By Omari Jackson
The dead were crying for help and the cries continued to shrink my courage, or any courage that I had been able to muster to hold on. I could not say I was about to collapse in front of the tombstone that was a few meters away from me. My mind was whirling and demanding as well as creating all kinds of stories in my head. And the more I looked beyond where I held my ground, the more there appeared to me that several people were beyond there, engaged in some activities.
But if that were true, why come to the graveyard for that? I could not shake my self-confidence and for the first time, since I started coming here, at the anniversary of my friend’s death, I was confronted with a situation that was far beyond me. In truth, I had heard stories about ghosts and how some, unwilling to rest eternally, had come back to demand from the living the rites that were denied them.
It may seem silly that when I was confronted with such a difficult situation, my mind was directing me into the sphere of horror, and therefore creating more uncertainties for me. But one question that kept coming back to me was: suppose there was a world beyond the grave, then what? Were the dead as happy as the living? Could anyone victimized return to the earth to pay back?
As confused as I was, I could still not leave the hallowed ground of the Liberian dead. I would hold on, I murmured silently, and see the end of this entire episode.
Chapter 2
Things were getting a bit difficult. The apparition nearer the tombstone I crouched behind appeared to be coming towards me. No, I was seeing him, and it appeared to me that he was floating in midair. I could not see his legs and the more I looked in the direction of the specter, the more I got the impression that he was floating in the air. I felt something like the wings of a huge bird. They flapped together and that was apparently why he was in midair.
In the last couple of seconds, the eerie sounds of what seemed to me like cries of mortal pain had stopped and had been replaced by some sounds that made me cringed. I could not know but I felt the sensation of pissing and then at the next moment I wanted to attend to nature’s call. But again, my heart was racing, and beads of perspiration continued to form on my forehead. I had lost some of my courage and now it appeared that someone was coming from behind a tree further away on the other side of the cemetery.
My heart beat increased, as I called on the name of Jesus for support.
“Gogo diko…dikooooooooooooooh.”
Now the cries had changed, and I heard a long ooooooooo sound at the end of the usual Gogo-diko, that I had been used to since the entire episode began several minutes ago. This time, yes, I managed to use my right hand to check the time: I mean, I used my right thumb to press the connection to the electronic watch I had on my wrist, and it read: 12:30A.M.
Presently, there were several shadows behind one, two, three, four, and five tombstones and I could not understand what they were doing. Then my mind began to consider other issues. Mind you, I was considering the possibility of running like hell from the cemetery but the more I thought about it, the more I was unable to carry it out.
Then as I said some situations came to my mind: it seemed to me that many of those crying behind the grave were those who had not dreamed they would die in Ghana, in a foreign land. Some might have also thought that even after they died on a foreign soil, their remains would be returned to Liberia for burial.
I was not sure if I could say that about my friend Wilson.
Though I did not have the chance to tell him goodbye when he fell sick, few months after our arrival in Ghana, we had been dodging stray bullets and jumping over several dead bodies of Liberian civilians and soldiers that we had made a pact. And it was not so much about the place to be buried, as far as my friend was concerned.
“Wilson,” I said at the time, “it seems that some of us may not live to see the end of the war.” It was difficult for such a statement but considering that stray bullets were killing many Liberians, it seemed proper at the time that we carried a promise, just in case any of us fell victim to the ravages of the war. When I said that Wilson had looked me in the eye, and with a smile on his lips, said, “Oma, should anything happen to me,” my friend had always called my name, minus the last two letters (RI), and I did not have any problem with it. “Please and if you survive, you must live for me.”
Here there was a tinge of sorrow in the eyes of my friend. This was because, I assumed, our beloved Liberia was being torn apart. Our families had been thrown asunder, and for us, we felt disappointingly that the center of the Liberian nation could no longer hold together.
My friend then wiped tears from his eyes, since it was clear that precious lives were at stake, and the contestants were ever willing to kill off as many Liberians they could lay their hands on. For me, I was already in tears, as a series of questions competed in my mind, as I regarded my friend that day. Now as I stood at this cemetery, and looking beyond the graves, with what appeared to me like “apparitions” from the graves, I thought about my friend and tears filled my eyes.
