LIBERIA MYTURN

18 Comments for “Stories”

• Ramiro Lajoie says:

  November 30, 2012 at 5:17 AM

  SEOPledge, the internet marketing wing of Canrock Ventures, is interested in online sites interested in improving their organic traffic. We specialize in traffic generation with the use of SEO, SEM, and social media. Come message us at our contact page on our web site.

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• Ms. Kennedy says:

  September 12, 2012 at 1:17 PM

  In Liberian English—-Your talkit o—-

  your cant stop now—let the world know what happened in Liberia–and eventhough I cant publish my story today, I CRIED WITH YOUR. Im also left with hope—that oneday I will be able to tell my story without tears. Whomever is responsible for this startup–its has truly been therapeutic to me. Thank you!!!

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• Zeapoe Matalda says:

  August 8, 2012 at 7:31 PM

  This is sooo impressive and I am proud that my cousins Tuatoe, and probably Kopor Daynuah had a hand in creating this. This is soooooo coool and so real and for those people who are using this site as it should be used, you are truly making an impact- especially for those of us who were born in the U.S. and only know our parents’ stories and the history of Liberia, its good to hear other peoples stories they are sooo touching. I would just like to say that those who have found the courage to tell their stories should be very proud of themselves, and to those who have not that it is okay because some words and stories are to hard to say or tell– but it does help to speak. This website is a wonderful accomplishment for young Liberians living here in the U.S.- because giving people the opportunity to tell their story is an immeasurable gift.

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• Patricia Jabbeh Wesley says:

  May 18, 2012 at 3:55 PM

  You are a very talented writer. I love this.
  Patricia Jabbeh Wesley

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• Best Online Radio says:

  March 21, 2012 at 4:48 PM

  You could certainly see your enthusiasm within the paintings you write. The sector hopes for more passionate writers such as you who aren’t afraid to say how they believe. Always follow your heart.

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• omari jackson says:

  December 15, 2011 at 6:42 PM

  WHEN I AM GONE
  By Omari Jackson
  “What are you doing now?” The question did not come as a surprise to me, for the authorities in Ghana had made their position clear: all Liberian refugees must be out of the country by a certain date. The date was what I could not accept since I felt that I also belonged here.

  “Tom, Tom,” my shrill voice echoed, and I felt my own voice coming, from, as if it was from a distance, “there is the likelihood that we’ve no choice as refugees…” my voice trailed off, and to be exact, my voice failed me.

  I had lived at Buduburam for the last eighteen years, and hence I could argue that I was almost a citizen, or to put it mildly, I was a resident, who deserved the comfort and treatment like the locals.

  But then in Africa, this poor continent that many of us preferred to describe as, “a continent with all the natural resources untapped,” unless one was prepared to suffer downright human indignity, there was no need to insist that there was any right needed to enjoy.

  “What then are you preparing to do?” Tom’s persistent question probed my conscience and it was clear that I had to make up my mind to either leave Ghana before the deadline ended.Mind you, I had lived here for many more years, a situation I found myself informing my friend, Tom.

  “Tom, just in case they send me home by force,” I continued in my attempt to make some sense to my friend, “will you look after my interest in Ghana?” I had acquired some properties that I was not prepared to let them be trampled on by some future users of the Camp.

  “Let me see,” my friend said, his two hands outspread before me, “you have two houses, one near Area B, and the other near Area G, right?”
  “Yes and…”

  “I know about him, your son,” Tom interrupted me, and revealed my third property in Ghana. See, I had managed to build myself two mud houses and had born a child with a Ghanaian lady.

  My son, Kwame, named because he was born on Saturday, was to honor my wife; since she insisted that in the Ghanaian tradition, names march the days children are born.

  “Oh my son, Kwame…” my voice choked, wondering if I would leave him here in Ghana, or take him with me. He was now twelve years old. My friend looked at me for several seconds before I sensed that he was reading my thoughts.

  “Let me answer your question,” Tom, after lifting his right hand to hold my shoulder, said, “I will make sure that nothing of yours get destroyed, when you’re gone.”
  A faint smile came on my face as I nodded in agreement.

  Tom fumbled something in his breast pocket. Then his face registered what I considered as anguish, for he was a Ghanaian through his father and a Liberian through his mother.

  Now since he spoke the Fanti dialect so well, there could be no argument that he was not part of those of us who had been threatened by the Hon. Kwamena Bartels, Minister of Interior, to leave this land, formerly known as Gold Coast.

