Your favourite tee-shirt is in Liberia

You may wonder what will happen to your favourite tee-shirt your spouse insists you donate to charity. You've been told you can't wear it anymore because it's "too faded for public" or the hole in the armpit deems it "inappropriate" for gardening and climbing ladders.

But it has a history. You remember playing baseball in it as a teenager, or the time you and your dad bought matching ones at the amusement park, or when your best friend gave you her favourite one because you were moving away. It's not just cotton with sleeves, it's part of you.

Realizing you will never stop hearing, "That shirt is so not sexy!" you reluctantly toss it in the pile for charity. And with a tear in your eye, dump it at Goodwill or in that bin that's been taunting you at your local grocer.

On the way home, as your car radio blasts Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" (and yes, you brought the CD with you in preparation) you think nobody will appreciate that tee-shirt like you did. When Whitney hits her last "Yoooouuuuuuu", you come to your senses. You think about the journey your tee-shirt will embark upon and hope that it will make somebody else as happy as it's made you.

Well, you my friend, have made someone happy. There's a good chance it ended up in Liberia.

There are many Liberians walking around in tee-shirts with slogans like, "CANCER SUCKS!," "Martial Arts Momma", and "I Do My Own Stunts." I saw the latter on a three year old in a village that doesn't have access to clean drinking water. My friend Jess saw her small town U.S.A. school gym tee-shirt on a 70-year-old man walking the streets of Monrovia.

In every city you in which you wander throughout this country, you will find someone selling these wrinkly just-off-the-boat tee-shirts. They're floating on bent coat hangers in the market, or in placed in piles under umbrellas. They're folded into wheelbarrows, carted around by teenaged boys with pipes comparable to Schwartznegger's.

No, it wasn't the fantasy you imagined. It wasn't given to that poor man on the corner who chews on his lower lip all afternoon because he doesn't know any better or donated to an adult orphanage. It was sold to the everyman.

It's not all bad. You've boosted the economy in a country with an 85 per cent unemployment rate. And more than one person has profited along the way.

I've imagined it like this. The cargo ship arrives in Monrovia with a container of clothes including your tee-shirt. Someone on board makes a 100 per cent profit when he/she sells the clothes to someone waiting at the port. This person then loads them in trucks and sells them to their contacts in various cities. Those contacts sell them to local store owners. And then shop keepers resell them to the public. Four times sold.

Four people on this side of the Atlantic are profiting from your good will and your ability to let go.

And at least you won't be called unsexy anymore.

Nun times

The closest I ever got to a nun before today was when I played one in a high school talent show. Three of us were lip sinking to a song from Whoopi Goldberg's Sister Act soundtrack. We practiced our routine, including solos, for hours in front of my friend Lanna's mirror. Her older sister, Tracie, agreed to be our third nun, potentially against her better judgment.

We were a hit though, and got a lot of laughs. Tracie's popularity wasn't tarnished. That may have been because since we were between the ages of 15 and 18, there was no way we were going to gear up in veils and cloaks. We opted for tee-shirts, baseball caps turned backwards, and cropped white jean shorts.

Today is no exception. I didn't dress nun-appropriately. I wish I could say I wasn't expecting to visit. But instead of thinking about nun-wear I was preoccupied with the four-hour, pot-holed journey. Dusty roads included.

I haven't gone for barbie-sized shorts this time, but a stretched out, washed too many times, blue tee-shirt. With a scooped neck.

I'm noticing that the nuns won't look at me while I'm talking to them over ice cream at the dining table. I look down and realize I'm revealing too much. Adjustments are made and the awkwardness thaws faster than my bowl-full.

I don't just visit nuns for fun. In fact, I wasn't nuts about the idea to begin with. But my Cameroonian friend Casimir, who is a Catholic Brother, has once a month 'spiritual guidance' appointments with a nun. And because we're travelling together to Monrovia, I agreed to stop here on the way.

Here is Harbel. A town on the outskirts of the Firestone rubber plantation. Bald tires shaped like half moons arch upright in the ground, lining the main road. The rest of the tires underground make handy homes for ants and other sand-dwelling creatures.

