Post demanded. , BTW, that part about dying on an empty stomach was really funny.

More please, my eyes are glue to this thread.

repogirl: Post demanded. , BTW, that part about dying on an empty stomach was really funny.

That's my granny for you!

at your service me lady..will post in a minute.

#23
The struggling was unrelenting...I endured and persevered, the forces and elements were against me but boy I was ready..but I digress, so lets get back to the story.
**********
Our fishing boat was on a dry dock and was supposed to head back out in three weeks. I was so excited, anticipating what it would be like to be at sea for thirty days doing nothing but fishing. All our supplies were loaded up and I got to meet the other crewmembers—pretty much the same guys who had been hustling with me at the fishing pier. Normally, the Greek fishermen didn’t use the same crew twice; they only contracted crews for one or two months. The makeup of the crew was usually Greek captains, Greek engineers, Ghanaian quartermasters, and guys like me from the pier.
The one concern I had about this trip was something I had been told earlier by one of my friends at the pier. He had said that most of the Greek fishermen in Liberia were homosexuals and they had the habit of raping some of the African crewmembers while they were at sea. Also, not all the deckhands actually worked on deck. The Greek captains normally would pick one of the deckhands to be their personal servant, and it was no secret that whoever was assigned this job would also provide sexual services to the Greeks on board. Georgie was a personal servant on the ship and the Greeks liked him a lot. It was said that he was sleeping with them.
I later learned that Papay was gay as well, and that Georgie was in a relationship with him, and then it dawned on me why Papay had been so upset that Georgie had brought me to stay with them. He must have thought Georgie had found himself a new lover. It also made sense to me why Papay was always cooking for us, not minding that we weren’t contributing anything, and called Georgie “my Pekin.” My friendship with Georgie didn’t change because of this knowledge, though, particularly because I never noticed any homosexual tendencies in him; instead, he talked about girls whenever we were together.
The pier continued to bustle with activity every day. There were lots of criminals in the facility; in fact, the port in general was a very dangerous place. There were frequent fights, and from time to time, someone would get stabbed to death. It didn’t take much to provoke these hustlers, most of whom were frustrated, homeless, and hungry. Most lived on the street and did all sorts of drugs and had weapons. I watched my back all the time and tried my best not to get into any form of altercation.
There were also women who sold food right outside the gate of the fishing pier—all sorts of Liberian dishes, mainly rice with assorted sauces: cassava leaf sauce, palm butter sauce, palava sauce, and my favorite, potato greens sauce. The food was cheap and most of the hustlers could afford it. A bowl of rice cost about fifty cents at that time. Some of these ladies also engaged in dubious activities with the hustlers, buying stolen fish and rice from them.
While I waited for our boat to get ready to go to sea, I continued to hustle like everyone else at the fishing pier. Most evenings I would take a walk along the abandoned pier; sit at the very end, and just gaze out, wondering when I would finally leave the shores of Africa behind. I sat on the same spot alone most of the time, listening to the calm sea. Many people defecated at that part of the pier because there were no functioning toilet facilities, but the smell bothered me very little. My quiet time at the abandoned pier also afforded me the opportunity to admire cargo ships. I would fantasize about being stowed away on one of the ships to Europe and always conclude that it would be sooner rather than later.
At the end of the third week, it was time for us to sail out on our one-month fishing adventure. Everyone was excited to come aboard that morning. I was finally about to make some real money and save most of it, because on the boat we wouldn’t have to pay for meals or lodging. Neither amounted to much—in fact, the accommodation on board was in deplorable condition. While the Greeks had their individual cabins, the rest of the crew had a tiny space with a few bunk beds in it. Nevertheless, I was happy about going on the trip.
Our boat undocked from the pier at 8 a.m. One hour into the trip, we were completely out in the open sea and the fishing nets were released into the water. The boat kept sailing slowly, and after another hour, the mechanical net release brought the huge fishing net back on deck, filled with all kinds of seafood including shrimp, snapper, and lobster. The deckhands guided the net to the deck, and we were organized in such a way that some of us were picking the shrimp and lobster, while others were picking assorted fish. Another group was designated to wash and package the fish, and the last group was responsible for storing all the packaged fish and shrimp in the cold storage below deck.
By early afternoon I became very seasick, but I didn’t know what it was since I had never been on a boat before. I thought it would pass, so I continued to work with my group, but it got worse by the minute. I started to vomit and thought I would throw up my lungs. My whole body shook. I had never been that sick in my life. My life started to flash before my eyes and I thought I was going to die. The captain was informed of my condition, but his only prescription was for me to drink salt water. After drinking it, I was allowed to lie down, but that didn’t help, either; the waves and the rocking of the boat made things worse. I didn’t know that a boat was supposed to rock while at sea. I remained restless, getting up every minute to throw up. My condition was deteriorating quickly, but I refused to give up. I prided myself on not being a quitter.
I was determined to stay on the boat, but by a couple of hours later, my condition was completely hopeless. I had to make a decision: stay stubborn and die on board or get back to shore, stay alive, and find another means by which to accomplish my objectives. There was no such thing as retreat in combat—only strategic moves to find another avenue of approach. With my condition at that time, it was a no-brainer. I wanted to live to fight another day.
I told the captain that I was done and that he had to get me back to shore. Everyone tried to convince me to stay because they couldn’t turn around just for me, but I demanded that they get me back to the pier.
Fortunately, as we argued, the quartermaster sighted a small boat approaching us, heading toward the shore. Immediately, he informed the captain and they signaled for the boat to come. As soon as the boat was close enough, the captain explained the situation and asked them to help get me back to shore. He also gave the boat owner some fish to compensate him for taking me. We took off and I didn’t look back. As soon as we arrived at the pier, I stepped onto solid ground and, instantaneously, the sickness disappeared. I was overjoyed to be back on dry land.
I went back to hustling like everyone else at the pier. I learned that my seasickness was probably only bound to happen on smaller boats, where you really feel the waves—the larger vessels rock far less—so it seemed that my stowaway idea was still viable. I continued to case the ships, searching for the right time and the right opportunity to sneak on board. However, I couldn’t do it alone. I had to have someone to go it with me since I wasn’t very familiar with the inside of ships. I had heard horrible stories about stowaways who had accidentally gotten crushed by logs as they tried to hide on log ships. I had also heard about people getting crushed by containers on cargo ships. And then there were others who had been caught by crewmembers of a particular Korean cargo ship; the Koreans, after brutally beating up the stowaways, had thrown them overboard. I chose to wait until I could find a partner who had experience and knew the safest place to hide on a ship.
A few weeks later, Georgie returned from the fishing trip. He had gotten paid, and by then, I too had saved a little money from my hustling. Georgie already had a lot of stowaway experience; he was once deported from Europe. He had gotten to Spain without being noticed and had successfully disembarked, but as he was exiting the port, security apprehended him and handed him over to the Spanish police, and he was repatriated to Liberia. I told him that we had to make a move together, but he kept urging me to have patience.
But my patience had already run out. Back in Nigeria I had crafted a backup plan: if for some reason I was unable to stow away, I would travel by land up to Morocco and try to get into Spain through Cueta, a Spanish territory in Morocco, or Tangier, where I could cross over to Gibraltar.
I told Georgie about my plan B and tried to convince him that it would work. I argued that since we had a little money saved, we should give it a try.
Georgie nodded and we agreed to leave immediately.

********
Let me know when to post. needless to say chapter 11 will be a mind blowing experience.

repogirl: Post demanded. , BTW, that part about dying on an empty stomach was really funny.

agreed..i almost fail from the chair laughing..

JAKEMOND1:

That's my granny for you!

at your service me lady..will post in a minute.

bless her soul..what a woman.

nna biko don't keep me waiting..I'm a fast reader so try to keep up na!!

