The Dragons, the Giant, the Women, стр. 3

“Papa,” I said, whining as I climbed into Papa’s lap. “Korkor say I will wash greens on my birthday and then today she say not for long.”

“You wash greens you will spoil your dress,” he said, repeating Korkor’s warning.

“I will not spoil it,” I insisted.

“Wait, small small,” he said. “After your party you will wash the greens.”

I bit down on the ripe plum wedge, and the juice from it oozed out and followed the lines of my lips and jaw until the bottom of my face was completely sticky and wet. I worried that Papa would see me and send me back inside to Korkor or Torma to wipe my face, but he and Pastor had already resumed a conversation about a man whose name I heard at least once a day.

“But Doe has spoiled the country. Liberia spoiled-oh,” Pastor said, shaking his head.

“It’s not spoiled. Two more years the man’s gone. A new president will come.”

“He will rig the thing like he rigged the last one. Everybody fighting, everybody wants to be president. Everybody says they president,” Pastor continued.

“Yeh, the country spoiled. Sam Doe spoiled it,” Moneysweet agreed from the corner of the deck before shoving another slice of plum in his mouth.

I asked Ol’ Ma who this man was, Samuel Doe, whose name I heard once a day, and she told me he was president of Liberia. Every time I listened to people talk about this man, it reminded me of the Hawa Undu dragon, the monster in my dreams, the sum of stories I was too young to hear. The Hawa Undu dragon was once a prince with good intentions, who entered the forest to avenge the death of his family, all buried now in the hills of Bomi County. He was a handsome prince, tall with broad shoulders, high cheeks, and coarse hands marked by the victory of his battles. He entered the forest and told the people that he would kill the dragons who left mountains of ashes in Buchanan and Virginia, who left poisoned eggs in Careysburg and Kakata. But the prince became a dragon himself. One with asymmetrical teeth, taloned elbows, and paper-thin eyes. One with a crooked back, coarse like the hollows of the iron mines where many sons were still lost, always dying. One rich enough to fly, yet too poor to know where to go. He humbugged the animals, killed for food, forgot his promises. And now, Hawa Undu was president of Liberia, once a prince with good intentions. Ol’ Ma said everybody was talking about him because there was another prince who wanted to enter the forest and kill Hawa Undu, to restore peace. This prince was named Charles, like my Ol’ Pa. Some thought he would be the real thing—that he could kill Hawa Undu and put an end to the haunting of the forest and the spirit princes who danced throughout—but others feared he would be the same, that no prince could enter the forest and keep his intentions. The woods will blind, will blunder. Hawa Undu would never die.

“You see the Burkina Faso rebels them have entered the country, and come start killing Krahn people left and right because Doe is Krahn man. You don’t think they will kill Doe? They going for him,” Pastor said, rubbing his chin.

“You hear from Patrick?” Papa asked after a moment.

“No, the people say he went and collected his Ol’ Ma from the bush and went to Ghana,” Pastor said.

“His house still there?”

“They looted it, I hear. But they didn’t get much,” Pastor continued.

“Mr. Patrick?” I asked. My father nodded, reluctantly. “Mr. Patrick is in Ghana?”

To this he did not respond, and I wondered about Mr. Patrick and Ms. Genevieve, his wife, and their two sons. Ms. Genevieve always gave us milk candy when we visited their house in Sinkor, which was so big that ten women were able to fit their markets in the front.

“All the Gio and Mano people running.”

“Patrick was safe, my man. Doe’s people were not looking for him. They know he was not giving money for no rebel business,” Papa said.

“Doe’s soldiers don’t know nothing. They see Mano man, he gone.”

“Hm. Everybody say they will kill man in power and lead better. Say they want kill Krahn man ’cause Krahn man not good president,” Papa argued.

“And Krahn man want kill Gio man and Mano man,” Moneysweet added. “For what?”

“And Gio man want kill Mandingo man,” Pastor said loudly as he pointed at Moneysweet.

“And every man want kill Congo man,” Papa said, almost singing. “Quiwonpka tried and now the man dead, enneh-so?”

Moneysweet laughed, wiped his sticky hands on his jeans, and stood up from the stool where he sat, shaking his head. He vanished into the house and reemerged with a napkin that he used to wipe my face.

“You will leave, Mr. Moore?” Moneysweet asked Papa.

When I asked my teacher what happened to Kelly, what happened to Josephine, what happened to Wiatta, what happened to Gerald, what happened to Saa, she murmured, America. I did not believe her until I stopped seeing them. I did not have a chance to share what I wanted to tell Mam in case they saw her.

“No. Me, I’m staying. The people are not serious,” Papa said. “When the people realize it’s a waste of time trying to push the man out and let him just go on his own through the next election, the country will go back to normal.”

“Hmph. He will not go on his own-oh. He will not go,” Pastor said matter-of-factly.

Through a green and clear Liberian April, a car approached us from the flat road with shoulders and elbows sticking out of its windows. When it parked in front of the deck, I stood up when I recognized Mam’s parents, my Ol’ Ma and Ol’ Pa, whom we called Ma and Pa. My uncle was with them also, and a cousin and his mother. I stood up