  “Will Gina go with you?” Tom wanted to know.
  “Well, with the news that Ghanaians in Liberia may not be happy about the situation, I don’t think she will be glad to go with me.”

  “But aren’t you taking her with you as your wife?”
  “We discussed it last night but she would not accept the fact that she would be fine, in Monrovia.”
  “Then you’ve a problem,” he said.

  “I sure do, but anyway I must return to Liberia and for good this time.”
  The early morning sun swept across Buduburam, and there were many Liberians, looking like zombies, for the decision by the Ghana Government had destroyed their spirits, since they had not expected the result of the peaceful-demonstration to turn out to be like this.
  “Heh, Sam, you going too?”

  I did not want to answer Janet, a neighbor, whose husband died the second day of the demonstration, leaving her with five children, the youngest three years old. The late Samson was a friend, and I felt I could not turn my back on his wife, since he was gone.
  “Yes, I am.”

  Several children raced after each other, and once in a while vehicles using the Awutu-Breku highway would toot their horns.

  I mentioned earlier I would be returning to Monrovia for good, yes, I had been going back and forth; doing what I thought was business. I would buy some “Fanti Lappa” and take it to Liberia and after selling them, or rather after crediting them, I would return empty handed to Ghana.

  I thought I was doing a fine business, till I did not have any more money to continue with it. The last time I went to Liberia, most of those I credited with the goods had woeful stories to tell me.
  That taught me how to do business, in the future.

  I wanted to sell my two houses at the Camp, and leave, but no one wanted to buy them. And since I did not have a registration card as a refugee, I was afraid that I could be arrested, and sent home against my will.

  Trying to avoid any humiliation, I decided to get my things ready, and whether I got any money or not, find my way out of Buduburam in particular, and Ghana in general for good.
  My heart ached inside me as I thought about the fortunes of Africa.

  When oh, when, would we understand that Africa is for all Africans? By now, I could not hold back my tears. My eyes misted with them, and the thought of leaving Ghana came back to haunt me. Another difficulty I thought of was the sense of hopelessness I had witnessed in Liberia during my failed business trips.

  There were former colleagues who were still struggling to find any kind of job, to be able to earn a living; and there were still others who seemed to have given up any hope that the future for Liberia could be bubbling with gold and honey.

  I then reminded myself that Liberia was no Israel, and the promise for a better future was by men and not by God. With such a forecast, I knew I had to return, even if it was on the orders of Hon. Kwamena Bartels, or someone else.

  “I am going, Tom,” my own voice surprised me. “One day, I’ll be back.” With that statement, I was reminded of what the former Liberian president, Charles Taylor said, the day he decided to go into exile.

  A frown on my face registered my disappointment and I wanted to take my words back. My fear was that since Taylor did not have the freedom to return to Liberia, I might not have the chance to return to Ghana.

  “I’m going home by Kwamena Bartel’s order, I am.”
  That was all I could say, though it was in the morning, I fell into a deep slumber, and in a dream I arrived in Monrovia to be received by some family members and friends.

  “Welcome Home, welcome home,” they said, as if in a chorus.
  Though I was no Martin Luther King Jr, I heard myself shout: “Free at last, free at last, thank God I’m free at last,” but then something jerked on my side, and I heard my friend Tom, asking, “what freedom are you talking about, here in Ghana?”

  “Oh,” I stuttered sheepishly, “So I was dreaming?”
  “Yes,” my friend Tom added, as a consolation, “and you spoke about freedom.”
  “Well,” I said, “I shall return someday.”

  Though I had the hope that God could make any unfortunate situation fortunate, I could not overcome the sense of let down, as a result of the perennial silence from the Monrovia Government, the United Nations and Liberian embassy staff in Accra.

  The consequent agony I had seen, since our women decided to do something about the disappointing situation we have had, brought it home to me that we were just alone in the battle. Suddenly bitterness mixed in my mouth.

  It was then that in my mind’s eye, I could hear a Liberian musician, I could not remember which of them, his lyric drumming in my ears, “Tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home.”

  “Yes, I’m thinking about tomorrow, when I am gone,” I said.

  THE END

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  • omari jackson says:

    December 15, 2011 at 6:57 PM

    Pages in Liberian literture/history

    Beginning Of The End

    By Omari Jackson

    It was evidently the beginning of the end.
    Thousands of Liberians were trapped in Monrovia. Insecurity was prevalent and the government of Amos Sawyer was only ruling the city and apparently extremely nervous. Liberia was under siege.