#24.
Journey to Guinea and Mali:
Once again I was ready to venture into the unknown. I was prepared, at least that's what my mind told me at the time, but I also knew deep down that danger awaits me. All the same, a ranger is no stranger to danger. I was not afraid to die trying...
Here I go again reminiscing, sorry. please lets get back to the exciting story.
**********

Chapter Eleven

Georgie and I took a taxi from Monrovia to Gbarnga, and from there took another taxi to Ganta, then another to Sanniquelle. At Sanniquelle there were numerous dump trucks that carried traders and merchandise between Liberia and Guinea. We paid the fare and joined one of the trucks heading to Guinea. We left Sanniquelle at 6 p.m. and arrived at the border crossing point between Liberia and Guinea two hours later. It wasn’t such a long distance, but the roads were in terrible condition.
When we reached the border, everyone got off the truck and went through immigration to get stamped out of Liberia and into Guinea. Since the truck was loaded with goods, it had to pass through customs. The inspection took a while and, as usual, the driver bribed the customs officers and was allowed to proceed across with the truck while we walked across the border. At the Guinean side, our passports were stamped, and the truck driver and conductor did their normal routine with immigration.
One hour later, we were back on the road. Again, the journey was slow and excruciating because of the bumpy roads—the countless potholes kept us doing twenty miles an hour at best. To make matters worse, we didn’t have enough room to sit in the truck because it was loaded to the brim with goods. So we had to sit on top of the goods, and there were so many of us. We had to hold on tightly to one of the rails at the back of the truck so we wouldn’t fall off. Each time the truck went into a ditch, it would sway from one side to another and we would be thrown around.
An hour after we left Guinea immigration, we got stuck in a ditch. The conductor and driver tried to move the truck, but it wouldn’t budge. Eventually, the truck was offloaded while everyone dug around the ditch and piled up rocks and sticks to get the truck out. It wasn’t until the next morning that we were able to free the truck, load up again, and get back on our journey.
By the time we got to Gueckedou at 5 p.m., we had gotten stuck more than four times. We were able to have a good meal, after which Georgie and I went to find another truck going to Kankan. We spent the night in Kankan, and the next morning we got into another truck that took us to Siguiri, and then another that took us all the way to Bamako, where we arrived the next morning. Unfortunately, due to all the expenses along the way, we had completely run out of money, and yet we were not even halfway to our final destination. We didn’t know anybody in the city, and we were famished and tired. To make matters worse, we hadn’t gotten any sleep on the truck because of the condition of the road.
Bamako, the capital city of Mali, is a fairly large city. At that time, most of its streets weren’t paved, and everything was dusty, but it was bustling with activity. There were lots of street vendors. I took a particular interest in the people selling tea and the long French bread called baguettes. I was so starved at this point that I couldn’t focus on anything else. Georgie and I immediately decided to sell off some of our personal items to raise some money. We were able to sell all our belongings except for the clothes we had on, our passports, and my map.
Since we were desperate and hungry, we didn’t take time to understand the currency. The CFA is used across the Francophone countries in West Africa, and we weren’t familiar with the exchange rate, since we’d only had to exchange dollars in the past. In our desperation, we accepted one hundred CFA from the hustler who bought our belongings, believing it to be equivalent to two hundred US dollars. The negotiation wasn’t easy because neither Georgie nor I spoke French. We accepted the hundred CFA and proceeded to a food stand, where we each ordered a large cup of tea and a baguette. We gave the seller the hundred CFA, expecting to get a lot of change back, but instead he wanted more money. He tried to explain to us that the cash we gave him wasn’t enough for the food we had ordered. Since the difference wasn’t much, he let us have the food anyway.
Georgie and I were furious with the hustler. We had been counting on this money to take us on the next leg of our trip—to Algeria.
At least we finally had some food, and the tea we ordered was incredible. It was herbal tea boiled for a long time in a kettle. After it was poured into a cup, lots of sugar and condensed milk were added. The tea was so sweet and thick that we dipped the bread into it. After breakfast, we decided to walk around the city and figure out our next move.
We eventually conceived of a plan. We would go to a police station and file a false claim. When we reached the station, we gave them a story that we had been attacked and robbed—all our money and belongings were stolen, and as a result, we had no money to continue on our journey; therefore, we required some sort of compensation or assistance from the Malian authorities. The problem, though, was that we couldn’t speak French. All that we could say was “Le vuloi, le sac,” accompanying this with hand gestures signifying that our stuff was stolen and whoever had stolen it had run away. After what seemed liked hours of going back and forth, the police officers finally understood what we were saying, but they seemed a little confused as to what to do. They asked us to wait while they consulted with their superior officer. Their superior officer, in turn, consulted with someone else, and the decision was made to accommodate us in some kind of transit quarter until they could figure out what to do with us.
Georgie and I spent the night at the transit quarter, and the next morning some government officials came to see us with a translator. One of the officials said that he was sorry that we had been robbed. Our situation had been reported to the ministry of foreign affairs, since we weren’t Malians, and they were going to do everything possible to address the matter and see how best to assist us.
We ended up being fed and housed for two days. On the evening of the second day, we were told that they couldn’t help us and that we had to leave the premises immediately. They recommended that we go to our respective embassies and see how they could help to repatriate us.
Once again, we were back on the streets, disillusioned, hopeless, and hungry. It was getting dark and we had no idea what else to do, so we decided to sleep in the park. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. To start with, we had nothing to sleep on; all we had were the clothes on our backs. As we lay under a tree in the park, we were bitten by mosquitoes and other bugs. I couldn’t sleep. What had gotten myself into? My only consolation was that if I died there that night, no one would know who I was and no one would tell my family that I was dead, and my siblings and mother would go on with their lives thinking I was still alive. As long as they assumed I was alive, that was all that mattered to me.
Normally, it hardly rained in Bamako because of its close proximity to the Sahara, but unfortunately for us, that night there was a heavy downpour. I curled up where I was, praying that things wouldn’t get worse. Eventually, the rain stopped. Georgie and I found a bench to sit on, hoping the sun could come up soon so we could dry ourselves. At last, the sun rose, and we were dry by 9 a.m. I was grateful for the desert conditions that made Bamako warm up quickly.
Later that morning, after we had brainstormed for a while, I came up with a brilliant idea: to solicit help from both our countries’ diplomatic missions in Bamako. When we got to the embassies, we would claim that we had been robbed and needed financial support to return to our countries.
We spent the next few hours trying to locate the Liberian embassy, but unfortunately Liberia did not have a diplomatic mission in Mali. By the time we found this out, it was late in the day and we were starving. I told Georgie that we had to do something to get money or we would die of hunger. Fortunately for us, a few hundred meters away stood Hotel Sofitel, the biggest hotel in Bamako. We decided to go there and beg for money.
As we approached the entrance, a white man, who looked French, was exiting the hotel with his luggage. I moved toward him and called his attention. Fortunately, he spoke English and I narrated my story to him, telling him that my friend and I were tourists and were stranded because we had been mugged, and had lost everything, including our money. We had been sleeping on the streets for the last couple of days and had nowhere else to go for help. The man felt very sorry for us and immediately dipped into his wallet. To my shock, he handed us a five thousand CFA bill. I couldn’t believe his generosity, and I thanked him profoundly. He departed and we immediately left the hotel.
After buying a decent meal from the street vendors, Georgie and I spent the rest of the evening sitting at the park and thinking about our next move. We came to the conclusion that we had to go to the Nigerian embassy the next morning. We spent another terrible night sleeping at the park.
The next morning, we got up early, bought tea and bread, and headed to the Nigerian embassy. I requested to see the ambassador, but we were directed to another official instead. After waiting for an hour in the reception room, we were invited into the office. After introductions were made, I told our story to the Nigerian official and requested financial assistance from the embassy so we could continue our journey to Senegal. The official noted our request and told us to return the next day. I told him that we had nowhere else to go, and asked if they would allow us stay in the embassy’s compound. He told us that it wasn’t possible. But later that night, we returned to the embassy, and the security guard allowed us to spend the night at the guard shed.
The next morning, the official told us that it was the embassy’s policy to help stranded Nigerians return to their country. It was not their policy to provide assistance in continuing to a different destination. In order to assist any person claiming to be a Nigerian, that person must have proof of their Nigerian’s citizenship—that is, they had to provide a valid Nigerian passport or other form of identification. Therefore, the embassy was willing to facilitate my return to Nigeria, since I had a passport, but they couldn’t do anything for Georgie because he didn’t have a passport or any other proof of Nigerian citizenship. The embassy wouldn’t be flying me to Nigeria; rather, they would provide me with the transport fare to go by road from Bamako to the closest Nigerian town or city. I had no choice, so I grudgingly accepted the offer and was told to return to the embassy the next day. Once again, Georgie and I slept at the guard shed. The next morning, the official handed me twenty thousand CFA and wished both of us good luck.
We reevaluated our situation over breakfast. I realized at this point just how difficult the journey had become. The prospect of continuing looked bleak. I was already exhausted, and so was Georgie. The previous day we had inquired about how much it would cost us to go from Bamako to GAO in Algeria. The twenty thousand CFA that we now had wasn’t even close to the amount we needed to continue the trip. We decided it was best to return to Liberia and try the stowaway option again, which was cheaper and less complicated.
Later that morning, we began the journey back to Liberia. We found a truck to take us straight from Bamako to Kankan, but when we got to Kankan, we were arrested by the gendarmeries just because we were foreigners. They took what little money we had, and we were hauled off to a police detention cell. The cell was crowded with all sorts of misfits. We spent an entire day without food and water because the gendarmes had no provisions to feed detainees. Some family members brought food to their relatives in the cells, but the fortunate ones usually wouldn’t share their food. However, one of the lucky detainees had pity on Georgie and me, and invited us to share. It was the worst-looking meal I had ever seen—some kind of mashed potatoes and a dark, slimy soup—but I was so hungry, I forced myself. We used our fingers to break off a piece of the mashed potatoes, mold it into bite-size balls, dip it into the soup, and swallow.
We made several attempts to explain to the gendarmeries that we weren’t criminals; we were just passing through to Liberia. But all our efforts were to no avail because the language difference made it impossible for us to communicate. I pulled out my pocket Bible, which I still had with me, and read a few verses. Then I prayed to God and asked Him not to let me stay in detention for more than three days. After praying, I became more relaxed.
The next afternoon, I heard someone speaking English outside the cell. I immediately shouted to draw his attention and he responded. He came to the cell room entrance, and before I could say anything to him, he told me he used to live in Nigeria. He was from Kankan and spoke fluent English, which he had learned while living in Nigeria. I explained our predicament and begged him to ask the gendarme why we were being detained. A few minutes later, he came back with the gendarme and we were released. From what he said it was just a misunderstanding. The gendarme did not understand us and had detained us because they had assumed we were criminals. No apology was given, but we were happy to be free. We thanked the gentleman, and he even gave us a little money as we left.
We walked to a motor park and were lucky to find a truck heading to Zaniekore, a Guinean border town. Once aboard, we realized that we had very little money left and couldn’t afford to pay the fare from Zaniekore to the next border town in Liberia. We passed through Guinea immigration without any problem and proceeded to cross through Liberian immigration, but we didn’t have enough money to bribe the immigration officers. Unlike Georgie, I had no papers to identify me as Liberian, so I was detained. We concocted a story—Georgie pretended I was his brother, “Jake.” Since I hadn’t mastered speaking English with a Liberian accent, I spoke very little, leaving Georgie to talk on my behalf. After several hours, we had to give up our last bit of money to the immigration officers so they would release me. We managed to get a lift from the border to Sanniquelle, where we slept in an empty store. The next morning we went to the taxi park.
Since we had no money left, Georgie decided we had to go to Bong Mines, where some of his relatives lived and worked at the iron ore mining facility. We begged a taxi driver to take us, saying we would pay him when we got there. We arrived in Bong Mines two and a half hours later, and Georgie was able to borrow money from his relative to pay the driver. However, he didn’t get enough money for us to continue the journey back to Monrovia.