We arrive in a shared taxi. Five of us crammed in the back. Our fellow passengers include an elderly man with yellowed teeth, clasping a cane shaped like a slingshot in his left gnarled hand. His wife, beside him, keeps staring at me while her daughter sleeps on her lap.

Climbing out of the contraption, Casimir and I take one motorbike taxi to the nuns' home. It's about a three minute drive over more worn red dirt roads.

Four nuns live at this house. But I was just expecting one.

Sister Josephine is Casimir's nun. She's Kenyan and has been living at the house for five years. Sister Maria and Sister Natalia from Italy, have been here since before I was born. They also live with a Brazilian nun, but she's out of town.

The women dress simply. They're all wearing long grey shapeless skirts, and white button up short sleeved dress shirts. Chunky silver crosses hanging from chains rest on their chests. Sister Josephine's hair is hidden under a veil but the Italian sisters show off their manly coifs.

While Casimir gets counselled, Sister Maria offers to show me their garden. She's taken a shining to me, maybe because I'm laughing at her jokes. She's pretty funny.

When their guard dogs start barking at me from inside their concrete cages, she says, "Don't mind them. They're male. They make a lot of noise, but nothing else."

Sister Maria points up to a tree with fanned leaves. "That's Papaya, there." Little bulbs of the fruit are beginning to sprout in the leaves' shade. "And over here, this is sour sour. (What we call soursop.) You know, people with cancer eat this instead of getting chemo. It's a better treatment," she says.

We stroll along the moss covered fence. I clasp my hands behind my back to appear more holy.

"You see that vine?" She points. "That's insulin!" One of the sisters has diabetes, so every morning she snips off three leaves, crushes them up and steeps them in boiling water. The diabetic drinks two cups a day and hasn't felt any pain since. She doesn't take pills or give herself injections anymore.

A tiny garden lines the house wall. "That's lettuce," she boasts. Fresh lettuce is a rarity in Liberia. "I brought some back from Italia when I went last year." I can't help but picture a nun trying to smuggle Italian lettuce into the country.

Then she shows me the chapel. From the outside it looks like any other room in the house. Inside, it's painted the colour of my 12-year-old bedroom. Mint, like Baskin Robbins Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.

A giant shellacked tree trunk sits at the front of the room. On top is a white cloth with so much lace around its edges, it could be an oversized doily.

"Sister Natalia saved this tree from the ocean. It had come up on the sand so she put it in the back of a pick up." Wow. "Now it's our alter."

A rounded box is stuck to the wall, also shellacked. Carved palm leaves sprout out from the top. I want to go over and open its tiny door. "What's inside that box?" I ask.

"Jesus," she says as if I should have known.

Sister Maria doesn't elaborate.

We walk back to the living room. She has been complaining because they haven't been able to watch TV for three days.

"The other sisters say there's something wrong with the satellite but I think the woman who cleans broke it," she whispers. "She's always moving everything around."

I know very little about electronics but these nuns need amusement since they'd rather watch TV than read after dinner. And Harbel isn't exactly the entertainment capital of the world.

"I'll take a look at it," I say. I wheel it out on its stand and examine the wires like an expert. I make sure all the knobs are tight, which usually works. But there's still static.

"Jesus Christ!!" Sister Maria swears. A nun, saying the Lord's name in vain? Or is she just asking Jesus for help? No, it's definitely in vain.

I look at the four remotes and suggest new batteries. She goes to her room and comes back with some, but that's not the answer either. I keep pressing buttons.

"Jesus Christ!!!" Again, this time louder. I bite my lips to prevent bursting into laughter.

"I'm sorry, I just don't think I can do much. I think you need someone else to look at this."

So we continue our conversation instead, accompanied by a fuzzy muted football game.

I've always been curious about a nun's calling. How does it happen? Are some just delusional schizophrenics who are hearing things? Or does God really speak to them? If so, what does He say? Does He shout or whisper, or sing?

"I have a question for you Sister Maria. It's personal so don't feel like you have to answer it."
"No problem," she smiles.
"I know they call you a sister, so that means you are a nun, right?"
"Yes," she continues smiling without judgment.
"Well, I'm just wondering if you wouldn't mind telling me if you got a calling and what happened."
She laughs. "Well, for me it wasn't like what most people think, like God is talking to them directly."

