Final Project
This was the culminating project for our studies of Africa. I decided to write a story about the future of Liberian culture. Liberia, as you may or may not know, was a tract of land purchased by the U.S. government to return freed slaves to. Because the freed slaves brought American culture back with them, the culture of Liberia is very different.
Before I even started writing, I did extensive research on current African and Liberian affairs, current and past artistic culture from Liberia - music, street art and folktales, as well as many predictions for the future of technology in West Africa. I also Read Blue Clay People by William Powers, an account about aid work/organizations in Liberia.
There are 7 characters, each portraying an aspect of Liberian culture - music, technology, foreign aid, art, religion, ideals and politics.
The stories take place somewhat simultaneously. The characters will eventually meet one another. What is included here are the introductions to each character.
Before I even started writing, I did extensive research on current African and Liberian affairs, current and past artistic culture from Liberia - music, street art and folktales, as well as many predictions for the future of technology in West Africa. I also Read Blue Clay People by William Powers, an account about aid work/organizations in Liberia.
There are 7 characters, each portraying an aspect of Liberian culture - music, technology, foreign aid, art, religion, ideals and politics.
The stories take place somewhat simultaneously. The characters will eventually meet one another. What is included here are the introductions to each character.
1. Obang
*plunk*
*plunk*
The tiny, tuneless piano toppled off Obang’s knees with a small discordant crash. The cat on his shoulders jumped and dug its claws in.
“Stop,” he whispered, although not loudly or convincingly. The cat’s claws hurt, but the pain anchored him to what was real and what wasn’t.
The smell of aerosol spray paint and rubber cement wafted down the hallway. The smell burned his nose. The cat hissed softly as a dog padded by. Loud, loud voices wafted with the toxic smells, mixing and mixing and confusing him.
Obang was suddenly aware he was sitting in a cupboard. He wondered vaguely how long he’d been plunking away at the tiny piano. He couldn’t see any daylight. That was strange. It had been mid-morning when he found the piano.
We Africans we must do something about this nonsense
We say we must do something about this nonsense
I repeat, we Africans we must do something about this nonsense
It was happening again. Obang picked up the piano and resumed the tuneless plunking, anything to distract him from the lyrics unfolding in his mind. Over and over they played, lyrics of the songs he’d loved so much. The music and messages of the great Fela Kuti, that he’d heard once upon a time when everything was better. The music of legendary Sun Ra, heard across the ocean from the distant America, that pulled him up and out of disaster. They reminded him that he did once have a purpose.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. He was here in his cupboard, with a foggy vision for the future, a wagon full of instruments and a cat around his shoulders.
“You could be like them, you know,” the cat said. “You could have your name down in the history books with Fela and Sun Ra.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” Obang muttered back, the wafting toxins making his head spin a little. “I have nothing important to say and I’m in a cupboard.”
“Get out of the cupboard,” the cat hissed in his ear. “You have hope and a vision for a better future. Get out of the cupboard, get out of the cupboard.”
So he did, but only to escape the insinuating voice of his stupid, stupid cat.
*plunk*
The tiny, tuneless piano toppled off Obang’s knees with a small discordant crash. The cat on his shoulders jumped and dug its claws in.
“Stop,” he whispered, although not loudly or convincingly. The cat’s claws hurt, but the pain anchored him to what was real and what wasn’t.
The smell of aerosol spray paint and rubber cement wafted down the hallway. The smell burned his nose. The cat hissed softly as a dog padded by. Loud, loud voices wafted with the toxic smells, mixing and mixing and confusing him.
Obang was suddenly aware he was sitting in a cupboard. He wondered vaguely how long he’d been plunking away at the tiny piano. He couldn’t see any daylight. That was strange. It had been mid-morning when he found the piano.
We Africans we must do something about this nonsense
We say we must do something about this nonsense
I repeat, we Africans we must do something about this nonsense
It was happening again. Obang picked up the piano and resumed the tuneless plunking, anything to distract him from the lyrics unfolding in his mind. Over and over they played, lyrics of the songs he’d loved so much. The music and messages of the great Fela Kuti, that he’d heard once upon a time when everything was better. The music of legendary Sun Ra, heard across the ocean from the distant America, that pulled him up and out of disaster. They reminded him that he did once have a purpose.
