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.