Sister Maria presses her palm to her heart. "It's something that's inside," she admits softly. "I come from a big family. All my brothers and sisters wanted to make money. But me? No. I always gave everything away. I always wanted to give everything I had in myself to help others. I never wanted to become a nun because I thought I would lose my freedom. You know, freedom is very important. I didn't want to be stuck somewhere. One day I went to talk to my priest. I told him what I was feeling. He never told me to become a nun but I kept talking to him, week after week. And eventually I just decided to do it." She sips on a glass of water. "You know what's funny?" Sister Maria asks.

"What?"

"That when I became a nun I never felt more free."

I look at her manly haircut and suddenly feel envious. But not enough to convert.

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.

Passing Go

Waiting in this front seat of this yellow cab bound for Monrovia. Feels like forever.

Three women pile in the back. Blue-black spandex jeans suffocating their legs, hips and waists. Body parts begging through muffled screams for air. Pairs of dangling metallic earrings like hot irons set in the sun.

The ignition sparks, we're on our way.

"I forgot something," says the driver. We turn around.

He forgot an elderly woman. She's in her 60s. Elderly because here you're lucky if you live past the age of 44.

She slides sideways into the back seat beside the hip and hopeful. The wheels start rolling down Broad Street. Relief. Until…

"Stop the car!!" Our newest passenger insists.

The elderly lady taps me on the shoulder from the seat behind. "We are praying," she says solemnly. And the insides of the car turn silent. I bow my head, as sun rays stream through the front windshield like laser beams.

"Dear Lord," she begins. "Please oh great God, let us have a safe journey. Let you pour the blood of your son Jesus on this car to protect us. You are the lion that never sleeps. Amen."

"Amen," the rest of us say in unison, obeying the woman almost forgotten.

Straight faced and surprisingly humbled, we carry on.

First check point. A policeman stretches out his arm, prompting us to stop. Police always insist on making people's lives here more difficult. It's like a tragic drama, with a rehearsed and reliable ending.

They yell at drivers, threatening inconvenience with an underlying message that the car will never pass. Treating commuters like criminals on the run. Doubts dealt. Documents a must. Jail perhaps.

Backlash from the drivers who eventually hand the police anywhere between five and 100 Liberian dollars. Policemen paste a look of confusion on their faces, take the money, and open the gate for people to pass. The documents are not a must anymore. Nothing is. Dirty dollars, the ultimate password.

Lately I have learned that to flash my UN media pass in these situations. The UN trumps the police. Always. Bribes are never necessary. Smiles replace scolding.

We are pulled over to Gbarnga's immigration station. I show our driver my pass stamped with the UN logo, my name, a picture of me looking terrified and the words, "PRESS PASS". He gives it to an immigration officer who waves at me, beaming like an old friend. Gate opened. Success.

At the next check point, the driver is forced to pull over again, shows the officer my pass. No need for crumpled cash. Gate opened. And the next three check points follow suit.

Until we get to the fourth.

For the last 20 kilometres we've been driving behind a taxi pulling a car. A small rope is all that separates them. They stop at the shut gate.

The police officer yells and then punches the driver who's steering the second car.

I decide not to give my press pass to the driver this time. When the officer lets the brutalized move on, I press my pass up against the windshield to avoid this beast.

Backfiring, he struts towards the car staring me down. About to pounce.

"Are you trying to threaten me with that pass?" He spits aggressively into my opened window, inches from my face.

I don't have patience for these officers. Major players in corruption, preventing this country from progressing past Go.

"I'm not threatening you," I say sternly. "I'm just showing you my identity."

"Marry me!" he proposes, in the same tulmultuous tone. "I have big property. Lots of land." What?

I smile. When stuck, no answer is safer than a 'no' answer.

Then he offers me his toothy grin, patting my arm like we're old army buddies in on the joke. He motions at an officer to open the gate.

"Will you marry me?" He insists again, our car advancing forward.

"No."

Laughter erupts from the passengers, distilling the dense fear inside our car.