It didn’t matter anymore, though. He was here in his cupboard, with a foggy vision for the future, a wagon full of instruments and a cat around his shoulders.
“You could be like them, you know,” the cat said. “You could have your name down in the history books with Fela and Sun Ra.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” Obang muttered back, the wafting toxins making his head spin a little. “I have nothing important to say and I’m in a cupboard.”
“Get out of the cupboard,” the cat hissed in his ear. “You have hope and a vision for a better future. Get out of the cupboard, get out of the cupboard.”
So he did, but only to escape the insinuating voice of his stupid, stupid cat.
2. Achok
This was a problem. Achok surveyed the trail of blood. His foot didn’t even hurt, but he supposed that was because he hadn’t been thinking about it. He’d probably stepped on a piece of glass. Hopefully it hadn’t been infected with anything.
His hands, filled with circuit boards and wires collected from the beach, shook slightly. He wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten anything. The days had blurred together, like they normally did when he was working hard. He did normally remember to eat, though. This was worrying.
He bandaged his foot and groped in the refrigerator for something to eat. His roommate snored softly, three paces away. The apartment was small, made even smaller by the gargantuan pile of monitors, wires and hard drives that ended at the ceiling. It didn’t look too impressive, he knew that much, but he also knew that it was almost finished, and that was what mattered.
Soon, the hulking mass of discarded technology would be the cause of a new era in Liberia. And Achok was going to lead it. He felt a tiny worm of excitement any time he thought about it, even though he was ordinarily very strict with the emotions he allowed himself.
It would be an elegant end to the government, Achok had been sure to plan that. The irony made it even more elegant— the government defeated, overthrown by its own refuse.
Smirking slightly, Achok worked to connect his new treasure to the supercomputer. His foot throbbed, but he ignored it. Soon. Soon, his work would be finished. Then he could pay attention to himself. He was doing this work for the good of the nation.
Very, very soon.
His hands, filled with circuit boards and wires collected from the beach, shook slightly. He wondered how long it had been since he’d eaten anything. The days had blurred together, like they normally did when he was working hard. He did normally remember to eat, though. This was worrying.
He bandaged his foot and groped in the refrigerator for something to eat. His roommate snored softly, three paces away. The apartment was small, made even smaller by the gargantuan pile of monitors, wires and hard drives that ended at the ceiling. It didn’t look too impressive, he knew that much, but he also knew that it was almost finished, and that was what mattered.
Soon, the hulking mass of discarded technology would be the cause of a new era in Liberia. And Achok was going to lead it. He felt a tiny worm of excitement any time he thought about it, even though he was ordinarily very strict with the emotions he allowed himself.
It would be an elegant end to the government, Achok had been sure to plan that. The irony made it even more elegant— the government defeated, overthrown by its own refuse.
Smirking slightly, Achok worked to connect his new treasure to the supercomputer. His foot throbbed, but he ignored it. Soon. Soon, his work would be finished. Then he could pay attention to himself. He was doing this work for the good of the nation.
Very, very soon.
3. Nessa
Africa! The mother continent, opening her arms back up to welcome her home. Impatient, Nessa looked out the plane window at the tarmac, bouncing her knees up and down. The sun glared off the black pavement, reflecting into her eyes.
Getting off the plane was easy; she was one of only ten people on the tiny jet. The air was suffocatingly hot, and she gasped for breath. Why had she worn pants?
Clearly this was not tourist season. Customs officers stood around, talking in English and French, quieting when Nessa walked by.
When she emerged on the main street outside, the heat and noise hit her like a train. That, and the smell. She knew she was a sucker for romanticizing things, but the street really did smell like corruption and desperation. Maybe those emotions took the guise of rotting meat and garbage, but Nessa could feel them pressing down on her.
People lined the streets, some with cups, baskets or pails in front of them, hoping for a tossed coin from the people that passed. The city reminded her of a forest, skyscrapers beating out the smaller buildings for sunlight, and success. The taller buildings gleamed with the sunlight and oozed with the money of foreigners. The smaller buildings, like the small plants, were dark, old, and slightly dead. Smells of cooking wafted from one or two, and faces peered out the windows at Nessa as she walked by.