********
I know what you are thinking...why did they give up and surrender by returning to Liberia. well, surrender! hell no! he who fights and run away lives to fight another day, if you get my drift..there were many more attempts in store...clues! ship and Sierra Leone.. details in the next chapter.

Disclaimer: It's been wonderful sharing my life experience with you all;however, I'm still living my story. My point is that you all are reading concluded part the story while I'm knee deep in the current happenings. Fortunately or unfortunately depending on point of view "Duty" calls and I'm bounded to oblige;therefore, we have less than two weeks to finish 340 pages of "conflicted destiny, chronicle of a Natural Born Warrior" cause in two weeks I will be traversing two continents to live the conclusion of "Conflicted Destiny, US Marine Made in Africa"

So if you'll like to get to the end of book one, you need to make me...push me to post.otherwise, you may wait till July when the book will be available in Amazon/stores to read the rest...some cool picture pages included.

Right now I have the cover design and if you're interested in finding out what it looks like, leave me your contact email and I will send it to you.

Thanks,

Jakemond

Hmmm...Jake, Jake, Jake... What can I say? You paint pictures with your words... It's actually an amazing gift, something very few people can pull off. You have achieved it remarkably well.

I know the book is already ready for publication so whatever comment I make here will not make any difference, but I will still make it nonetheless.

SPEED BREAKERS. You need speed breakers. The pace is a bit dizzying for me. I also had to struggle to connect your age with the events being described. You zoomed through the past without taking the time to give readers a hint of the age you were at when these events were happening, neither did you give us dates. This is a memoir and it is important that we have dates to connect with events. It was distracting for me because I was dividing my attention between the stories and struggling to guess which year so and so event was happening. One minute you're twelve, the next you are being intimate with a woman. The abrupt transition was jarring because I asked myself 'okay, which year was this? How old was he when this took place?' It left me feeling very disoriented.

You left school for a while to start the Dymo tape business to raise funds. How long was this? Was it years or months? Sometimes I asked myself. 'was he a teenager here or was he already in his twenties?' I finally got some clarification when you mentioned 'April 1989'. I heaved a sigh of relief at this point. 'Okay, so he was eighteen when he finished school! Whew! But wait o, how long did he have to hustle to get through?? It seems like ages!'

You also mentioned that your uncle was a nymphomaniac. Please correct this because men are not referred to as 'nymphos' but 'sex addicts'. Nymphomaniac is a woman who finds it difficult achieving orga.sm, hence she can go several hours having sex in order to climax.

All said, for me, its been a struggle following the story because I am being too distracted trying to connect dots. That is not to say you are not doing a great job, though. You have held me glued to my screen for hours with your story, and I look forward to reading your subsequent updates.

Ishilove: Hmmm...Jake, Jake, Jake... What can I say? You paint pictures with your words... It's actually an amazing gift, something very few people can pull off. You have achieved it remarkably well.

I know the book is already ready for publication so whatever comment I make here will not make any difference, but I will still make it nonetheless.

SPEED BREAKERS. You need speed breakers. The pace is a bit dizzying for me. I also had to struggle to connect your age with the events being described. You zoomed through the past without taking the time to give readers a hint of the age you were at when these events were happening, neither did you give us dates. This is a memoir and it is important that we have dates to connect with events. It was distracting for me because I was dividing my attention between the stories and struggling to guess which year so and so event was happening. One minute you're twelve, the next you are being intimate with a woman. The abrupt transition was jarring because I asked myself 'okay, which year was this? How old was he when this took place?' It left me feeling very disoriented.

You left school for a while to start the Dymo tape business to raise funds. How long was this? Was it years or months? Sometimes I asked myself. 'was he a teenager here or was he already in his twenties?' I finally got some clarification when you mentioned 'April 1989'. I heaved a sigh of relief at this point. 'Okay, so he was eighteen when he finished school! Whew! But wait o, how long did he have to hustle to get through?? It seems like ages!'

You also mentioned that your uncle was a nymphomaniac. Please correct this because men are not referred to as 'nymphos' but 'sex addicts'. Nymphomaniac is a woman who finds it difficult achieving orga.sm, hence she can go several hours having sex in order to climax.

All said, for me, its been a struggle following the story because I am being too distracted trying to connect dots. That is not to say you are not doing a great job, though. You have held me glued to my screen for hours with your story, and I look forward to reading your subsequent updates.

ishilove:
thanks..great insight. I guess maybe I could have tried connecting events with timeline;however, it was actually by design. I chose not to duel too much on dates until later in the book. Moreover, if you had attended high school in Nigeria, it would have made perfect sense to you since some of the events revolved around different stages during elementary and primary school. that said, if you will indulge me a little, maybe it will all make sense to you in the next few chapters.

As for my promiscuity, indeed I started earlier than most adolescents as was evidence in various encounters described in the book. Hard to believe, really I was an adult in a child's body and looked mature physically.

As for the" Nymphomaniac", blame it on censorship. believe it or not nairaland does apply censorship...it's not the first time they change words from my original posting. believe me, I used a much more colorful word--than Ephebophilia--for my good uncle. They even censored the name of one of Nigeria greatest boxing hero (my uncle) because of his first name D..K Tiger.