    Rebels of the National Patriotic Front occupied the rest of the country, minus Monrovia. The breakaway Independent National Patriotic Front, under Field Marshal Prince Johnson, occupied Bushrod Island as King, though he claimed that the “gun that liberates shall not rule.”

    　　Unknown to the thousands in the city, hellfire was coming.　
    　　Since the rebels were not ready to let peace a chance, they, too would not have peace. It was possible that the NPFL leader, Charles Ghankay Taylor, did not know this.

    And if he knew, he might have been drunk with the preeminence of power and never for once considered that a child, who would not let his mother sleep, would also not sleep.

    So whether Ghankay and the entire NPFL leadership had reached the end of the Rubicon or not, they were recklessly prepared to cross whatever was at stake.

    Therefore, over the airwaves of the stolen FM-89.9 radio station, Mr. Taylor was triumphant in declaring the final count-down to hell:

    　　 “I’m ordering my forces to invade the city and kill all my enemies,” the voice of the president of the NPRAG, Charles Ghankay Taylor, was commanding and strong. Thousands of his teenage rebels, including the young and fragile Under-15 years Small Boy Unit, SBU were ready and anxious.

    The Papay, as Taylor was affectionately referred to, was speaking and announcing the final determination of the existence of the national capital, Monrovia.

    His enemies were hiding behind the peacekeepers and they had to be overwhelmed by the patriotic power. “We’ve never have the occasion to destroy the enemies and we must march on to Monrovia and remove them now and forever. Oh, you are heroes of the revolution!” Ghankay was just like that.

    Whenever he wanted “people’s” children to march on the battle field to sacrifice their lives, he would refer to them as “heroes” of the revolution. This would energize the children. Like some unseen spirit, the soldiers would march on and sadly, many would never return alive. So they moved on, gallantly, at the declaration of the father behind the civil-war.

    　　The infamous Operation Octopus was underway.

    　　The patriotic forces could not wait to hear the final conclusion of their leader. They had heard enough. Monrovia had to be captured and there was no more time to waste. The final assault was against a city brimming and bursting at its seams with thousands of Liberians and other residents.

    The time was October 15, 1992. The rebels, who had been successful in their march across the country, were bogged down in Monrovia. The target, the Executive Mansion, the seat of the government was heavily guarded by the remnants of the Armed Forces of Liberia. It was the soldiers’ last stronghold.

    Barricaded behind a human mass were those the late President Samuel Kanyon Doe left behind. Sammy lived in a dreamland. His forces had failed to halt the advances of the rebels and could only offer some stiff resistance to deny them any chance of capturing the city.

    On the eastern section of the city was the presence of the Independent National Patriotic Front of Liberia, under General Prince Johnson. The rebels were closing in. Despondency and lack of faith had unsettled the president and the entire city nervously waited for the impending doom that lurked on the horizon.

    The soldiers however had been fighting for their lives. Their effective tactics held the patriotic forces at bay, a stone throw from the seat of the embattled government. The rebels were more desperate now.

    　 The whole country was under the occupation of the patriotic forces beside the city where the “enemies” Ghankay said were running the show. It was unfair, the leadership of the NPRAG felt, to be denied the right to run the affairs of the nation from the capital.

    It was true that a government could be run from any part of the nation, the evidence suggested that with the capital out of his hands and control of his forces, the international community was not prepared to recognize the administration of a government running from the center of the nation. What was more; those who were running the show from the capital were part and parcel of the entire process to remove the fallen president and his government.

    So the NPRAG leadership was unhappy that their colleagues would rush to The Gambia to discuss the establishment of a new government, when already the country was under the control of the patriotic forces.

    　　And that was exactly what they did, and Sawyer was selected president, against Ghankay’s protests and tears over the selection. It was clear that Sawyer and the others were determined to deny him the trophy that he felt he deserved.

    He had taken on the might of the government of Liberia, an army that had received the full military and financial support of the American government. In six months, his forces, described as rag-tag had routed the national army, and at the last counting he was holding on to almost ninety percent of the Liberia’s land mass.

    Why then could he not be selected as the interim leader till future elections? He reasoned that it was a conspiracy to deny him what he had sacrificed for.