Further purification when Whitney Houston bursts "And IIIIIIIII Will Always Love Youuuuu" through the radio.

Mountain breezes through open windows and everyone singing along, out of tune.

Army dining

I barfed at the Pakistani Battalion last night. Hadn't eaten since breakfast. Went up for seconds.

Potato curry, basmati rice, kidney beans balancing slices of chilli peppers, inside metal trays shaped like eggs.

The chapatti still warm, half moon pieces bent backwards in a white plastic bowl under an airtight lid.

Thick soupy coffee in front of a Indian game show on a wide screen TV.

Laughter. Questions for us, foreigners. From their foreign base. And then reversed.

"How do you say thank you in Urdu?" Answered. Tested. Nodding. Best behaviour. Eyes darting at appropriate times between the show and each other.

Everyone smoking cigarettes. The entire army smoking cigarettes. Arching blue smoke mixing with the manufactured breeze of the hair-raising air-conditioned room.

Sitting in rows on faux leather couches with gaping glass ashtrays by our sides.

Stomach hurting. Stomach feeling queasy. Panic-queasiness. Longing for my own room. On my own time.

Maybe outside. Dark, clean, empty air around me.

Instead walking towards that door, that wide door made of ribbed aluminium. Scanning the inside of the stall. These walls were put together in an afternoon. Could have been a staple gun, OK, a nail gun. One man did this. Maybe two.

And then back. Back on this wrong colour of brown imitation couch. My friend Maryella by my side. Animated in her turquoise headscarf. I envy her efforts.

"I just puked," I whisper.

"Awww," She pats the crown of my head, gently moving her hand down my hair. Like a pet. And then her finger catches in my curl.

"I'm calling Mohammed," she soothes. Her motorbike driver.

"We can drive you," one of the soldiers says in his pronounced lisp.

Flick to an American movie. Leonardo DiCaprio. Kate Winslet.

"You like this?" He asks Maryella.

"I don't know what it is."

"Titanic," I say. But my queasy stomach has apparently managed to stifle my voice box as well. I'm as good as mute, irrelevant.

"We can't watch that. It's not proper," says a soldier. But the game show with the contestant gyrating to studio music seems to suffice.

More cigarettes lit and puffed. Glances. Nodding glances.

I'm going to get up and leave. How would that go? Too much talk. Too many questions. Too many unrehearsed explanations. Not enough energy to rehearse. Not enough energy.

One soldier starts asking for a pen to get our numbers. He questions Maryella.

"You're a teacher and you don't have a pen!" he snorts. Laughter. Overblown laughter. "It's like not knowing where my gun is."

"So where is your gun then?"

More laughter. "It's in a safe place. I know where it is."

Stomach still churning.

I force a smile across my face. Like putting on those plastic red lips thrown from exploded Christmas crackers. Biting that tiny ridge inside, the outside overlapping flesh. They look like real lips in photographs. If the lighting is just right.

I give Maryella a look that says, "I'm making a run for it."

Our knuckles press off the plastic paraphernalia. The man with the lisp speaks again. "The car is ready."

Outside, two pairs of blinding lights. A soldier stands by one vehicle, in a camouflaged uniform topped off by a baby blue UN baseball hat. He's got a gun.

Another jeep behind. The escort. The decoy.

I've seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

The cars are white, with UN letters stencilled on both sides. The back hatch is opened and slammed shut behind us. We sit along the sides, facing each other.

Now we are gyrating. We are rattling. In, over, around potholes. Too many potholes on these roads. When will they be fixed? Why is it taking so long to fix these potholes?

"So you will come for dinner tomorrow night?" It's the man with the lisp. He's driving. He sounds so peaceful. This vehicle feels like war.

Shouldn't he be yelling? Yelling at us and directing us into a ditch?

I've definitely seen too many Leonardo DiCaprio movies.

"Here is great, thank you." I say, getting my voice back.

The lisped man swings the steering wheel to the right. Stops the jeep. "See you tomorrow night!" He smiles.

His camouflaged compatriot jumps out of the vehicle, unhinges the back latch. We jump too. Jump into the dusty uneven ground.

Relief.

The nausea is gone. And then so are their cars.

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.