I was 16 going on seventeen...-almost rhymed-when I finished high school.
**********
Excellent discuss, please keep it coming. I truly appreciated your critic.

thanks,

Jakemond

una don come oh!! "Nympomaniac" now Ephebophilia..don't worry google dey!

ishilove: while your point is valid;however, I completely agree with Jake....his style is unique and refreshing...devoid of crescendos and not too melodramatic while focusing on the tangents...I hope u started reading from the beginning because it does make sense as you go along. Though, its fast paced but its also absolutely an easy read and easy to follow.

just my two sense..

peace

benjames: una don come oh!! "Nympomaniac" now Ephebophilia..don't worry google dey!

ishilove: while your point is valid;however, I completely agree with Jake....his style is unique and refreshing...devoid of crescendos and not too melodramatic while focusing on the tangents...I hope u started reading from the beginning because it does make sense as you go along. Though, its fast paced but its also absolutely an easy read and easy to follow.

just my two sense..

peace

To each his own.

I doubt if you started reading from the beginning, 'cos if you did, you'd know at what point I started reading from

Ishilove:
To each his own.

I doubt if you started reading from the beginning, 'cos if you did, you'd know at what point I started reading from

touché! I know ur literary genius but I'm just stating my opinion and didn't mean to offend. No hard feelings sis.

the love is mutual,

thx

Ow..kay, my own is when's the next update? Today I hope? .

repogirl: Ow..kay, my own is when's the next update? Today I hope? .

Absolutely me lady..in a minute, just woke up.

Ow....kay, eagerly waiting, thanks.