    　　　　 “We’ve come to a stage in our country’s existence where we’ve to take things heads on,” anger rose in his voice, showing his un-preparedness to accept any participation of the interim government with the “rats” in Monrovia.

    “I’m asking the gallant forces to march through the streets of Monrovia and chase the enemies into the Atlantic Ocean.” The message was sinking in. The various commando units and their commanders were already marching for the final battle. They had heard the directive from their portable radios, provided by the president of the revolution.

    　”There is a conspiracy against our efforts and such deceit, to connive with foreign powers to deny our people the freedom to live in peace is not only treasonable but demands instant execution of all those who are part of it.”

    Ghankay was not known to be a man who would negotiate when there was a chance of using military force to get his objectives accomplished. He was a man of blood. He was therefore determined to inspire his boys on to what he saw as the final countdown for the very existence of the national patriotic movement and Liberia.

    　What gave Ghankay the confidence of success was that a week before he received a huge consignment of military hardware from various sources, despite the sanctions imposed by the United Nations Security Council.

    The Council didn’t do a good job since it did not control the various sources on the open market where anyone could go, once there was money; to purchase any kind and all kinds of military materiel for any adventure. So under various names, the national patriotic forces were re-armed with fresh consignment of AK-47 assault rifles; American-made M16 and their cousins of war.

    　Despite his confidence, Ghankay was unhappy since the “rogues and the rats” in Monrovia were enjoying the security of the West African Peace Monitoring Group, Ecomog, and therefore they were making big talk in the city.

    He was also dissatisfied with the role the breakaway faction, INPFL, of renegade commander Prince Johnson had done to the movement. Johnson’s trick and murder of the late president did not resolve the war. If the war had to end then Ghankay should be named the interim president. Anything sort of that meant the continuation of the war.

    　　Total war, indeed!
    　　At worst, he was convinced that the possible death of Johnson could clear the way for an unchallenged and triumphant entry into the capital. How he had wished that day would come! As a Baptist “minister” he had always rejoiced to read about the Biblical story of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem and he had always dreamed of such an entry.

    　　Ghankay wanted to hear thousands sing and dance, “Hosanna, Hosanna, happy is the one coming in the name of Liberians.”

    　　Though he had some premonition that his desire to be welcomed into Monrovia as the leader of men from the highways of Gbarnga would suffer, he was however convinced that it was possible, at a high cost of lives.

    He had become synonymous with war and destruction and suffering. In Monrovia proper, the mentioned of Charles Taylor meant nothing but war and suffering and anger to some, and to joy to others. However there were many who believed that Taylor was fighting a war of liberation. Therefore, the war was continuing because he had been denied what he was deserved.

    Sadly, that feeling gained support from thousands in the embattled city. On his part, Ghankay was willing to let his forces overwhelm Monrovia with a mighty force to throw the city into confusion. He was determined to convince the populace that peace at any level would come on his terms.

    However, he could not be certain to trust the Nigerians in their involvement in the Liberian situation. He was not sure if he could trust the Nigerian-controlled Ecomog soldiers to abide by his directive to just stand aside and watch as his forces vanquish his enemies in the city, either.

    　　He distrusted the Nigerians in the entire peacekeeping arrangement. Didn’t they provide some forces to help the late president when he saw he was losing the war? How would they rejoin other nations to come back as peacekeepers? Though the president was dead, how could he trust the Nigerians? The Ghanaians he could trust but he was unsure if Nigeria had exercised some control over them.

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    • LIBWillRise says:

      December 25, 2011 at 10:42 PM

      This is a very interesting story, i wish lots of people would tell their story as well.

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• Lartink says:

  October 24, 2011 at 1:11 AM

  Niide work and it help to unite Liberia…
  GOD BLESS AND RESPECT

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• Marc Saint says:

  September 14, 2011 at 12:22 PM

  This is very interesting. There should be a book written with every Liberian telling their true stories. It helps to heal the pain regardless of tribal affiliation. We are all Liberians.

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• Henry Mulbah says:

  May 6, 2010 at 8:16 PM

  MY STORY; MY TURN

  My story is a mixture of here and there. Before one can understand an individual’s story, it is important to have a history of events that contributed to the creation of that story. I am a twenty-six year old Liberian male living in St. Cloud, MN. I am from Bong County, Liberia and Kpelle by tribe. I was born in Kakata, Margibi County. I have lived most of my life in Liberia, Ghana and the United States.

