Delirium

I live with two white male college students.

I can hear the sounds of black domestic violence through the thin walls.

I can’t make out the words, but the punctuated cries tell me their story.

It’s fraught with oppressive poverty, delinquent phone bills and NSF fees.

I call the landlady to complain. She hurries to our apartment.

I don’t have time to hide the cat. She walks in to find my two cats cavorting around the living room.

“You can only have one pet.” Is the first thing she says when I open the door.

“Give me a little time to find them a home.” I plead as Mr. Whiskers runs behind the curtain. Miss Emma has just swatted him with a vindictive paw. “Wow! He’s a magnum!” is the curious response from the landlady to the ongoing feline kerfuffle.

“What?”

“And this one is gonna be a mommy!” The landlady squeals with excitement.

“How can you tell?” I ask as I inspect Miss Emma’s fluffy belly. She’s purring heavily and her black coat feels soft and delicate.

DOG BARKS LOUDLY

END OF DREAM SEQUENCE

I wake up in the dark. I’m not sure where I am. Am I back in Tuscaloosa?

My body quivers and I am transported back to West Africa.

I stretch out my hand to touch the white gossamer mosquito net.

It is all just a dream.

In reality I live alone in a small concrete house in rural Liberia.
I take Lariam (anti- Malaria medication) and have the most vivid dreams. It's a side-effect of the medication. Sometimes I feel like the dreams are so real. I can hear, taste, and smell my dreams. Liberia is full of dreams and nightmares. I live in a parallel world.
I'm going to church tomorrow.

Tears and Smeared Make up

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I teach in the palaver hut. We don’t have books, but everyone has an opinion. Some students walk in late and tend to their cell phone business. I ignore the overt rudeness and open the discussion. Today’s chat is health and gender.


How is it possible for there to be existing health disparities between males and females?

Next semester I want to collaborate with the County Health Department and include my students. If they are involved in their community, they will be more motivated and responsible. At least that’s what I think.

Class ends on a positive note. I walk to the administrative building to check my email. It is always a pleasure to be here. Although the internet works intermittently, I have a chance to catch up on the goings on of campus life. I find out The Miss Cuttington pageant was a mild scandal. It was biggest event in Bong County last Saturday. There were MCs from RTV, the winner from A Star is Born performed, and the audience rioted. It wasn’t anything major. UNMIL was not called out to quell the crowd, but crowns and tiaras were flying. In the crowds defense the MCs from Monrovia allowed a lot of dead air between acts and that agitated people. Some of the performing groups were apparently operating on L.I.B. time (not punctual). Instead of the MCs calling another act or telling jokes to fill in the space, they simply sat down and waited with the audience. This probably contributed to the fan’s eventual emotional upheaval. When the winner was called, the audience bum-rushed the stage crying shenanigans and voting fraud. Students are very animated here. There were tears and smeared make-up. The queen wasn’t crowned, because of the mob. All in all it was a success.

Ground Pea Queen

My Peace Corps friends and I reminisce on forgotten luxuries, like continuous electricity, running potable water, and well-stocked grocery stores. I often walk to the Phebe compound to visit them. They have a secret hidden joy. They know where the best ground pea (peanut) candy is. If I can’t have hot showers or electricity, I can at least eat delicately roasted peanuts suspended in a brittle caramelized sugary shell. I like to put chocolate frosting on the small ground pea candy disks and call it ground pea kwee. Kwee is the name for all things Western. I can only buy Duncan Hines frosting at the Stop & Shop in Monrovia. Out here I just eat the candy and dream about the frosting.


Lenny is a mocha-colored dream girl from New Orleans. We’re the same complexion, but she has light green eyes that mesmerize the dark-skinned Liberians. She’s stationed at Phebe Hospital. Lenny shows me the ground pea lady’s stand. It’s in a terrible location, near a trash heap and a broken latrine. It smells like sewage and chickens scamper through the trash. I ignore the smell and eat my small piece of heaven on the way back to their house.