She knew skin color wasn’t as significant of of an issue as it once had been, or at least not in the US, but she still felt the eyes of everyone she passed watching her. Watching the white American girl, wondering what she was doing here.
“I’m here to help you,” Nessa wanted to say. “I’m here to help you move up in the world. I’m here to get you out of these houses and into those skyscrapers so you can rebuild your city.”
That was the reason she’d come. She didn’t have any idea what she wanted to do with her life, and everyone suggested going abroad, so she had. She was here in Liberia for the next year, or possibly two.
She was here to change the corrupted city, the country, the continent, maybe even the world. She was optimistic, she wanted to succeed, and she was significant.
Getting off the plane was easy; she was one of only ten people on the tiny jet. The air was suffocatingly hot, and she gasped for breath. Why had she worn pants?
Clearly this was not tourist season. Customs officers stood around, talking in English and French, quieting when Nessa walked by.
When she emerged on the main street outside, the heat and noise hit her like a train. That, and the smell. She knew she was a sucker for romanticizing things, but the street really did smell like corruption and desperation. Maybe those emotions took the guise of rotting meat and garbage, but Nessa could feel them pressing down on her.
People lined the streets, some with cups, baskets or pails in front of them, hoping for a tossed coin from the people that passed. The city reminded her of a forest, skyscrapers beating out the smaller buildings for sunlight, and success. The taller buildings gleamed with the sunlight and oozed with the money of foreigners. The smaller buildings, like the small plants, were dark, old, and slightly dead. Smells of cooking wafted from one or two, and faces peered out the windows at Nessa as she walked by.
She knew skin color wasn’t as significant of of an issue as it once had been, or at least not in the US, but she still felt the eyes of everyone she passed watching her. Watching the white American girl, wondering what she was doing here.
“I’m here to help you,” Nessa wanted to say. “I’m here to help you move up in the world. I’m here to get you out of these houses and into those skyscrapers so you can rebuild your city.”
That was the reason she’d come. She didn’t have any idea what she wanted to do with her life, and everyone suggested going abroad, so she had. She was here in Liberia for the next year, or possibly two.
She was here to change the corrupted city, the country, the continent, maybe even the world. She was optimistic, she wanted to succeed, and she was significant.
4. Kaga
What was that?! Like a cartoon, the bag of paint dropped from Kaga’s arms and he raced to the wall. Industrial paint covered the entirety of it, freshly dried.
After all that work, too. Kaga sighed and went to pick up his bag. Time to find a new wall. Maybe somewhere where it couldn’t be found so easily.
Finding a place to paint was an art in and of itself. The optimum wall would be seen by lots of people every day, but hidden enough so that law enforcers wouldn’t be able to find it and paint over it. Unfortunately, the optimum walls were being used up by other artists. Kaga still hadn’t finished a work he was proud of, and he hadn’t found a good place to paint yet either. He seemed to be having awful luck with the law.
Walking out of the alley, a splash of red caught his eye. A painting, right on the main street of the city. That was novel. Kaga peered closely at it. It was small but detailed. It had probably been done in only a half hour.
The painting showed a silhouette of a little girl, standing with hands outstretched, grabbing at balloons. Her silhouette was broken up by an angry red slash, giving the painting a feeling of desperation. The image wasn’t signed: surprising, given the territorial nature of the city’s street artists.
But really. This was art. This was amazing. What Kaga wouldn’t give to be able to paint like that. What he wouldn’t give to meet this artist.
As he walked on, the painting made him seriously consider his previous artistic choices. Maybe he didn’t have to spend his time working on murals that took up an entire wall. Maybe he could paint smaller versions of his works, images that would be faster to create and that would be seen by more people. Maybe his paintings didn’t have to be huge for him to feel proud of them.
It would be hard to condense his messages into smaller pictures, but Kaga was up to the challenge. The time spent in art school had to have been good for something.
The cans of spray paint in his backpack clinked together as he disappeared down another alleyway. He needed to draw something.