  Growing up knowing nothing but the sounds of different guns all begin in 1989 when ex-president Charles Taylor launched a military revolution against ex-president Samuel Doe’s government. I was just five years old then. Many people believe that president Doe was not treating every tribe fairly in his government. He was accused of corruption, killing innocent people, having more people from his tribe (Krahn) in the government and thus the other tribes were under represented. Therefore, some saw Charles Taylor as a liberator while others saw him as a problem. Many people believe that Taylor was supported by many international leaders. One of those leaders was Muammar Qaddafi of Libya (Pham, John-Peter. Liberia Portrait of a failed State, 2004). There are different perspectives about the cause of the civil war.

  The theological perspective believes that the war is a punishment from God for all the sins Liberians have committed against him. The political perspective believes that the war is a result of the Liberian government’s failure to meet legitimate demands of the Liberian people. Others believe that the war was an end product of the struggles for power (Adedeji, Adebayo, ed. Comprehending and mastering African conflicts, 1999). For whatever reason, the war has had a great effect on me personally.

  When the war started, I was living with my grandparents in Kakata. Both my father and mother were in the capital city of Monrovia, attending college. My parents and I got separated because there was no way they could come back to Kakata. My grandparents and the rest of the family fled Kakata to a village in the Margibi County, deep in the Gibi Mountain. We walked over three hundred miles. I walked by myself and when I was tired, my grandfather carried me on his shoulders. My cousins and I took turns being carried on our grandfather’s shoulders. When night came, we slept in the forest with other displaced people who were fleeing their homes. We ate roots and leaves from different plants, some of which we did not know.

  Upon arrival in a strange village, my grandfather, older cousins and uncles all went into the bush to cut some tree branches to build a mud house for us to live in. They built a four bedroom mud house for the family. Our family was over forty in number, so we had to manage the little space we had to live in. We did not stay in the house in the daytime for fear of being harassed by the rebels. If you were male captured by the rebels, they make you their worker; on the other hand women/girls. Therefore we would hide in the bushes during the day and come to sleep in the mud house at night. Families living in the village took turns keeping watch for the rebels at night. We were very scared at night and couldn’t sleep well because of this. When they alarmed us that the rebels were coming, everyone had to run and hide in the bushes.

  There was not enough food to feed on and the water we drank was not safe for drinking. No clothes, no shoes, no toys, no story books, nothing that a child my age would need was available to me when I growing up. We lived in the bush/village until my cousin’s father got ill and passed away in 1993. All this while, we did not know the whereabouts of my parents. In early 1994, one of my uncles finally located us after searching for us for more than a year. He informed us that he and my mother escaped to Ghana on a ship that came to take Ghanaians back to their country when the war started in 1989. He said that our uncle who lived in New York gave him some money to come and find us.

  We left shortly after his arrival in the village. We again begin another long walk from the village to (Ivory Coast) a country bordering Liberia; which is five hundred plus miles away. It took us weeks to get to the border but we eventually got there. My grandfather was sick and had to be carried on my uncle’s shoulder. I was only ten years old at the time. I had no schooling; nothing at all since the war broke out. We got on a bus from the Ivory Coast border to Ghana where I met my mother for the first time in five years. A month after our arrival in Ghana, my Grandfather passed away after a long illness. He was laid to rest at the Buduburam Refugee Camp cemetery in Ghana in 1994.

  Starting my life as a refugee in Ghana, was another big chapter in my life. I can admit that life in the Buduburam Refugee Camp was by far better than what I had known in the bushes. There was safe drinking water and food was sometimes provided by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). I remember getting so excited just to see the white UN trucks loaded with rice, beans, oil, sweet energy biscuits, milk powder and other high protein foods. Our uncle in New York would also send money consistently for the family to buy food and supplies.

  At the refugee came, I started school for the first time in 1994 at the age of ten. I was the oldest in my class because it is not common to see a ten year old in kindergarten. Though I was sometimes made fun of by some of the kids, I was determined to graduate from kindergarten by all means necessary. Once I had settled in school and made some new friends, I began living a normal life. Of course, there were challenges at the Refugee Camp as well. I could not understand the Ghanaian native language. My cousins and I had to sell goods to raise money and do other things to help the family, and we were forced to learn the native language to make profits.