Yes, my friend Jack Nyemah Wilson was buried here. Yeah, I was standing several feet away from the hallowed ground where his body was committed to the ground, and there seemed that someone was trying to scare me away.
I was determined to live my life the best way I could. That way it would help me to also live for my friend, since that was the promise, we had exchanged on that gloomy day in Monrovia. It was also true that if I were to die during the war, Jack Nyemah Wilson was to also live for me. And I could not be sure if I would have returned from the abode of the dead to haunt my good friend Wilson. Maybe, and it was just maybe my friend had nothing to do with what was happening. He knew how much we had loved each other; and how much, during the war, we had sought refuge from one place after another together. In fact, when food was very difficult to find and whenever any of us found “anything” it was a duty to find the other and to share whatever it was. Those were some of the reasons I could not blame my friend for what was happening.
“Kooooooooo…mama, mama….”
“Ohoooooooo….mama, mama…”
That was clearly the cries of a child. The sound reverberated throughout the cemetery and then I knew that it was not only the older ones who had died and buried here that were unhappy, even the kids also. It was the cry of a child, calling on its mother. What else could I do? I had lost the courage to run.
Yes, I just stood there like a statue, and deep down my heart I was yelling and calling on the name of God and his Christ.
Now I knew that Gomua-Buduburam had its own secrets, but what were they? At this point I wanted to cry, but to cry for what and for whom?
Perhaps, for my friend and all those Liberians who had died in this refugee camp, as I looked beyond the row of white-painted graves in single file, and neatly organized on Mother Earth, serving as memorials for wasted lives in an unknown ground. After all, before the calamity came, they waited for peace to return to their homeland! It was a peace that would not come when my people needed it, and then the grim reaper began its harvest. It was truly a case of hopelessness, and I felt that even the dead who were buried in the camp’s Area Z (cemetery) should know that.
I was still unable to leave this ground, and as I said earlier, I had been coming here every anniversary of his death, and to be with him. But whether he was aware of my efforts to honor his memory, I could not say.
However, it was now certain that someone needed to pass on certain information to the living.
That was just a conjecture and as I stood there, as if glued to the ground, the time ticked away, and I heard the sound of the watch…tick…tick…tick…tick…tick.
It was moving on.
I then realized the truth that time waits for no one. Then as if on a cue, the regular cries and tears began again.
“Gogo-diko”
“Dikooooooooooooooh.”
“Diko.”
“Oh Mama…Oh Mama.”
I could still not run. Then I felt cold bumps descending over me. As I looked around me, the friendly trees and flowers dotting here and there watched me in silent appreciation. I could not imagine thinking that trees and other flowers could have eyes, and watching me, and enjoying the spectacle. My body shook, as I strained my eyes to absorb all the developments. The cries of insects, and those of humans, all conspired to make me afraid. It was, I thought, the work of the wicked one.
As my heartbeat increased, and the fact that I could not make any attempt to leave the cemetery increased my worry. I was not sure, but I wanted to cry, and see if the dead had the stomach to swallow the tears of the living. But I quickly discarded the idea, informing myself that whenever someone died, tears were the first things to greet the announcement. Hence, to cry at that time could naturally awaken, even those who would not, ordinarily, be tempted to come after me.
I knew I had to take my chances, and for whatever they were, be determined to maintain my position till I could regain my courage to leave altogether. As I continued to search in my mind for the means of finding a way out of my present predicament, I told myself that I had not been a bad person and did not think anyone would be glad to come after me, with the intention to harm me. It was at this juncture that I began to examine the life I had lived so far. I was making sure that if, for example, I was facing the judgment seat of God, where would I be? I had heard much about the reward for the good and that of the wicked.
So where would I be?
I could not, I admitted, be certain that my crossing point would gain me a reward for the heavenly bliss, but neither did I think the abode of the wicked was mine. It was a fair challenge, which I eventually left in the hands of the King who is the judge of all judges who would sit at the judgment seat. For now, my situation was how to run like hell from this hallowed ground. At the same time, I was prepared to engage in any physical combat if it became the only option to get out of the situation.
With that reassurance, I then waited for the unknown.
“Gogo-diko.”
Author’s Note: Dear reader, thank you so much for journeying with me in the two chapters of my forthcoming book. I hope you had a nice ride with me. Cheers!!