#25

Ay hey..the journey continues..spoiler alert for benjames: don't worry, I also survived these up coming challenges!
*******
As a result, we had to spend five days in Bong Mines. It wasn’t easy for me because I felt unwelcome. Georgie’s relatives were cold to me, and my relationship with Georgie became strained. He spent most of his time with his family; he went out with them and sometimes spoke in their native dialect, which I could not understand. I, on the other hand, spent most of my time indoors since I was never invited to hang out with the family. Occasionally, they offered me small portions of food, which I would gratefully accept. Liberians ate one main meal a day, normally rice, and it was usually for lunch. I didn’t know what they ate for breakfast or dinner, and Georgie’s family barely made lunch. I suspected that maybe they did, but that they hid the food from me because they didn’t want to share. Sometimes I would wander around the neighborhood and people on the street would offer me food. After five days, Georgie was able to raise some cash from one of his girlfriends and we headed back to Monrovia. He went to stay with some friends of his in town, and I returned to the wrecked ship where I’d slept before my recent journey.
I continued hustling at the fishing pier. Sometimes I would visit my friends at the Star and Disco hotels, especially when I was hungry for Nigerian food. There was a Nigerian businesswoman, Ngozi, who lived at the Star. From time to time she would make traditional Igbo food and invite all the Nigerian men at the two hotels to eat. She was well respected among the Nigerians and well-connected in the Liberian government. Ngozi was heavyset and in her late thirties. Her boyfriend, Charles, was a few years younger. He was another drug dealer who had been stranded in Liberia after he was caught and arrested in transit. I was told it was Ngozi who had facilitated his release from prison. They had been living together as a couple for the past three years. She frequently went to Nigeria to buy merchandise, and Charles would help her sell the goods in Liberia.
On one occasion when I went to Ngozi’s place to eat, my friend Baba Ali was also there. He told me that the guy who had been housing him in his hotel room was just thrown out, and he had nowhere else to go. I told him not to worry; there was more than enough room on the wrecked ship.
At first, the other guys living on the ship weren’t pleased, but it didn’t matter. Baba Ali immediately settled in with us, and I spent the next few days showing him the ropes around the port. Having him stay with me was fantastic because I needed a reliable partner for my next move: I was counting on him stowing away with me. Baba Ali adopted to the life of hustling faster than I wanted. He was a very likable guy and was able to make new friends fast. In no time he stopped relying on me for food and started hustling on his own. He also started hanging out with bad guys. They spent all day smoking marijuana and sleeping, then at night they would steal from the port. As soon as I realized that I couldn’t turn him around, I decided to stay away from him. I had never done drugs in my life, but it seemed like all the people that I associated with were either drug pushers or users. At this time in my journey, I needed to stay focused. I made a conscious decision not to be part of any of the stealing or smoking gangs.
A few weeks later, when I went back to the Star Hotel, I ran into another Igbo boy called CY. He had grown up in Aba just like me, and we immediately became friends. His story was no different from all the other Nigerians in Liberia. He was caught in Sierra Leone transporting cocaine, and had served some time for it. He had spent a few years living in Sierra Leone before he moved to Liberia. Now he was engaged in a legitimate business. He had come up with a brilliant business idea; he realized that most Liberians were very poor and couldn’t afford some basic items like shoes, clothes, cosmetics, and jewelry, so he would buy these things from other Nigerians and sell them to the Liberians, allowing them to pay for the items in installments. This scheme was very effective, and CY tried to convince me to partner with him. Initially, I hadn’t wanted to join him because I didn’t want to be far from the port—I never knew when the right opportunity to stow away might come. But a few days later I ran into CY again, this time at the port selling to the ladies who sold food. I didn’t have money that day, so he paid for my lunch. After that, I was compelled to walk with him and see how he did his business. It was a tiring ordeal for me. We walked around for hours from street to street and house to house, collecting money. At times it was frustrating for CY because some people had no money to pay, and others had moved, but most times people did pay. When we were done, I was about to return to my ship, but CY insisted that he couldn’t allow me to go back looking like a bum. He said that if I didn’t want to be his business partner, I could at least be his roommate at Gardnerville. I was worried about the distance—it was a twelve-mile walk from the port to Gardnerville—but I agreed.
CY had rented a room in a house located in a swampy area. He had no furniture; just a mat on the floor and a charcoal cooking stove with a few cooking utensils. I tried not to think too much about the environment and decided to resign myself to fate. Every morning we would wake up and leave the house together. I would normally accompany him to do a few rounds of his business, after which he would give me a dollar just for accompanying him. Then I would spend the rest of the day hustling at the port.
Two weeks after I moved in with CY, his stepbrother, Donkey, and his friend, Bongo, arrived from Nigeria with a huge consignment of goods and moved in with us. All the goods actually belonged to Donkey; Bongo was just tagging along. Bongo was another poor boy trying to get away from Nigeria, believing Liberia was his gateway to travel to the West. Meanwhile, as soon as Donkey’s goods were cleared from customs, CY convinced Donkey not to supply them to the Lebanese or anyone else, and to allow CY to sell the goods himself. CY partnered with Bongo, showed him the ropes, and in no time the two were moving the goods through CY’s already established scheme. Once in a while I accompanied them, but I remained focused at the port.
A few weeks later, I met two Nigerians at the port, Elise and Bobby, who had recently arrived in Liberia. According to Elise, they came to obtain a European visa from Liberia, which they had heard was easy to do. Upon arrival they had paid someone a huge amount of money to get the visas for them. The man also found them a place to stay while their visas were being processed.
Bobby was a tall, athletic-looking guy, a secondary school graduate with limited intelligence. The only things he had going for him were his good looks and his intimidating size. Elise, a university graduate, was soft-spoken, confident, and average size. I figured Elise was the brains of the two and commanded a lot of respect from Bobby. We struck up an instant friendship. I ended up hanging out with them for the next week, after which it finally dawned on them that they had been duped by the man who had promised to get them visas. They found themselves broke and stranded, and I helped them sell some of their valuables, including their nice clothes and shoes, so they could feed themselves. Later, I introduced them to hustling at the port. Unfortunately, these two weren’t used to a hard life and couldn’t hustle, in spite of my efforts at teaching them.
So Bobby joined Baba Ali in stealing stuff from the port and reselling it. I later found out that Elise was also a part of it; he conceptualized and drew up the plans while the others carried out the operations. They tried to persuade me to join, but once again I refused to be part of any criminal activity. When I wasn’t loading or offloading fish from the boats, I was accompanying Bongo or CY in their business.
I had a small life-changing experience during this period. One day at the port, I met another Nigerian from the northern part of the country. His name was Musa, and he was contracted on one of the fishing boats. He had just returned from a fishing trip. The boat he worked on was a fairly large one, so they spent sixty days on their expeditions. I ran into Musa a few hours after the boat had docked at the port, and just minutes after he had received his pay. He was happy to see another Nigerian, and I was happy to meet him, too, especially because he had lots of money to spend. Musa was anxious to rent a room and have a nice meal and a drink. I didn’t object when he asked me to come and enjoy his money with him. It also turned out that he had been to Europe twice as a stowaway and had been repatriated on both occasions, and I wanted the opportunity to pick his brain about the process.
That night he booked a room for us at Star Hotel, and then we went to a restaurant and had a great meal. From there, we went to a bar. For someone who was supposed to be a Muslim, Musa sure drank like a fish. I still wasn’t drinking alcohol, so I stuck with nonalcoholic drinks, especially my favorite, grape Fanta. Later on at the bar, Musa found two girls—one for him and one for me—but I wasn’t interested in sleeping with any girl. All I wanted was to get the hell out of Africa. One of the girls left, and we all drank and chatted; a while later, we all headed back to the hotel room with the girl. Musa and the girl convinced me to try some of Musa’s marijuana. I refused, but caved when they wouldn’t stop teasing me. Ashamed of trying it in their presence, I took the joint to the bathroom, which turned out to be a big mistake. I had never smoked before, so I wasn’t sure how many drags I should take or that I should exhale some of the smokes, not inhale all of them. A few drags later, I still didn’t feel anything and started to wonder what the big deal was. I took even more drags, inhaling and not allowing any smoke to escape, and then all of a sudden I started to hear loud music in my head. My hearing became increasingly sharp; I swore I could hear even the sound of ants. I became scared and thought I was losing my mind. I staggered back into the room and told Musa I was going crazy. We ran out to a shop nearby and bought a can of condensed milk and two fresh raw eggs, which I gulped down.
