Independence Day

Francis Kbangbai lets me invite myself over to celebrate Liberia's Independence Day. I propose the idea at our local watering hole. "Of course!" He agrees. "We will be happy to receive you."

He calls his wife on his cell phone. "Vic, Jane is coming over tomorrow." He passes me the phone and she asks what I'd like to eat. "Oh don't worry about it, I'm just coming for a visit."

"And don't forget to bring my hat!" Francis insists after hanging up the phone on his wife. He's been after it for days.

I told him I would give him one of mine because he gave his red one to his nephew.

Rain starts falling on the way to the old man's house, each drop getting thicker and faster. Goosebumps fight back from my limbs. A dress to the knees isn't fitting anymore. I'll turn back and change into jeans.

I pack my purse with a cardigan, and a raincoat my parents copped as a free-be.

Paying the motorbike driver 75 cents for an eight minute ride, my left foot finds the pavement before my right swings around to meet it.

Francis's house. I can see him inside his round hut planted in the middle of his concrete courtyard.

"You're late!" Vic scolds as I enter the palava hut. She's smiling though, pretending to give me a hard time as usual.

I hand Vic a phone card and place the cap on Francis's head. "My hat!" Francis exclaims.

On the table, rectangular cubes of barbecued beef decorate a white bowl. Beside it, chopped onions and orange and green chilli peppers.

With the help of a toothpick there's a method: sweet cow meat, onion, pepper, repeat.

The beef is tough and parts are impenetrable. I pray my innards can handle the rest.

"Sweet" cow meat because that's what those who sell it call it. On the road to Monrovia one can usually spot a teenaged boy selling some from his bicycle.

It's inside a wooden box painted blue, balancing on his handlebars. Sweet doesn't refer to added sugar, sweet means it's just that good.

Francis's school friend, also named Francis, is visiting too. He's a very tall man who lived in Jersey for 20 years and made his way back home to Liberia to start a farm. With the help of some Chinese agriculturalists. They give him advice. He lends them land.

He grows vegetables common to these parts. Cabbage, eggplant, sweet potatoes, cucumbers, tiny tomatoes. He's waiting for the fruits of his labour. His first crop will be ready in two more weeks.

"Would you like some beer?" He asks, leaning in. He must be at least 6"5. Friendly smile. Easy going. Bald.

I reach over to what I think is the table's beer jug, but it happens to be Francis's new mug. His nephew brought it back from the U.S. and Francis has yet to remove the bar code still plastered to the side of the glass.

"Francis!! This is your mug?" I tease.

He lifts it and raises it towards me, "Cheers to the only black father you will ever have."

Vic returns from the barbecue just outside, holding covered bowls of food. "Francis, move your bucket!" He laughs, lifting his mug out of the way.

Under the first plate, chicken cooked with cabbage, garlic and more hot peppers. The other, country rice.

Country rice is the tastiest and healthiest rice in the country. It's about half the size of Uncle Ben's with more than twice the taste.

Unfortunately most Liberians opt for the imported American rice instead.

Its appeal was instigated by the American tire company, Firestone. They own rubber plantations across Liberia, and boast of hundreds of thousands of rubber-producing trees in the country.

Once their ships are full with enough rubber to export, they depart for U.S. ports. They don't want to bring back empty ships so after unloading, they're packed with sacks of American-made rice.

Firestone managers pay their Liberian employees with this well travelled rice, instead of cash. They used to pay them in rice all the time. Now it's just once a month.

In need of money, most Firestone employees sell their pay in rice to a store nearby and the stores resell it to the public.

These bags stamped with American flags and slogans seem more appetizing to Liberians than what they can make and sell from their own farms.

The meal is delicious. "Thanks Vic," I say between heaping mouthfuls of country rice. "This is very good!"

She smiles and meets my eyes. "This girl," she says pointing at me with her index finger. "She says she doesn't need anything to eat. I say, next time I will just give her hot peppers."

We all laugh.

"Oh Vic?" Francis says in that tone where you know something funny will follow. "I have a new employer. I am teaching this girl Kpelle. In return she will give me lots of money."

"Yeah right," I tease back. "I'll pay you in beer."

Kpelle is the language of Bong County. It's also the most significant tribe here. So far I've learned how to say hello, how are you, fine thank you, what's the latest, what's your name, my name is Janey, go, come here, no, yes, thank you, what's wrong? and I am sick. I've also learned some of the Kpelle names for local dishes.

We finish up our food. Club Beer from tall green bottles continues to reach the top of my glass. It's Francis and Francis's fault.

I've brought my camera and they agree to have their picture taken outside as it's too dark in the hut.

"You won't miss the flashlight," the man of the house jokes. He's referring to his friend Francis's bald head. The man takes it well, and laughs.

I can't help thinking how much sleep George Costanza would lose over such a comment, trying to think of the perfect comeback.

"This is a wonderful way to spend the 26th," Francis says. "I'm so happy."

"Yes, it is wonderful." The other Francis agrees.

"It is. E'seh." I pull out the Kpelle, shaking his hand. He laughs.

Up to the main road to hail a motorbike. And the driver gets me home before night falls.