Friends in Real Places

  I guess it was twenty years ago, or so, that Garth Brooks lured me back into the fold of popular country music. His chart-bustin’ “Friends in Low Places” was and is a classic commentary on seeking influence and expecting privileges through friends in high places. What he sang about—tinged with the twangs of his style—was the comfort of friends in low places who don’t seem to have as much interest in influence and privilege that high-toned friends expect.

  These days back in Liberia have reminded me, too, that I have friends in real places. Since my first trip in 2007 I have had the privilege of getting to know folks in Liberia who are, I think, part of the strong skeletal system that is allowing Liberia to stand erect and proud after years of war.

  Here are some of my friends in this real place:

Joseph Dennis and Rick Wilson

  Mr. Joseph Dennis is one of the first people I met at Ricks. His tenure at Ricks stretches back to the 1970s. He has seen the glory and the horror at Ricks. Now he is a part of its renewal. Polio rendered Joseph lame, but he limps with a grace that challenges others to learn to live with challenges. In those days he learned some accounting skills and demonstrated unquestioned integrity as he handled money. (He yearns to get some formal education—at Mercer—but I don’t see how that is possible.)

  I’ve learned from others that even before the wars devastated Liberia Joseph’s character was smeared in the midst of his loyalty to place and superior. He lost face and suffered for wrongs that were not his. In the early 2000s as the war was winding down, Joseph languished in a dilapidated building on the campus of Ricks, barely subsisting.

  When Olu Menjay came to Ricks he learned about Joseph and his plight. Gradually Joseph was nurtured back into the good graces of the community. Menjay allowed him chances to burnish his character in the face of the challenge to rebuild Ricks. Today Mr. Joseph Dennis is Ricks’ business manager, once more managing the money and accounts.

Bob Boy Wilson Styling on a Campus Walk

  Bob Boy Wilson is a painter at Ricks. If you watch him you will see that he carries himself with a pride and verve born of military exposure (you can see it, too, in the photo on the right). A few years ago one of my Mercer colleagues joined me on a trip to Ricks. David was a US Army officer stationed in Monrovia at the time of the coup dé tat that ended the life of President William Tolbert and sent Liberia reeling down a path of uncertainty and destruction that lasted a quarter of a century. When the retired US Army officer entered the room Bob Boy stiffened at attention, recognizing his old acquaintance and giving him due respect. David told me that he remembered Bob Boy from those many years ago; he appreciated the show of respect.

  Bob Boy calls to me, “My son!” each time he sees me. I respond, “My Papa!” We have great fun telling people we are related. Papa says, pointing to himself, “Liberia Wilson,” and then, pointing to me, “America Wilson.”

  After several days in country this time I was concerned that I had not seen Papa. I asked, and learned that he had been ill and had required surgery. Another friend, Isaac Jallah (see below), offered to take me to see Papa. One morning we made our way to a building on campus that had a couple of accessible rooms. There was Papa and his wife. We embraced, laughed, and talked. He told me of his injury on the job—a hernia—that required surgery. Matter-of-factly he said, “But in Liberia, if you have no money you die.” I knew he told the truth. He disappeared into a small room and returned with an envelope that contained the simple bills of his surgery and post-op care, all marked “paid.”

  Now Papa is on leave, hoping to return to work in a couple of months. One morning this week he showed up at my door, looking fit and trim. He was out for a recuperative walk on the campus.

l-r Robert and Isaac

  And then there is Isaac. He is a master carpenter who probably never has used a power tool. He saws a square cut with a handsaw better than I could do with a Skil saw. Over a life of carpentry and paying attention he has become a friend of wood and iron, knowing how to let them—not make them—work together. He knows about real friendships.
  When a team from First Baptist Church of Christ came to Ricks in 2009, Isaac quietly taught us all about resourcefullness, especially the reason to save sawdust! I'll never forget that lesson.

  He has a story, too. Not long after Menjay came to Ricks under bleak conditions, post-war, Isaac’s elementary-age son was injured in a playground accident. He broke his back in a fall. The physicians could do nothing for him and the child died. The next day Isaac was at work—looking for lumber scraps suitable for building a coffin. Menjay intervened, making it possible for Isaac to make a proper coffin and, too, making it possible for Isaac to bury his son with dignity.

  Each time I come to Ricks I’m eager to find Isaac at his job. His eyes sparkle; his strong snappy handshake rattles my weak arms; and he embraces me with obvious pleasure. I share his joy.

  Isaac is from the Gola tribe. One of my simple pleasures is going into the bush on a Sunday morning to the Good Shepherd church where Isaac worships. If I go, I have to preach, but that is fine.

  There are other friends, too; maybe I’ll introduce readers to them another time. You would like to know about Ma Musu, an extraordinary cook, or Robert (see photo, above), an intelligent worker of wood and tile, or James, a porter at a local grocery, or that “Charles Taylor’s Child”—an amputee—who sits outside the grocery and greets me, “Hello, Doc!” each time I go to market.

  I’m happy to have friends in real places.