We went back to the hotel and they gave me a bath and put me on the bed, where I promptly drifted off. In the crazy, dreamlike, but not completely unconscious state I was in, I heard Musa and the girl debating whether to abandon me or to stay. They must have chosen the latter because at 2 a.m. I heard Musa and the girl having sex.
The next morning I left, and I never saw Musa again. I was still feeling a little drowsy, but was mostly okay. I decided not to go to the fishing pier that day since I felt the need to be around people I knew. I went to Bobby and Elise’s house, and fortunately they were home; they usually slept during the day and stole at night. Bobby was smoking marijuana. Remembering the previous night, I immediately turned around and left. On my way out, I ran into Amara, Elise and Bobby’s friend.
Amara was about the same age as I was. He was a Fulani boy and was kindhearted and generous. A few times he had bought lunch for me. As I ran into him, I explained that I wasn’t feeling well and asked him to accompany me to Gardnersville, which he did. For several days I didn’t go anywhere. Amara visited almost every day and brought food to me. We became very close. The whole marijuana experience had scared the living daylights out of me. I was more determined than ever not to stay in Liberia any longer.
Realizing that Amara had some money, I tried to convince him to travel with me by road. I told him about my previous road trip with Georgie. I further explained that I knew the way, and that the only reason we hadn’t been successful last time was that we ran out of money—but since Amara had money, that wouldn’t be the case if we tried again. He said that he would think about it, and I waited for him to decide. In the meantime, our friendship continued. Later, after I had decided to go back to hustling at the port, he would come down there to visit me.
One fateful day while at the port with Elise and Bobby, the opportunity that I had long been waiting for presented itself. A Nigerian cargo ship called River Magidon, which transported logs, had been docked at the port for three days and was leaving that night, heading to Europe. Elise, Bobby, and I made our way to the port, close to the ship. We inspected the area around it and noted that there was security posted twenty-four hours along the gangway. It seemed there was no other way to get through except via the gangway, but there was a thick rope that tied the ship to the pier and there was no one watching the rope. Though it seemed a little dangerous to climb on board the ship on the rope, we had no other choice. We did a little digging around and found out what time the ship was leaving: 10 p.m. that night. Typically, stowaways would have on their person prepackaged provisions, which included water, bread, and biscuits, just in case an opportunity to stow away arose suddenly. But unfortunately for us, we weren’t prepared; we had neither the money nor the time to buy anything. We decided to stick around the port and wait for our chance.
As the sky darkened, I grew more excited. I couldn’t wait to start on this adventure. As soon as it was dark enough, we decided to go on the ship one by one. As Elise and Bobby argued about who would go first, I made my way to the rope, and within a few seconds had climbed on board. Immediately, I hid between the logs and waited for my partners. Twenty minutes later, neither of them had showed up. I was about to give up hope when Elise finally climbed up, and I motioned him to my hiding place. We waited for Bobby, but he didn’t show. About thirty minutes later we heard voices. Bobby was arguing with somebody down by the pier. I thought it was the security guard telling him to go away. We were afraid that Bobby might reveal to the guards that we were already on board, but he didn’t—he was trying to bully the security guard into letting him on board. He was very agitated, but as his voice got louder and louder, the rope was being removed and the ship was being pulled out to sea by the tugboat. Bobby would not be leaving with us. Elise and I settled in and hoped for the best.
Soon we were on the open sea, and I was happy. All around us there was nothing but water. It was a beautiful night, with a full moon. I could look out from my position and see the reflection of the moon in the water. Most importantly, I was not getting seasick. I guessed it was because this was a much larger ship. As we sailed, Elise and I remained curled up in our positions, not willing to reveal ourselves and be caught.
On a stowaway mission, if one had one’s own provisions, one could last several days before any need to steal from the galley. From what I had been told, a ship going straight to Europe would clear African waters in three days. That meant if one had enough food for more than three days, one would be guaranteed of at least arriving in Europe. In our case, we had no food or water; therefore we had to rely on stealing food from the galley, hoping that no one would see us. I calculated that, since the ship was going directly to Europe and not stopping in any African port, in twelve hours it would clear West African waters and move into international waters—in which case, I assumed, if we were to be discovered, they wouldn’t be able to return us to any port and would be compelled to take us along with them. After what seemed like twelve hours to us, we were already famished and thirsty, and decided to risk sneaking into the galley.
Fortunately for us, the door was unlocked. We went inside and started to help ourselves. As we were eating, somebody came down, and before we could escape, he raised the alarm. Other crewmembers appeared, and though we were able to make our way back to our hiding place, it was of no use. The entire ship knew that they had stowaways on board, and it was a matter of time before they found us. Elise and I decided it was best to separate and hide in different locations, because we weren’t sure if the guys had realized that there were two of us. The plan was that whoever got caught would maintain that he was the only one on board. A few minutes later, Elise was caught and taken up to the captain’s bridge. Some of the crewmembers were still looking around, so it became apparent to me that Elise must have told them that there were two of us. I realized how pointless it would be for me to keep hiding, so I decided to reveal myself.
The guards immediately grabbed me and took me up to the captain’s bridge, where Elise was. The captain wanted to know how we got on board his ship, what our intent was, and where we thought we were all going. I told him that our intent was to stow away to Europe. We hadn’t targeted his ship; it was irrelevant what ship we would take, as long as the destination was outside of Africa. His ship happened to be there at the right place and time, heading in the right direction and provided the best opportunity for us. The captain wasn’t pleased, and went to confer with some of his officers. When he came back, he threatened to throw us overboard. He explained that it was cheaper for them to get rid of us than to pay the cost levied on ships that brought stowaways into a country. We begged for our lives. The captain gave us two options: he could drop us off at Freetown, where we would get off the ship as quietly as possible, or he could throw us overboard and we could swim to whatever country we chose. We chose to be let off at Freetown.
A few hours later, we arrived. The captain was kind enough to give us two British pounds as we were getting off the ship. Elise and I walked up and down Freetown streets until we were exhausted. I had no idea where we were going or what we would do next. We finally bought some food from the street vendors with the two pounds that the captain gave us. Then, an idea struck me: if we could find a university campus, we might be able to locate some Nigerians. Someone on the street mentioned Fourah Bay College, which was located up in the mountains, at the end of Circular Road.
Halfway up Circular Road, we came across group of young guys hanging out in front of a shop and speaking Igbo. We greeted them in the same language, and they gestured for us to come in. One of the guys introduced himself as Ernest, and another said he was Emeka. Ernest seemed like a nice guy. The shop belonged to him. Emeka specialized in bringing merchandise from Nigeria and supplying to his Lebanese customers in Sierra Leone. We narrated our story to them and they sympathized with us. Ernest asked if we had any money, and we said no. He wanted to know what our plans were, and we told him all we wanted was to return to Liberia. He went into his shop and gave us enough money to take us back there. We thanked him and left.
At this point there was no need to continue to Fourah Bay College, so we headed back and searched for a taxi park. We found a minibus heading to Kenema, the biggest city on the road from Freetown to the Liberian border. We arrived in Kenema that night and slept on the street.
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opine opine opine! all criticism are welcome.

