amused.

The grandchildren in the courtyard form a line. One by one, they shake my hand, noble and kind like their grandfather. He introduces two of his daughters.

One is named Angel. She named her own daughter after her. They both have faces like cherubs. It fits.

More people arrive and sit down. His old time school friend from 65 years ago who lives there too.

And another man he calls his son who isn't really. The man brought them a pineapple from Monrovia. Francis makes fun of him, saying he could have bought one down the road.

I sit with the couple in the courtyard until the sun goes down, drinking beer and taking names.

White Jim's attempt to brainwash me

I've been feeling sick for the last couple of days. So has Casimir. We decide it's time to find out if we have malaria. If we've been stung by infected mosquitoes we can start medication, preventing malaria from progressing and landing us in hospital. Or on the next plane home.

Casimir chooses the clinic closest to the Catholic Compound called the African Fundamental Baptist Mission.

I climb behind the pen pen driver and Casimir straddles the sun soaked seat behind me. Our motorcycle weaves along a narrow dirt path, through a forested area.

There's a clinic around here? Nothing but trees and a few homes made out of mud.

Two children scream, "White woman! White woman!" But that's nothing out of the ordinary. It always makes me smile. I enjoy the attention from kids because when they see me, it's like they've seen Santa Claus himself.

Though some children around the Catholic Compound call me Nina. I don't know either.

More trees. No more muddy abodes.

I turn to Casimir. "Are you sure it's near here?"

"Yes," he says convincingly. "He must be taking a short-cut."

The forest clears and the turquoise building appears. Red painted letters, AFBM are scrolled under its arches.

A half-built church stands nearby, stacked from blocks of hardened sand and pebbles. Remaining rows of brown cubes dry in the sun.

We speak to a lady through a tiny rectangular window in the front of the clinic. Another woman sitting on a bench nearby nurses her daughter.

First step. Register with the clinic. Casimir and I spell our full names for the woman and the streets where we reside. She copies them out in pen across two yellow pieces of construction paper, indicating we want to be tested for malaria.

"Go through there," the lady points.

We step through a swinging door, and two men with stethoscopes slung around their necks ask us to sit beside them at two wooden desks. We pass them our papers.

They take our pulses, breathing rates and temperatures. We are both 100 over 70. My pulse is slower than Casimir's but I'm breathing faster. We are both at 97.1. I'm amazed my temperature is slightly below normal in this heat. It must be 40 degrees Celsius out there.

"You are the same temperature and have the same heart rates!" They are both very excited. This is probably thrilling for them, when the monotony of pulse-taking drones on.

Casimir's nurse continues, "Well, you are both in perfectly good health." He's pretty happy. It's almost like he wants to show us the door. Like what were we thinking? We're fine!

The other says, "They are here for a different kind of test."

They motion us down the hall. We sit on a wooden bench. And wait. A white man in blue scrubs is taking orders from a Jamaican lady who trained in the UK. I met her once at an NGO.

I look up at the wall of photographs. "The Late" it reads.

Great, dead people. That's welcoming.

We are directed into a room where another foreigner is holding a big SLR. More photos to take of the dead.

Another male nurse wipes the tip of my ring finger with alcohol. Then he takes out the device he's going to prick me with; an inch of glistening metal with a pointed end.

I'm happy the frizzy-haired girl isn't pointing her shutter at me.

I scan the room.

"You're scared!" the nurse smiles. "Don't worry, my name is Stalin," he says gripping the shiny utensil.

I laugh.

It's too quick to flinch. In and out. Fast and painful but short enough not to panic.

The tip of my finger bleeds, and he wipes the end of it with a flat piece of glass and then slides an identical one on top of it. I know it they have names. I've just blocked out biology class. Forever.

The next part is my favourite. To dry the blood, he sits the glass on top of an oil lamp. Yes, an oil lamp. One we'd take camping (in the 80s) at home. But it's daylight. Other specimens are drying there too, layered on top of each other.

We are asked to leave the room and wait for our results.

I talk to the man in the blue scrubs for a while. Then the Jamaican lady appears.

"Good news, you're both fine."

"Phewph."

"But, before you go, we just have a bit of counselling we'd like to do. Follow me."

Counselling? For malaria?

We head down a hallway and reach a doorway where one white man and one black man are sitting, looking anxious. They obviously ran out of conversation a long time ago.

This should be interesting.

The men greet us. The white man says he's from the U.S. and is a missionary. The black man is Liberian, a missionary in training. They are both named Jim.

Here we go.

"So, I am a missionary from Virginia," the white Jim starts. "And we just have a few questions to ask you." It's already creepy.

Jim is a non-descript man. Someone who could easily work for the CIA. His grey hair is parted on the left. His nose looks like it's made out of putty. He has thin lips, and his deep set eyes are hidden behind some plain, out of date, wire-rimmed glasses.

