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 The erection of a wall around Palm Grove Cemetery, the main memorial
tomb of the Liberian dead in Central Monrovia, should have deterred
criminals from breaking into the graves. But the thieves have found a
protection behind the high fence to dishonor human remains and make
away with valuables that were sent along with them into the world
beyond.
Homeless Sam Young did not know that the dead, sometimes when angered, can revenge on the living, until one night when he went to break into a newly-buried grave.
“Hoho..hoooooo.” The eerie shout of a voice intruded his mind. The night was impenetrably dark, and the heavy rainfall earlier in the day had plunged the area into darkness. It was his third attempt to come to the cemetery, and it had been his third attempt that he had been unable to make way with the valuables that he had heard were buried with the Liberian dead.
“Wheeeewuuuuu.”
“Who’s that?” He was forced to ask since he believed that some of his fellow grave-hustlers may be hiding somewhere, and wanting to scare him away. In fact he was not the one to be afraid of the dead.
Six years had gone by since his parents were killed. It was during the Liberian civil-war, and after their murder he became a soldier. Not really a soldier, just that he was told he was a “commando” as many of the combatants were described.
He was fourteen then, and he grew through the years of the war. By the end of the war, he had reached the ripe age of twenty and eight, with no skills or experience or education to tackle the challenges that ordinary life posed.
Joining the rebel movement was because his parents were killed, and after he was told that he was a revolutionary fighting to redeem his country, and that he would be rewarded. The only reward that came his way was when the United Nations carried out the disarmament, and he managed to carry a couple of guns that he had hidden to them and received some cash. It was like a man doing some business. He carried the goods and received cash for them!
Though he was rewarded for it, the few United States dollars given him did not last, and he managed once again to fish out several weapons, and received additional dollars, which also did not last.
In the end, he had nowhere to go. He had no family to return to; since news had reached the surviving family members in Monrovia and elsewhere that he was a commando who killed innocent people. Having been abandoned, and like some of the grave stealers, he felt he had no option but to deny the dead what the living had lovingly parted with them, for their eternal journey to the great beyond.
“Waoooooooooooooo.”
The cry interrupted his thoughts and he dashed to his right, concealing himself at the corner of the fence. Earlier in the day, he had carried out what he learned in the rebel army as reconnaissance, and had marked where some families had buried their dear departed. He had even joined in the family mourning and had shed some tears. If someone was standing aside to watch what was happening, the comical aspect of it could not be lost on him.
In the night he had come back and scaled the wall, and was ready to dig into one of the first graves he had marked, and to his surprise, someone was daring him to act. He directed
attention at what seemed like shadows beyond. The quietness at the cemetery was so depressing that he was beginning to fear the unknown.
“But I killed people in the war,” he said, “and nobody came to me.” He was making sense of what he did as a commando. As one of the young commanders at a check point described as God Bless You Gate, many Liberian civilians did not survive their ordeal.
He remembered with some worry how he had carried out executions, and how some of the people had begged for their lives and how he had refused.
Presently, cold breeze swept across the cemetery, and his legs began to shake. He could, except his mind was playing tricks on him, see some people or shadows beyond. What gave him the creeps was that all those he was seeing were attired in white. Despite the darkness, his eyes had adjusted to the area, and the moon was making its appearance.
“Go away.”
It was no joke someone sounded that warning.
“Who is telling me to go away?” He was not sure. But with the time close to midnight, he was certain that whoever had warned him to go away, and those he had seen yonder, was more than mere mortals.
And he was rising to sneak a quick look when what seemed like a hand slapped his face, and he fell backward. His breathing became hard, and at one point he thought he would pass out. His breathing was becoming faster now, and the cries of insects and the flatter of some wings, like a bird was flying from one tree to another diminished his courage to hold on.
He had been in the cemetery for close to twenty minutes, and it seemed that someone did not want him there, especially so since he was there to dishonor the dead.
Like he had learnt in the rebel army when an attack met stiff resistance, the soldier would have no choice but to retreat. And that was exactly what he did.
He realized with horror that if the dead could exact vengeance, many of those dishonoring the graves of the dear departed would have received their vengeance. But for now he would stay clear away from the abode of the dead, and compete in any way he could among the living.
In clear explanation, he would learn some job, like sweeping or something, and contribute to the living. He wanted to be a man and now he must learn from his past and be a man, like many others. With that resolution, Sam Young was determined to turn a new leave, and he swore that never again would he desecrate the abode of the dead.
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