Very funny, you better survive cos I look fwd to book# two as well..

by the way, send me the cover..bravehat14@hotmail.com

benjames: Very funny, you better survive cos I look fwd to book# two as well..

by the way, send me the cover..bravehat14@hotmail.com

Good to go my bros..meanwhile, while your spat with ishilove was entertaining, i would rather, you let me respond and defend the book...ishi had a point and her assertion was very valid.that said, you still have your first amendment as long as i doesn't result to the use of your second amendment.

thx

Jakemond

So I guess the second attempt was a failure, back to liberia again? If there was an award for hustling and determination,you'd win it straight up.
Am still following.. And still oliver twisting. , how about georgie BTW, no mention of him after the first failed attempt.

repogirl: So I guess the second attempt was a failure, back to liberia again? If there was an award for hustling and determination,you'd win it straight up.
Am still following.. And still oliver twisting. , how about georgie BTW, no mention of him after the first failed attempt.

patience me lady..indeed, the second attempt was not fertile.however, each attempt was like a building block,I learned from the experience and became even better prepared for the next move.

Georgie and I parted ways, and I did not see or hear from him again until few years later in Madrid...here I go again letting the cat out of the bag...

getting ready to go to church, but I will post for me lady...yes! faith tabernacle congregation in Phillie and with my mom in the next 30 minutes.

#26,

It was not over yet..like the good ale lizard, you fall, get up and look both left and right, and if there was nobody to praise your bravery, you node you head in self congratulatory motion and try again..
**********
The next morning, Elise and I boarded a big truck that was transporting goods from Freetown to Liberia. It was full of merchandise as well as people, and we sat on top of the merchandise like everyone else. Unfortunately, just as I had experienced on my last road trip, the road was unpaved, so the journey was excruciatingly slow and bumpy. It took us all day to get from Kenema to the border town on the Sierra Leonean side. When we arrived, we all climbed down from the truck; it had to go through customs, and all the passengers were required to go through immigration separately. Elise and I handed over our passports to be stamped. The immigration officer flipped through them, searching for the entry stamps—which, of course, were not there. He asked us how we had gotten into the country without passing through immigration. We couldn’t reveal that we had been stowaways, so we told him that we had crossed the border a couple of days ago and that the immigration officer must have forgotten to stamp our passports. He didn’t buy the story. We were immediately arrested and detained in a holding cell.
We spent the rest of that day, and the next, without food or water. The condition of the cell was terrible. Once again, I brought out my traveling companion, my Bible. I read a few verses and then prayed to God, reminding Him that we had an agreement that I would never spend more than three days in any form of detention. Right after that, a young female officer brought some food to us. I had no idea why she did it, but at that point she was my angel. She promised to see what she could do to have us both released. On the evening of the second day, she came back with some food, and right after we finished eating, she opened the cell door and told us that we were free to go. Our passports were stamped. She also told us that Sierra Leone was more lenient, and she suspected that we would have serious problems getting through Liberian immigration because of the stamp issue. We thanked her and took off.
By this time, the truck that we had paid to take us to Liberia had left and we had very little money remaining. We decided to walk across the border and find another vehicle. Even if we didn’t have enough money to pay our way to Monrovia, we would convince the driver that we would pay him when we arrived.
This border between Sierra Leone and Liberia was divided by a big river called the Mano River. To cross from one side to the other, one had to go across a long bridge. The space between the two borders, including the bridge and the river, were considered no man’s land. We walked across the bridge to the Liberian side and proceeded to immigration, where we presented our passports to be stamped. Unfortunately, the officer noticed the previous Liberian stamps in our passports, which indicated that we had entered Liberia. He looked for an exit stamp and couldn’t find one. He decided that we couldn’t be admitted back into Liberia and demanded that we return to wherever we had come from.
We had a serious dilemma. We couldn’t go into Liberia, and we had just spent two days in detention on the Sierra Leonean side and had eventually been stamped for our exit, so we couldn’t go back there, either. We sat on the bridge between the two countries, wondering what to do next. We were hoping that maybe we could sneak through when no one was watching, but a Liberian officer was keeping an eye on us.
After sitting on the bridge for a few hours, watching people go by, I noticed a man going from the Sierra Leonean side to the Liberian side. He looked Nigerian to me. I greeted him in Igbo and he responded. He looked surprised and wanted to know what we were doing on the bridge. We explained our problem. Since he couldn’t help resolve our situation, he gave us some money and wished us the best.
Having received some money, we decided to go back to the Sierra Leonean side of the border. There was a little town right after the bridge, before the immigration station. We searched for a place to spend the night and found someone who was renting a room in a house at the bank of the river. We paid him for the night and settled in, surveying the surroundings. Looking across the river on the Liberian side, we noticed that there was no security whatsoever, so we thought if we could swim across, we could easily bypass Liberian immigration and continue our journey. We decided to make a move at midnight.
A few minutes after midnight, we went down by the river. Mano River is one of the biggest rivers between Liberia and Sierra Leone, and it flows very fast. I couldn’t go first because I was afraid of rivers. I was still traumatized by my near-death experience at the waterside in Aba. Elise was a good swimmer, so he decided to go first. He jumped in, and a few minutes later was on the Liberian side of the river. He waited for me, but I panicked. After several minutes I waved him off. Reluctantly, he left.
I returned to the room to think about what I would do next.


Chapter Twelve

I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I sat on the bed wondering what the next day would bring. By morning, I had made up my mind to return to the Sierra Leonean side, which meant I had to go through immigration again and be stamped in.
As the day broke, I cleaned myself up and went over to immigration. Fortunately for me, the nice young officer who had fed us while we were in detention was on duty that morning. I explained what had happened; she was very understanding and stamped an entry in my passport. She also introduced me to a police officer who worked at Kenema. The idea was for me to return with the officer to Kenema and, with his help, try to get into Liberia through a different crossing point near Kenema. The officer and I boarded a taxi and headed out.
We spent the night at the officer’s house at Kenema, since we arrived late and I couldn’t continue the journey that night. My companion turned out to be a very popular guy; almost everyone knew him. Even the Liberian officials working on the Liberian side of the crossing point knew him well. That evening he took me to a bar where all his friends were meeting. As we were socializing with his friends, another friend of his, called Johnny, showed up.
Johnny was a Liberian military officer and worked at the same border crossing point that I was supposed to be crossing through. While everyone got merry and drunk, the officer pulled Johnny aside and explained my situation, and it was agreed that Johnny would take me with him across the border the next morning.
When daylight came, the three of us took a taxi from Kenema to the border crossing point, which was located in the jungle. We arrived at the border post and the officer told his friends there to stamp my passport, which they did. Meanwhile, as usual, the customs officer at the post was searching people who passed through. I was a little concerned about the search, since I had told the officer and Johnny that I had no money on me, and could only pay them for their help after I got to Monrovia—but the truth was that I still had a few US dollars. The customs officer asked if I had anything to declare, and I said no. Before he commenced the body search, I took out everything in my pocket, including the US dollars, and lay them on the table in plain sight, but slightly covering the money with my handkerchief. My trick worked. Nobody bothered to go through my items. My idea was to make believe that I had nothing to hide; otherwise I wouldn’t have laid out the items. After the search, I thanked the police officer and promised to come back to Kenema in the future and reward him for all his help. Johnny and I went down to the riverbank to catch a canoe across. This border crossing point had no bridge; the only means of crossing from one side to the other was by canoe. Johnny and I were ferried across within twenty minutes.
On the Liberian side, there was no structure at the border post. Rather, the immigration, police, and military officers assigned to that location worked from their shanty house a few meters from the riverbank. It was a small community, a typical rural Liberian village; all the houses were made of mud. The villagers were mainly subsistence farmers and hunters. There were about ten houses and maybe one hundred inhabitants in the village, and no amenities at all, not even pipe-borne water or electricity. Johnny was sharing the house with other officers, and most of them had their wives and children with them. As a single man, Johnny had his own room, and I was able to stay with him. The other officers at the post were not pleased with Johnny for bringing me. They suspected that I must have been involved in something illegal, and that was why Johnny was helping me.
I didn’t know how Johnny explained my situation to them, but when they asked me, I told them that I lived in Monrovia, had just visited Sierra Leone, and was now returning to Monrovia. The officer was reluctant to stamp my passport. He insisted that I go to the main office to get stamped—the same office where Elise and I had been refused entry. I couldn’t explain to him what had happened at the main office, and I couldn’t argue with him. It seemed irrelevant to argue because as far as I was concerned, I was in Liberia already; all I had to do was find a taxi that would take me to Monrovia.
This border post community had no vehicular access. The only means for people to get around was by motorcycle or bicycle, and even then we had to sometimes wait a few days before one showed up. I spent three days at this border post with Johnny. It was quite an adventure as I got to experience all kinds of foods, one of which was monkey meat. At first I was hesitant to try it because of my love for monkeys. I remembered that we used to have a monkey at my uncle’s house and I had loved it very much. But at this point I had no choice: it was eat the monkey meat or starve. I must admit it was actually delicious, though I was so hungry that my taste buds might not have been reliable.
Later, I came to learn that Johnny had an ulterior motive for wanting to help me. He actually believed that if he could get me to Monrovia, I would give him a lot of money. I did nothing to discourage this belief. I was willing to borrow money to give him if he was successful in getting me there. At the same time, I didn’t want to risk being seen with him because I thought it could raise suspicion. I explained to him that he had done enough getting me across and I didn’t want him to risk his job any further on my behalf. I told him that since I lived in Monrovia, he could come whenever he had the chance and I would have the money for him.
By the third day, I was tired of waiting for a motorcycle, so I decided to walk to a place where I could find transportation. Furthermore, my instinct told me that Johnny’s colleagues were about to report me to their headquarters. It was no secret that my presence there was not welcome in any way or shape, and I didn’t want to stay to find out what they were going to do about it. As I got ready to leave, Johnny insisted that he come with me to Monrovia. I knew he wanted his money. It was useless trying to reason with him, so I accepted. He put on his full military uniform and we headed off. We walked for about ten miles before we found a motorcycle, which drove us another fifteen miles to Bo Waterside, then Johnny and I went off to find the Monrovia taxis. On....
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don't forget to opine!!

