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.