After all that work, too. Kaga sighed and went to pick up his bag. Time to find a new wall. Maybe somewhere where it couldn’t be found so easily.
Finding a place to paint was an art in and of itself. The optimum wall would be seen by lots of people every day, but hidden enough so that law enforcers wouldn’t be able to find it and paint over it. Unfortunately, the optimum walls were being used up by other artists. Kaga still hadn’t finished a work he was proud of, and he hadn’t found a good place to paint yet either. He seemed to be having awful luck with the law.
Walking out of the alley, a splash of red caught his eye. A painting, right on the main street of the city. That was novel. Kaga peered closely at it. It was small but detailed. It had probably been done in only a half hour.
The painting showed a silhouette of a little girl, standing with hands outstretched, grabbing at balloons. Her silhouette was broken up by an angry red slash, giving the painting a feeling of desperation. The image wasn’t signed: surprising, given the territorial nature of the city’s street artists.
But really. This was art. This was amazing. What Kaga wouldn’t give to be able to paint like that. What he wouldn’t give to meet this artist.
As he walked on, the painting made him seriously consider his previous artistic choices. Maybe he didn’t have to spend his time working on murals that took up an entire wall. Maybe he could paint smaller versions of his works, images that would be faster to create and that would be seen by more people. Maybe his paintings didn’t have to be huge for him to feel proud of them.
It would be hard to condense his messages into smaller pictures, but Kaga was up to the challenge. The time spent in art school had to have been good for something.
The cans of spray paint in his backpack clinked together as he disappeared down another alleyway. He needed to draw something.
5. Agenga
“I have to go soon,” Agenga told his son. “But I promise I’ll be back soon, okay?”
His son shrugged and stuck a piece of chicken with a single chopstick. “How long?”
“Two weeks long.” Agenga handed him a fork and turned to his wife. “I thought we weren’t getting Chinese food any more.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can take your preaching to the four corners of the Earth, but the food is still cheap, and we’re still going to get it.”
“It’s disrespectful of our ancestors,” Agenga argued. “Their culture is being lost, falling through the cracks of time. It’s up to us to remember it.”
“And we can do that while we eat Chinese food.” His wife pushed him out the door. “Come back as soon as you can. We love you.” She shut the door.
Agenga started down the dirt path that would lead him to Monrovia. He looked back at his house, a ramshackle hovel built mostly out of sheet metal. Houses just like it lined the street. He sighed. He wished sometimes that he could move his family somewhere nicer. But his work was more important.
It was all true. His ancestors were from Nigeria and Senegal, and he worked to educate young people about the cultures of the past. It was getting harder and harder to engage them as time passed. All they seemed to care about now were singers from Europe and Asia, and food from everywhere else.
The old cultures and traditions of West Africa were being tossed in the gutter, and no one was paying them any mind whatsoever. When Agenga’s generation died, there would be no one who even recalled the old cultures, and no one to pass the knowledge on.
So he made these kinds of sacrifices. In order to save the old traditions, people would need to learn to ignore the cultures of other places. They would need to concentrate on educating themselves about their ancestors. Only then would the nation be at peace. All this foreign involvement was the cause of the current corruption, Agenga was sure of it. Africa as a whole had been perfectly fine without all the foreign aid, and now that the organizations were so deeply involved in every aspect of culture, Africans were becoming far too dependent on them.
If people could work for themselves, accept the old ways and beliefs, then Liberia would prosper. Just like Agenga. He was happy, and that’s all he needed.
He walked on and on down the dirt road, reflecting on the past, the present, and the future. Onward to Monrovia.
His son shrugged and stuck a piece of chicken with a single chopstick. “How long?”
“Two weeks long.” Agenga handed him a fork and turned to his wife. “I thought we weren’t getting Chinese food any more.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can take your preaching to the four corners of the Earth, but the food is still cheap, and we’re still going to get it.”
“It’s disrespectful of our ancestors,” Agenga argued. “Their culture is being lost, falling through the cracks of time. It’s up to us to remember it.”
“And we can do that while we eat Chinese food.” His wife pushed him out the door. “Come back as soon as you can. We love you.” She shut the door.