  The story of little Handfull Saydee as told by her aunt Jarteh told of some of the tragic things that happened at the refugee camp. Handfull’s mother fled the civil war in Liberia while pregnant with her. Her mother and father got separated while escaping. Her mother died shortly after giving birth to her due to complications and the lack of good health facilities on the refugee camp. Handfull now lives in New York with her aunt, who is her legal guardian, in the United States (Heydarpour, Roja. “From the Ravages of War in West Africa, 5-Year-Old Orphan Starts Over With Aunt’s Help.” Lexisnexis.com 10 Jan. 2006.) Like little Handfull, I also lived on the refugee camp, until 1998 when my mother and I were fortunate enough to move back to Liberia.

  Life in Liberia had gotten a little better I guess. There were peace keepers from other countries and they had just had a presidential election that elected Charles Taylor as the Head of State. I finally got the opportunity to know my father and began to build a relationship with him. When I moved back to Liberia, I was in sixth grade. I started school in Monrovia and after a year, I asked my father to send me to a boarding school outside Monrovia. My friend and I had planned to attend the boarding school together the following school year in September 1999. My father worked for United States Agency for International Development (USAID) as a project director for Phelps Stores. He agreed to provide school fees so that I could go to the boarding school. Life was going well until 2000 when another bloody civil war was lunched against Charles Taylor’s reign by Liberia United for Reconciliation and Democracy; a rebel group that accused Taylor of being a dictator.

  That war left Liberians thinking they had no-where else to go, yet again. When the war was close to Monrovia, I came back home from school. In 2003, the war reached Monrovia and we had no other option but to flee again to Ghana. Upon arrival to Ghana in 2003, my father rented a house for our family and left for the United States to resettle there and later send for my siblings and I. I was able to complete my high school in Ghana and we joined our parents in the United States in 2004. Since my arrival in the United States, life is getting a little better as time goes by. I lived in Philadelphia for a year and moved to St. Cloud to continue my education.

  Even though I was not able to have a normal childhood due to the civil war in my country, I believe the war has helped to make me see life from outside the box. I, like many young Liberians in the United States, have come to the realization that war is not the answer to any problem. It only destroys things that took years of hard work to build. Sometimes people wonder why I am twenty-six and still in college. I don’t blame anyone for what I have gone through and all I can say is, “It’s part of my story.” Although I was forced to flee my country, I had the opportunity to learn about cultures of other countries; that alone is a great learning experience. I also made a lot of good friends while living in Ghana. Some of these friends have had a big impact on my life and we will be life long friends. I have met people from almost all parts of the world. Moving to the United States has been a life changing experience for me.

  I try not to just concentrate on the negatives of the war because it is going to make me blame others for my situation. I believe I am still young and have the potential to reach my peak in life. Whatever that peak is, I don’t know but God knows. I would love to go back to Liberia to help those who are less fortunate. Liberia now is not as it used to be before the war ,but if we the youth of Liberia can try to get some education while we live here, we can make a big difference in the lives of many Liberians back home. It’s my story and it’s my turn to make an impact.

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  • Raisa says:

    July 14, 2010 at 4:40 AM

    You’re already making an impact dear, just sharing ur touching story with some1 is enough to make them know that they’re not alone; even I don’t have the courage to do so.Thx

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  • jhnyna says:

    October 5, 2010 at 1:13 PM

    I’ll thank you for give me a chance to know about your life,you’ve been through a lot my friend,if you dont know that let me tell you this.You are a strong person…..my fiance its from monrovia liberia,i never as him what happen or how he get here to the u.s..but by going online and learn about this country of yours is painful..i leand something today…thanks you and keep doing what you doing.and may GOD blessed you

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• Kpaytuo says:

  April 24, 2010 at 4:40 PM

  RossWorld, wow i’m impressed with the Liberians slang. I know where to direct everyone that want to speak “Liberian”

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• RossWorld says:

  April 24, 2010 at 7:33 AM

  In front of the Scene with Peterlyn Tarley

  Just came across the story with Peterlyn Tarley and it makes me sick. Sick not because of what on the video, but sick of how some Liberians make all Liberians looks backward.

  Why do we give interest to something that is non productive to our growth. Why can’t we talk about the economic, unemployment, deplorable health care, corruptions and the break down in our educational system.

  It’s time we move on. There are porn stars living in Hollywood, making a living out of it, pay taxes and are respectable people.

  She had a sexual intercourse with her boyfriend, some thing most of you do with pleasure. What makes it bad? Oh!! because it came to light. Well, be reminded it will all come to light one day. The shame that you will face will be worst than what she is facing, because it’s an everlasting shame.