Casimir and I are sitting side by side and they are on either end of us. It's like we are eating dinner on a television show, so everyone can face the camera. Except here there are windows. At least there are green trees to look at.

The black Jim doesn't talk much. The white Jim continues.

"So, can I ask you. Do you both believe in God?"

Uh oh.

I feel stuck. Yes I believe in some sort of God. Not necessarily one man with a long white beard in the sky. I do believe there's something bigger than us that many of us choose not to tap into, for whatever reason.

But does this guy really want us to spill our guts and then lecture us about the glory of Jesus for an hour? Apparently yes.

We both say yes we believe in God.

"Now, are you going to church here in Gbarnga?"

Casmir lies and says no. But Casimir is a Brother. He has dedicated his life to the church by sharing his teaching salary from his french lessons at the university and the high school with his fellow brothers. He makes more money than most of them. But there are rules. All in the name of God.

Casimir is obviously feeling just as uneasy as I am.

I also say I'm not going to church here. That's the truth.

"Now, did you go to church growing up?" asks white Jim. "Why did you stop?" and he continues along a similar string of interrogation.

I want to run. Run far away. But something is keeping me here. Fear.

Jim is a big menacing man. Not the type of man you'd expect to be carrying the word of the Lord. He is judging us but saying he isn't. He keeps telling us stories about his life, analogies of eagles and mountain peaks.

"Do you expect to go to heaven?" he asks Casimir.

"Yes."

"Why?" white Jim questions, as if it's a trick that he will surely explain the answer to.

"Because I know God loves me," Casimir says. "I know I am a good person but that's not why I will be let in heaven. It's because of the love I share with my personal God."

"But you don't think your God is any different from any other God, do you? white Jim questions, suggesting if Casimir said yes, he'd be burned at the stake. "And Janey, what about you? Do you think you will go to heaven?"

Oh gawd.

Nobody has ever asked me this kind of question. I am offended that this stranger thinks he has a right to ask me something so private. All because of a malaria test. I didn't come to confession or to apply for my first communion.

I know I have to really start lying because if I don't, we'll probably be taken to the closest river to have our heads dunked. Choir and all.

"Yes, I think I will go to heaven. I am a good person, I try and do the right things."

I don't even know if there's a heaven. I don't really think there is. I think we all go to the same place. I want to think our spirit lives on in someway, but I'd be ignorant to claim I have any of the answers.

"Well Janey," white Jim is looking satisfied. He is finally able to reveal the trick behind his question. Little does he know, I handed it to him on a platter. I kind of pitied the fool.

"You know," Jim continues. "I thought I did all the right things too. And then I was sitting in a church pew, listening to my pastor. You could hear a pin drop it was so silent."

Jim is going for dramatic effect.

"He started telling us this story of an eagle.."

I've tuned out. I'm concentrating on pretending to care and trying not to break a smile.

"Have you taken Jesus into your hearts?" My drifting thoughts are interrupted by the ridiculousness of the question.

I scan my life for story to tell. And it's easy. The last time I heard that line was in a tennis slash gymnastics camp. My mother and my friend Katie's mother had good intentions.

I played tennis against the brick wall at school across from my house. I was excited to try out a real court. I loved gymnastics. Back walkovers and front hand springs were some of my trademarks in the backyard of my primary school.

But after camp, when my mum asked me what was my favourite activity there I said bible study. And then promptly told her that I had taken Jesus into my heart.

When Katie's mom picked her up from camp, she said, "Mom, I can't wait to die so I can go home to Jesus." Her mother nearly drove off the road.

"Well Jim," I start. "I took Jesus into my heart at camp when I was 10-years-old. My favourite activity was bible study…."

"That's great Janey. I'm glad you found the Lord so young."

Oh do shut up. I picture my Granny Pammy saying.

White Jim keeps tapping his bible with two fingers.

"This has all the answers. The bible says going to church is mandatory, not a suggestion." Adopting aggression, white Jim switches out of his sweet Virginian drawl.

The more he talks, the more I resent him. And the more I want to tell him to shove his bible and his beliefs where the sun don't shine.

I know that if there is a God, he/she/it wouldn't care if I made it to church on Sunday. I want to tell him that. But I'm looking at this other missionary in training who really does have a heart of gold. Everyone in this room believes in the bible.

I think the bible has some good lessons in it, it's beautifully written. But it certainly isn't absolute truth.

And maybe I'm not as brave as some people I know. I picture my friend Aaron getting up, saying something polite but curt and walking out the door.

But I keep imagining what white Jim would say back to me if I did the same. Something condescending. Something to make me seem daemonic. As if I were neglecting my own spirituality in some way. I don't want to go through that.

I wonder how many other people feel the same way.