Agenga started down the dirt path that would lead him to Monrovia. He looked back at his house, a ramshackle hovel built mostly out of sheet metal. Houses just like it lined the street. He sighed. He wished sometimes that he could move his family somewhere nicer. But his work was more important.
It was all true. His ancestors were from Nigeria and Senegal, and he worked to educate young people about the cultures of the past. It was getting harder and harder to engage them as time passed. All they seemed to care about now were singers from Europe and Asia, and food from everywhere else.
The old cultures and traditions of West Africa were being tossed in the gutter, and no one was paying them any mind whatsoever. When Agenga’s generation died, there would be no one who even recalled the old cultures, and no one to pass the knowledge on.
So he made these kinds of sacrifices. In order to save the old traditions, people would need to learn to ignore the cultures of other places. They would need to concentrate on educating themselves about their ancestors. Only then would the nation be at peace. All this foreign involvement was the cause of the current corruption, Agenga was sure of it. Africa as a whole had been perfectly fine without all the foreign aid, and now that the organizations were so deeply involved in every aspect of culture, Africans were becoming far too dependent on them.
If people could work for themselves, accept the old ways and beliefs, then Liberia would prosper. Just like Agenga. He was happy, and that’s all he needed.
He walked on and on down the dirt road, reflecting on the past, the present, and the future. Onward to Monrovia.
6. Achur
“Achur Ojalakoro, the current president of Liberia, continues his silence in the capital. Several bombings in the city of Monrovia have led to discussions in the UN about the--
“Please turn that off.” The president of Liberia planted his face firmly into his hands.
“You need to realize some time that the world is waiting for you to do something,” his daughter sighed, but switched off the TV. “Just because you can forget about them, all holed up in this mansion, doesn’t mean they forget about you.”
“They should kick me out. I’m a terrible leader.”
“You were elected for some reason.” His daughter took up her school bag. “Maybe because the people believed you could make a difference?”
“But I can’t!” Achur wailed. “I’ve betrayed their trust because I can’t do anything! There are rules that stop me from doing anything worthwhile!”
“You’re the president, dad.” His daughter sighed, like she’d told him this fifty times before. “Change the rules. Goodbye, I’m going to school.”
Achur shook his head, and returned to the egg he’d been eating before the infernal newscast. Even his constant depression didn’t impact his appetite.
Sure, he’d been elected president because he’d made many compelling cases to take Liberia back from the hold of the companies, and the people had believed he could actually make a difference. But things had changed the very first day he’d stepped through the doors as president.The corporations held together the nation. Those companies, along with foreign aid organizations, were keeping the economy stabilized and the people fed. He hesitated to upset what he saw as an obviously delicate balance. And anyway, it would be impossible to change anything because of all the rules and regulations.
He died a little more inside every day, especially when he heard of the violence in the city. He wanted more than anything to return to his vibrant, visionary young self— to hell with the rules, Liberia was going to be free!
But no. In the three years since he’d been elected, Achur had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis into a timid old man who, some days, couldn’t even muster enough energy to get dressed. His hair was even turning grey.
He hoped some vibrant, visionary young upstart would come and overthrow him. Then maybe things could change.
“Please turn that off.” The president of Liberia planted his face firmly into his hands.
“You need to realize some time that the world is waiting for you to do something,” his daughter sighed, but switched off the TV. “Just because you can forget about them, all holed up in this mansion, doesn’t mean they forget about you.”
“They should kick me out. I’m a terrible leader.”
“You were elected for some reason.” His daughter took up her school bag. “Maybe because the people believed you could make a difference?”
“But I can’t!” Achur wailed. “I’ve betrayed their trust because I can’t do anything! There are rules that stop me from doing anything worthwhile!”
“You’re the president, dad.” His daughter sighed, like she’d told him this fifty times before. “Change the rules. Goodbye, I’m going to school.”
Achur shook his head, and returned to the egg he’d been eating before the infernal newscast. Even his constant depression didn’t impact his appetite.
Sure, he’d been elected president because he’d made many compelling cases to take Liberia back from the hold of the companies, and the people had believed he could actually make a difference. But things had changed the very first day he’d stepped through the doors as president.The corporations held together the nation. Those companies, along with foreign aid organizations, were keeping the economy stabilized and the people fed. He hesitated to upset what he saw as an obviously delicate balance. And anyway, it would be impossible to change anything because of all the rules and regulations.