Thanks, I guess I've got no choice but to make do with this for now, since you're off to church. Happy sunday and greetings to your mma.

I see love brewing btw jake and Repo

chinedumo: I see love brewing btw jake and Repo

Hehehe, chinedu, its like you always don't waste time in spotting love but you're right anyway. There's a lotta love brewing for this story. .

chinedumo: I see love brewing btw jake and Repo

..why waste words while action is pending.

repogirl:

Hehehe, chinedu, its like you always don't waste time in spotting love but you're right anyway. There's a lotta love brewing for this story. .

-thanks me lady..indeed, there were many showers of blessing send forth thy way....
-will post a quick update, eat my egusi soup --specially made for me by my mother--and get back on the road for DC.

#27..

Voluntary repatriation and subsequent return..the journey continues...while the drum of civil way beats in Liberia, the saber rattling was escalating in the West, and the son of the soil keep marching on..the natural born warrior. oh yes!! the story, here we go..
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the way, we ran into the same immigration officer who had refused me entry and sent me back to Sierra Leone five days ago. He looked like he couldn’t believe his eyes. He alerted all the other officers at the post, and Johnny and I were taken inside their office. Johnny was put into detention, and my situation worsened. I was charged for illegally sneaking into the country, violating the Liberian immigration laws, and Johnny was detained for aiding and abetting. I felt sorry for him, but there was nothing I could do; it had been his decision to come with me. That was the last time I ever saw or heard from Johnny.
The security officer at the post decided to transfer me to Monrovia for prosecution. I was put into a taxi with two police escorts and taken to Monrovia’s central immigration office, where I was thrown into another crowded cell room. I spent the first night there, not knowing what would become of me since I didn’t know anyone who could help me. The immigration officers wouldn’t tell me anything. However, the next day, as I was hanging out by the cell room door to get some fresh air, I looked outside at the lobby and saw Chime and Chichi. I was surprised to see them, and they, too, were surprised to see me in jail. Needless to say, I was thankful that they were there because the night before, I had prayed to God, asking Him to help get me out of jail and reminding Him about our three-nights-in-custody policy. Chime asked me what I was doing in jail, and I explained that I was being detained for immigration violation. He told me not to worry because they were there to see the chief immigration officer, and his office was right across from my detention center. They whispered that he was their personal friend and one of their clients.
The two left and I spent another night there, with no food or water. By the end of the second day I was exhausted and starving. I began to wonder if Chime and Chichi were actually going to help me as promised. With their connections, I should have been out already. I didn’t hear from them by the end of the second day and was tempted to give up hope, but I continued to pray hard.
Then I had a break on the morning of the third day. I was called into the office of the chief of immigration. He told me he was willing to let me go on one condition: he would keep my passport, and once I had a ticket to leave the country, the passport would be returned to me—and that if I intended to return to Liberia in the future, I would have to do it in a legitimate way. I accepted and was immediately released.
I returned to CY’s house and recounted my entire ordeal to him. He commended my effort and bravery, and again enjoined me to abandon my hustling and team up with him in business. I thought about his proposition for few days and decided I was done with trying to stow away or travel by land just to get to Europe. The risks were too much for me to handle at that time. I would start a legitimate business and raise enough money to pay my way to whichever country I wanted to visit. I spent the next few days researching the kinds of products I could sell in Liberia.
All of a sudden, it occurred to me that Aba had the biggest shoe market in West Africa. The shoes were locally produced and of good quality. Many people from neighboring countries even traveled to Aba to buy them for resale. I negotiated with CY and he agreed to sell my shoes if I could bring them from Nigeria. Easier said than done; making plan is one thing, but raising the capital to support the plan is another! There certainly would be problems getting capital for my potential business. As it was, I didn’t even have a return ticket to Nigeria. Nonetheless, I conceived of a plan.
I approached one of the Nigerian businessmen at the Star Hotel. He was preparing to travel to Nigeria and I begged him to take a message to my cousin, Joy, in Lagos. The message was that I was stranded in Liberia, living on the street, and desperately needed to return home. Three weeks later, he returned from Nigeria with a one-way ticket for me. He explained that at first it was hard to convince my cousin and her husband, since they were not aware that I had left Nigeria. But after explaining the details of my situation, they were finally convinced and had purchased the ticket for me. I was pleased, but my biggest problem was how I would raise the money to start my shoe business.
The following week, I returned to Nigeria and went straight to Joy’s house. She and her husband were happy to see me. I thanked them for the return ticket and promised to pay them back once I got back on my feet. I spent two days at their house before I left for Aba. I figured that since I had slaved for my uncle, John Ewurum, for more than a year, including the period of unpaid work at his construction sites, he owed me some money. Of course, I couldn’t just walk up to him and say that. So I decided the best way to get paid for the services I rendered to him and his family was to appropriate some of his belongings, sell them, and raise money for my business, after which we could call it even. I remembered that one of his large properties where my mother used to farm had some useful items like aluminum zinc and other metal sheets that lay discarded within the property. I concluded that the best thing to do would be to take the zinc that wasn’t been used and wouldn’t be missed, and sell it to raise the money I needed.
When I got to Aba, I went straight to my Aunt Comfort’s house. I didn’t want anybody from my uncle’s house to know I was in town. The next morning I went on a reconnaissance of the property where the aluminum zinc was located. Fortunately, at this time my mother was not staying at the property. My uncle had hired a guard to take care of the property, and the guard knew me very well. There was another family related to us living on the property, and my friend, Ricky, still lived there as well.
Before I had left my uncle’s house for Liberia, I had arranged for Ricky to stay there because he had had nowhere else to go after the construction work had stopped. He lived on the property and traveled to different cities, carrying on my Dymo tape business, which I had taught him to do. I let Ricky know what my plans were, and told him not to help me because I didn’t want my uncle to put him in jail, but he insisted on giving me a hand. We made a plan for the following day. Meanwhile, I told the guard and the family that lived on the property that my uncle had sent me to get rid of all the aluminum zinc. They had no reason to doubt me, since they weren’t aware that I had traveled and was no longer living at my uncle’s house.
The next day I rented a truck and Ricky helped me load it up with aluminum zinc. He wanted to accompany me to sell it, but I told him I didn’t want to get him more involved. I sold all the aluminum zinc in no time, but the money I received wasn’t as much as I had thought it would be. Still, I had no choice but to make do with it. I went to the shoe market and bought a hundred pairs of shoes. The following day I traveled to Orji Uratta to see my family. Everybody was delighted to see me—but their happiness didn’t last long after I told my mother about the aluminum zinc. I tried to explain that my actions were justified.
After spending a couple of nights with them, I proceeded to Owerri Nkworji, where I spent a couple of days with my grandmother Nwanyi Burunnu. She was more understanding, though she didn’t approve of me taking something that didn’t belong to me. I also knew she thought my uncle was a very bad man. As usual, before I left, my grandmother gave me part of her savings and said she wanted me to stay and spend the Easter holidays with her. I declined, but promised to spend the next Christmas with her. Then I went to Aba to get my products.
When I got to town, I found out that word had spread everywhere about the zinc I had sold, and my uncle had reported me to the police and a search warrant had been issued for my arrest. I also learned that Ricky and the security guard—who was an old man and my uncle’s relative—had been in jail for the last four days. I was deeply touched about their ordeal, yet there was really nothing I could do. Meanwhile, the little money I had left wouldn’t be enough to buy my plane ticket back to Liberia. But I could not, in good conscience, leave Aba without finding out what was going on with Ricky and the security guard. So I used some of the money to go to the police station where they had been detained, with the intention of facilitating their release. When I got there, I was told that they had been released earlier that morning.
I rushed to my uncle’s property and found the guard furious with me. My uncle had just fired him after he had spent four days in jail for a crime he did not commit. I pleaded with him and asked for his forgiveness. The guard didn’t listen to my pleas but my conscience was clear because I did not implicate him in any way. Ricky was more understanding. He didn’t mind spending few days in jail for me, though he was angry with my uncle. I thanked Ricky and told him my plans, adding that I owed him a big one.
The next morning I took my supply of shoes and headed to Lagos. I didn’t go to Joy’s house because I knew that it would hurt her to know I was heading back to Liberia, so I went to stay with my cousin Daniel instead. He lived with his uncle and worked as a bus conductor. I decided to spend a few days with him and see if he had some money to lend me. Daniel had always been the kindest of all my cousins. He would always give his last penny whenever someone was in need. I explained my predicament to him. I asked if I could borrow some money, and said I would pay him back with interest. I told him to consider it like we were in business together. Daniel hadn’t saved much money, but what he gave me was enough to help me buy a plane ticket. I flew back to Liberia the following evening, with all my merchandise.
Upon arrival at the Liberia airport, I didn’t have enough money to clear customs, so I left my goods at the airport and headed to CY’s house. I told CY to give me the money since he was going to sell my products for me anyway. The next day we went to the airport to clear the goods. Unfortunately, half the shoes were missing. We cleared customs and took the remaining shoes to CY’s house.
During the next few weeks I had to constantly borrow money from CY, since I was no longer hustling. CY and Bongo distributed what was left of my shoes, and I had to wait for one month for them to collect all my money. By the time they had finished their collections and after I deducted all my expenses, including what had been paid to the customs and all the money I had borrowed from CY, there was almost nothing left from the proceeds. It seemed like I was back to square one. Life was cruel. Though the shoes were sold at a price ten times the purchase cost, the quantity was not enough, especially since fifty pairs were stolen at the airport. With the little money I had left, I knew I couldn’t return to Nigeria.
I decided to buy some brocade and send it with people going back to Nigeria to sell for me. That way I could save costs and use the money to buy shoes and other products that I could sell in Liberia. I went back to Bobby and Elise and asked them to team up with me on this project. I also convinced another guy who was staying at the Star Hotel to be part of the business. They all gave me money, which I added to the little I had, and bought some brocade. Ngozi and Charles were going to Nigeria and I felt I could trust them, so I gave them my brocade and told them what the plan was. The two were encouraged by our desire to make a legitimate business and promised to do as I had asked. I thanked them and left to await their return in five days.
After five days I went to the Star Hotel to see if they had come back, but they hadn’t. Two weeks passed and there was still no sign of them. I got very concerned, and everyone who had teamed up with me thought that I had swindled them, especially Bobby, who was furious and kept trying to pick fights with me. However, our friend Amara intervened every time on my behalf, telling him to calm down, and that Ngozi and Charles would eventually come back and we would have our goods.
At this time the political and security situation in Liberia was getting worse. It was said that rebels were approaching and about to enter into Liberia from Guinea and Ivory Coast, so there was an atmosphere of unease and uncertainty in Monrovia. There was a general belief that the rebels could enter the city any day. Rumors were flying that a rebel group led by former General Service Agency director Charles McArthur Taylor was planning to overthrow the government of President Samuel K. Doe. People from the hinterland were running from the border area of Ivory Coast and Liberia and into Monrovia. There was great fear among the people. To me, Monrovia seemed calm and normal, and there was no reason to worry. But the rumor mill maintained that inhabitants of Butuo in Nimba County had woken up early and heard heavy gunfire. Confused and panicked, they started running, especially after hearing that a group of armed men was arresting and killing people for no reason. The news spread in no time, and people in the area packed their belongings and started to head toward Monrovia.
Meanwhile, in Monrovia, the government dispatched the joint security team to the area to verify this information. Unfortunately, the team was ambushed and no one ever knew what happened to them. Later the BBC announced that there was a rebel incursion in the southeastern part of Liberia led by Taylor, who, according to rumors, had embezzled five hundred thousand US dollars from the Liberian government and escaped to the U.S., where he was later arrested and detained, pending extradition. This news took most Liberians by surprise. The situation didn’t cause me to panic, but I did want to have my goods so I could sell them and have some money in my hands, in case there was a need to leave Monrovia. I started to plan my exit strategy. I tried to convince Amara that we should travel together to Sierra Leone as soon as the goods arrived. But like most other people, Amara was not yet convinced that the rebels would ever enter Monrovia. He believed that the government forces would be able to defeat them before they could arrive.
After that third week in April 1990, Ngozi and her boyfriend, Charles, finally returned to Monrovia. I was delighted to hear that they were back and immediately rushed to the Star Hotel. Their mood told the whole story. They told me of how their goods were confiscated in Nigeria, my brocade fabric included. I didn’t believe it and was astonished that they could do something like that to me. I had trusted them; moreover, they were rich businesspeople. They also understood that some of the money used to buy the brocade belonged to others. I wondered how they could think I would believe such a story, given the fact that they had returned from Nigeria with plenty of goods of their own.
My problems became compounded since I now owed other people and had no way of paying them back. All of a sudden, I realized that my life was in great danger, so I quickly made the decision to leave Liberia immediately. I pulled Charles aside and begged him to at least give me back some of the money that was supposed to be used to buy the goods for me. He told me he didn’t have any money, and then I noticed that they had already purchased lots of brocade that was ready to ship to Nigeria. I asked him to give me some of it to me in exchange so that I could appease my creditors. He gave me two bundles, which I grudgingly accepted. I had no other option to offset my debt with the guys who had invested with me.
After leaving Charles’s place, I had a change of heart. I concluded that it wasn’t wise to give up the two bundles of brocade to the other investors, especially when Charles had promised to return the rest of my money, and we had agreed that he would return the money directly to my co-investors. I took the two bundles back to CY’s place, put them in my traveling bag along with few of my belongings, and started my journey to Sierra Leone.
The decision to leave Liberia, though rushed, happened to be one of the best I had ever made. As I headed out of Monrovia, the city was in a mad frenzy. People were evacuating as the news spread that the rebels were already in town. As it grew, the rebel incursion had established a name for their group: the National Patriotic Front of Liberia, commonly called Freedom Fighters, with Charles Taylor as commander in chief and Prince Yomi Johnson as battlefront commander. Prince Johnson was a former army general in the armed forces of Liberia. He had been implicated in a 1985 coup attempt and had fled the country.
I took a taxi from Monrovia to Bo Waterside, and this time I had no problem going through Liberian and Sierra Leone immigrations. I spent some time chatting with the young immigration officer who helped me the last time. She was pleased to see me again. I had planned to catch a taxi from the Sierra Leone side of the border to Kenema, but there was no transportation that day. I suspected it had to do with the rumors that the war in Liberia had spread toward the border of Liberia and Sierra Leone.
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Please do not hold back..let me have you criticism..anyone can write but it takes a special someone be a critic .
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Lol @ 'three nights in custody' policy. O ye of really strong faith.
Okay so you were in Liberia for less than a year? I guess this marks the end of the Liberia phase, on to the next one. Following....

If i might ask

jake does your Memoir have a focus, theme, a lesson, a particular lesson?

Is the moral ' don't quit, keep trying' or something like that


Repo no need to hide it
i am slightly jealous of u guys
but am ok with it
see how tenderly he treats u
imagine having such an experenced, strong warrior, a man of strong faith as a lover.

thanks once again for giving it to Diefa

Dont cheat urselfs
like jake said dont waste words. Do d action!

Haha, really funny, but while you are doing your matchmaking remember I'm married. .