  If you feel so strong against this act, get our government to enforce that video clubs stop screening rated X movies to our 10 and 12 years old. Liberians, there is some thing call PG “Parental Guidance” is advice. How many of you follow those warnings?

  Ok!! now you frown on a girl having a sexual intercourse with her boyfriend. Shame on you, because you allow your kids to see it every day, why not this one.

  Liberians, let’s move on….there are better and bigger things that deserves our attention.

  I’m proud to be a Liberian

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• RossWorld says:

  April 24, 2010 at 7:28 AM

  Liberian By Attitude

  We so kool, dat we make up things dat u find no where else besides Liberia….check this out:

  Cracky means Crack Head.

  ‘It waste’ means plentiful.

  ‘Bya’, that should spell ‘pal’ means friend.

  ‘Sweet’, Ex.. ‘ah sweet for you’ mean… (this one hard to explain) you deserve bad.

  ‘Soak’ is not to get wet…but to get a flog. While ‘wet’ is not to be soak, but to be drunk.

  When the word ‘play’ is use back to back (play play) it means children acting out as adults…Ex.’Let do play play, play’.

  The expression, ‘I want eat something’….doesn’t implies the person is hungry for food.

  Things are named by the sound they make..Ex. Slipper is called ‘pap pap’, a motorcycle is call ‘pang pang’ because of the sound it makes when honking.

  ‘Government’s bone’ doesn’t mean a bone own by government, but something own by no one.

  To ‘eat iron’ means the person is strong.

  ..Funny, rite..dat’s what make us unique. I’m proud to be a Liberian.

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  • Princess Dorley says:

    April 25, 2011 at 12:04 AM

    I love how you broke it down mahh, we are so unique its amazing

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• Kpaytuo says:

  April 10, 2010 at 3:14 PM

  True story,
  It was late December or early January 1990, in Monrovia Liberia. It was a beautiful day; the weather was in God’s control that very day. Liberia, the country used to be called “little America” was on the edge of collapse. The city has come to a halt; the city was so quiet you could hear the breeze from the Atlantic Ocean from miles away. We were in a multi-story white building. This was a safe haven for many Liberians. The house was filled to every square inch with people from all parts of Liberia. My mother and I were in separate rooms, this was a common practice since every occupant in a room will be annihilated when they are discovered.

  I can’t recalled what time it was, but it was in the morning and we were awaken by AK47. AK47 became a household name and card games were created after the gun. We were ordered by men in uniforms to come out and stand in lines outside the building. Women and children were put in straight lines with pushing and kicking. If anyone broke the line or try running away they were silenced by a single bullet to the head. I do not know what hell looks like, but this was hell on earth.

  When the lines were formed the soldiers went from line to line asking questions in their native language. If you could not respond back in their native language you were put in the shooting line. I was 6years old, I could not speak the language neither could my mother. What happened next changed my life!!!Everything in this narrative is factual to the best of my knowledge.

  Liberia developed such a cruel tactics to slaughters their countrymen and women without remorse in a short period of time. This method of distinction was eminent in most of Liberia that saw the war. I do not recall my mother standing next to me in the line; neither do I remember her in any of the lines at all. I felt like I was dreaming this day, the soldiers went from persons to persons asking particular questions you would know if you were from their tribe. As we stood motionless in the lines, people were been pulled away one at a time crying and begging for help. There was nothing you could do at this point.

  When the lines were cleared of “enemies” we were free to go. Just like a school of fish, I followed the mass not knowing where my mother was. We walked through the hot sun on the pave road to an intersection. When we came to the “Y” intersection, there was road leading to the right and one leading to the left. As we were about to go left, we saw a man running from that direction with an amputated right arm. His arm was amputated from the shoulder.He was bleeding profusely, the sign was cleared we needed to go right and we did. The road took us through shrubs and we eventually reach to our camp for the night.

  We literally slept on dirt until the next morning. Our camp for the night was a large beach that had white beautiful buildings with palm trees on the edges of the beach. The beach was calm with relatively no disturbance from any intruder. It was a paradise for a day, for thousands of people seeking refuge. I reunited with my mother at this beach and our journey from Monrovia to Nimba County started here.

  Stay tune for more actions to come, it is just beginning; remember I have never talked to my mother or anyone about this, what happen next you can’t miss.

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