He died a little more inside every day, especially when he heard of the violence in the city. He wanted more than anything to return to his vibrant, visionary young self— to hell with the rules, Liberia was going to be free!
But no. In the three years since he’d been elected, Achur had undergone a remarkable metamorphosis into a timid old man who, some days, couldn’t even muster enough energy to get dressed. His hair was even turning grey.
He hoped some vibrant, visionary young upstart would come and overthrow him. Then maybe things could change.
7. David
Everything was shaping up admirably well. A shipment of goods was expected within the next 48 hours, and he was caught up on his paperwork for the time being. Settling back in his special CEO chair, David Colbert surveyed his office. Yes, all was excellent. The African Aid Organization had grown considerably from its humble beginnings.
...What was he thinking? The AAO never had humble beginnings at all. After all, it had originated in his head, hadn’t it?
Now he was here, living in the penthouse of a skyscraper in the middle of an African city. He had a lovely family back in the United States, and a private jet that could bring him to them at any time he wanted.
David swiveled his chair around to look outside. The tinted glass of the window made the sky look dull, but he knew it was a cloudless blue, as always. The air conditioned office made him feel more than a little smug, as he looked down, down, down on the people sweltering on the street below.
His building was the tallest in Monrovia, and it shone the brightest at night. He imagined it was like a beacon of hope to the city, a promise that the AAO would continue supplying food and medicines until the light went out— which of course would be never because it wasn’t like he was going to run out of money any time soon. The United States government gave him quite a hefty budget to do all this aid work.
Looking at the clock, David sighed. It was almost time to send the trucks out. As soon as the hour hand hit the three, David would push a button on his desk. With that single button, thousands of trucks would begin distributing food to villages around the nation.
Of course, setting up the trucks and the stores of grain and medicine that were to be distributed was a mite bit more complicated than just pressing a button. That was why he was here, after all. He was here because he wanted to give back to the world. He was also here for the US government, giving back for them too.
It was hard work, all this giving back.
During the first few years of the AAO’s existence, he had worked hard to institute laws that would prevent the misguided Liberian government from disposing of the aid organizations that worked so hard for the Liberian people. It was difficult, but with the help of several corporations that also had the best interests of the Liberian people in mind, he had achieved it. David watched the stable economy and the improving health of the people of Liberia, and felt proud.
This Liberia was entirely his doing.
He had done admirably well.
...What was he thinking? The AAO never had humble beginnings at all. After all, it had originated in his head, hadn’t it?
Now he was here, living in the penthouse of a skyscraper in the middle of an African city. He had a lovely family back in the United States, and a private jet that could bring him to them at any time he wanted.
David swiveled his chair around to look outside. The tinted glass of the window made the sky look dull, but he knew it was a cloudless blue, as always. The air conditioned office made him feel more than a little smug, as he looked down, down, down on the people sweltering on the street below.
His building was the tallest in Monrovia, and it shone the brightest at night. He imagined it was like a beacon of hope to the city, a promise that the AAO would continue supplying food and medicines until the light went out— which of course would be never because it wasn’t like he was going to run out of money any time soon. The United States government gave him quite a hefty budget to do all this aid work.
Looking at the clock, David sighed. It was almost time to send the trucks out. As soon as the hour hand hit the three, David would push a button on his desk. With that single button, thousands of trucks would begin distributing food to villages around the nation.
Of course, setting up the trucks and the stores of grain and medicine that were to be distributed was a mite bit more complicated than just pressing a button. That was why he was here, after all. He was here because he wanted to give back to the world. He was also here for the US government, giving back for them too.
It was hard work, all this giving back.
During the first few years of the AAO’s existence, he had worked hard to institute laws that would prevent the misguided Liberian government from disposing of the aid organizations that worked so hard for the Liberian people. It was difficult, but with the help of several corporations that also had the best interests of the Liberian people in mind, he had achieved it. David watched the stable economy and the improving health of the people of Liberia, and felt proud.
This Liberia was entirely his doing.
He had done admirably well.