Read Online In the Belly of the Elephant by Susan Corbett - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Corbett
Tags: Memoir
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noticed the bottle cap had not been left on, as was the custom. I kept quiet, watching Philip pour the beer into his glass. Maybe somebody put in just enough poison to make him writhe around on the floor for a few minutes.
“Well, at least we meddle in other people’s affairs with more style.” Philip picked up his beer and took a long swig.
“There are six things a Fulani doesn’t trust: a river, a prince, a string, a knife, darkness, and a woman.”
They all turned to me with blank faces.
Philip barked a laugh. “Well, I can certainly understand the woman part.”
“Guns, machetes, and bloody coups.”
“Get this woman another beer,” Philip said. “Her brain is dehydrated.”
And darkness , I thought, the dark of the rain forest, the violence. There will be darkness in Liberia.
The table was silent for a moment, surrounded by a sea of soldiers.
Philip made some joke and everybody laughed but me. I was too hollow to laugh.
Philip nudged me. “Come on, don’t be so bloody serious.”
“Don’t be such an ass, Philip,” I said. “I have friends in Liberia.” I had to get out of there. I stood to leave.
“Want me to take you home?” Don asked.
“No, thanks.” A hundred eyes burned the back of my neck as I left.
I threaded my way through the maze of sand streets; a right past the big neem tree, a left in the direction of the North Star. As the engine noise of the bar’s generator muted, thoughts of Liberia replaced it. Farther from the electric lights, kerosene lamps, and open fires, darkness overcame the thinning glow. A high ceiling of haze blotted out the stars. Visions took form on the black screen of sky: slumped bodies tied to stakes, blood running into the sand. Death and darkness.
What would happen to the mothers and babies, my students in Foequellie? How long before there was civil war? If such violence could surface so unexpectedly in Liberia, how could I trust it wouldn’t happen in Upper Volta? This was what my father feared. His fear curled into the pit of my stomach.
I had always been comfortable in the dark. Suddenly, the empty streets and shadowed corners were not so friendly. At the crossroad where I turned toward my own neighborhood, a man slept beneath a tree, wrapped in a blanket. I hurried on until I reached my gate. Issa had long ago folded up his kiosk and gone to bed. I entered my courtyard and sat on the edge of my patio.
Today had been my birthday. I was twenty-seven years old. My friends in Liberia were dying. My courtyard was empty and my house was dark.
Chapter 5
Dissension
September/Dhu-al-Qudah
The soft chirp of a cricket. Cool predawn air. I lay under my sheet not opening my eyes. Birds rustled the limbs of the neem tree. Voices passed by the gate, murmuring in the quiet sweetness of morning.
A motorcycle engine backfired in the street and my heart skipped into a gallop. There had been no gunshots in Dori, but I knew what they sounded like. During my last month in Liberia, I had lived in the capital city of Monrovia. The government had raised the price of rice, and the people had rioted, breaking store windows and looting food. Soldiers with rifles had patrolled the streets, shooting at anyone out past the 10 pm curfew. I would awaken in the dead of night to the sound of gunfire. Even then, the violence had been one-sided. The Liberian people stole food but they did not shoot back.
But things had changed in Liberia. Now, lots of people were shooting back. I had no way of knowing what was happening to my friends there.
A pencil ray of sun turned the inside of my eyelid red. 5:30 am. A cock-a-doodle-doo from Issa’s courtyard announced the rising sun and was answered in sequence by three other roosters across town. A donkey brayed, a guinea-hen screeched. My heart settled back into a steady pace at the familiar sounds of a new day. Dori was a long way from Liberia.
I opened an eye. Unhindered by houses or trees, I had a straight view from my bed under
“Well, at least we meddle in other people’s affairs with more style.” Philip picked up his beer and took a long swig.
“There are six things a Fulani doesn’t trust: a river, a prince, a string, a knife, darkness, and a woman.”
They all turned to me with blank faces.
Philip barked a laugh. “Well, I can certainly understand the woman part.”
“Guns, machetes, and bloody coups.”
“Get this woman another beer,” Philip said. “Her brain is dehydrated.”
And darkness , I thought, the dark of the rain forest, the violence. There will be darkness in Liberia.
The table was silent for a moment, surrounded by a sea of soldiers.
Philip made some joke and everybody laughed but me. I was too hollow to laugh.
Philip nudged me. “Come on, don’t be so bloody serious.”
“Don’t be such an ass, Philip,” I said. “I have friends in Liberia.” I had to get out of there. I stood to leave.
“Want me to take you home?” Don asked.
“No, thanks.” A hundred eyes burned the back of my neck as I left.
I threaded my way through the maze of sand streets; a right past the big neem tree, a left in the direction of the North Star. As the engine noise of the bar’s generator muted, thoughts of Liberia replaced it. Farther from the electric lights, kerosene lamps, and open fires, darkness overcame the thinning glow. A high ceiling of haze blotted out the stars. Visions took form on the black screen of sky: slumped bodies tied to stakes, blood running into the sand. Death and darkness.
What would happen to the mothers and babies, my students in Foequellie? How long before there was civil war? If such violence could surface so unexpectedly in Liberia, how could I trust it wouldn’t happen in Upper Volta? This was what my father feared. His fear curled into the pit of my stomach.
I had always been comfortable in the dark. Suddenly, the empty streets and shadowed corners were not so friendly. At the crossroad where I turned toward my own neighborhood, a man slept beneath a tree, wrapped in a blanket. I hurried on until I reached my gate. Issa had long ago folded up his kiosk and gone to bed. I entered my courtyard and sat on the edge of my patio.
Today had been my birthday. I was twenty-seven years old. My friends in Liberia were dying. My courtyard was empty and my house was dark.
Chapter 5
Dissension
September/Dhu-al-Qudah
The soft chirp of a cricket. Cool predawn air. I lay under my sheet not opening my eyes. Birds rustled the limbs of the neem tree. Voices passed by the gate, murmuring in the quiet sweetness of morning.
A motorcycle engine backfired in the street and my heart skipped into a gallop. There had been no gunshots in Dori, but I knew what they sounded like. During my last month in Liberia, I had lived in the capital city of Monrovia. The government had raised the price of rice, and the people had rioted, breaking store windows and looting food. Soldiers with rifles had patrolled the streets, shooting at anyone out past the 10 pm curfew. I would awaken in the dead of night to the sound of gunfire. Even then, the violence had been one-sided. The Liberian people stole food but they did not shoot back.
But things had changed in Liberia. Now, lots of people were shooting back. I had no way of knowing what was happening to my friends there.
A pencil ray of sun turned the inside of my eyelid red. 5:30 am. A cock-a-doodle-doo from Issa’s courtyard announced the rising sun and was answered in sequence by three other roosters across town. A donkey brayed, a guinea-hen screeched. My heart settled back into a steady pace at the familiar sounds of a new day. Dori was a long way from Liberia.
I opened an eye. Unhindered by houses or trees, I had a straight view from my bed under
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