“I met a man in Monrovia.” Lenny begins

I’m more interested in not dropping any of the brittle goodness and keep eating.

“Uh-ha” I murmur.

“He’s an ex-marine and works for the United Nations.”

“Umm, ok.”

“I hope he’s not interested in only booty calls.”

“Umm, I hope not too.”

Just then a large piece of candy falls from her mouth and lands in the dirt.

“Shit!” Lenny exclaims

“You know the ants won’t even appreciate the goodness they’re about to eat. They’ll just swarm and cart it off without ever realizing that was the best candy in Liberia.” I wax philosophical. “I may give you a piece of mine.”

We make it up the dirt hill and a female dog is wagging her tale like a flag. Lenny calls out her name. It’s a white dog with brown spots. Keke is the name of all mutts around here.

“Hey Keke! Where’s your boyfriend.” Keke scurries off into the bush. Dogs don’t trust people. They know they are food and rarely pets. I walk in their house clutching two pieces of candy close to my chest. Their house is similar to mine, but only larger. Their kitchen is cluttered with cobwebs and ants march around the countertops undisturbed. I gobble up a piece of candy just so the ants won’t have a chance to eat it. I should mention that I have a maid and they don’t. The other roommates make it home and they invite me to dinner of lentils and couscous. I share the last piece of candy with Reilly and Wally. They’ve had long days traveling from Monrovia, and I’m feeling generous.

Moonlight Drive

The evening sun departs and a bright moon shines through every window of the house. There’s a full moon on a cloudless night and we laugh.


Do you know what a goathead is? Wally asks me. The other girls chuckle shyly.

Nooo, should I?

Ahh, it is the Liberian term for cunnilingus.

How did you ever figure that out?

A goat was slaughtered at a party and a few Liberians asked the old Oma if she likes goat head. Everyone laughed when she said ‘yes’.



That is such an ugly term for such a beautiful thing. I want to stay, but the night is growing late. It’s time to go home.

Around 10:00 p.m. we head to the bus stop. The hospital has a shift change around 10:30 p.m. and the bus ferries the nurses back to Cuttington. We run into the head of the County Health Department—Gus. He’s on his way to pick up his fiancée from work.

“The bus comes in about half an hour.” Gus says. “Let’s walk to my office and sit.” The fluorescent lights flicker on and I see huge black binders resting neatly atop each other. “Malaria” “STIs”

“What’s all this?” I ask pointing to the binders full of data on diseases.

“Oh, I’m the county health analyst. I also give health talks in the community”

“If you ever need another person to deliver health talks let me know.” I say with a smile and bright eyes. He nods back.

Just then his second in command stumbles in the office—Alphonso.

Alphonso has a slight build and is clearly agitated.

“That girl will never be my friend again! She should never be your friend again either!” He blurts out to Gus.

Gus smiles and remarks that Alphonso was dating two women and the jilted lover caught him with another lady.

“She waste beer on me! I didn’ reac' to Joni’s vexation! I was sitting dere with Gorpu. Gorpu is a married woman! Wha' if I stood up and everyone woul' have seen me with Gorpu? That would have been bad for everyone. Lucky, I was cool.” Alphonso drawls out in Liberian English.

We all agree Alphonso is so very lucky to only have a stained collar. He didn’t feel bad for dating two women. He didn’t feel bad for dating a married woman. It was the woman’s reaction to his infidelity that had him vexed. Vexed is used so much in Liberian English. It means perturbed or annoyed and fell out of the American vernacular nearly a century ago.

I say good night and walk to the bus. A group of nurses are dressed in their pale blue and white pleated uniforms. There’s a large crowd of women and one woman is pleading with the male driver. In front of the graves of the slain healthcare workers killed in the crisis, a nurse waves her hands punctuating the stark moonlit sky. She swoops down and touches his foot. “I say. For why? Please. I beg you. Take us home.” The male bus driver is drunk and unwilling to drive to the neighboring village of S.D.K. He finally gives in and cranks up the bus. It lurches slowly forward and we bump through the bright moonlight on our way home.

This is Africa.