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 Ron was surprised the first time he saw it in action. No, he did not see it, but the first time he saw a form of corruption being practiced on him
He was just seventeen then, and had gotten his first vacation job in Monrovia.
The experience would be another first in his life.
Just before he encountered him, he and his colleagues of students had been warned about the corruptible influence of doing things to achieve their selfish desires.
“Never take any money,” he listened as the official made his remark, “from those we are sending you. Even if anyone insists, and want to give you money, don’t take it.”
“There are vipers out there,” the Liberian official told the group of more than fifteen young men and women, “if you must live up to the calling as future leaders of Liberia, then you must live above reproach.”
Ron was full of ambition to work, by going to the source of those who should be paying their taxes to the country. Liberia needed all that belonged to it. That was how he felt, and he was very much determined for it, and his friends were also.
His face was like a stone. He would put a strong face to resist any attempt at compromising his fidelity to his country. He even wondered why someone would insist that he should accept money. He could not understand it, till he arrived on Water Street.
The store owner was apparently glad to see Ron and his friends, from the Ministry of Commerce.
“You’re welcome,” the manager, his bald head marking time with him, said with a grin.
What is going on here? We just arrive here and this man is behaving as if he is seeing his own children!
“What can I offer you?” the man said, rubbing his hands together. The morning weather was becoming hot and he would not want these youngsters to be here without some “cold water.”
“We’re students on this job,” Ron told him, “we don’t expect you to give us any special treatment.” His voice was very low, and the man’s face did not change. He licked his mouth, and turning around, said to a young man, who sat at the corner of the store, the Alie Brothers Store.
“Bring them something to drink,” and turning to Rob and his friends said, his voice rising, “you’re my people and you will do what I say just how is always done.”
“Do we have to be treated like the way you want it?” It was one of the students, Liz, who was responding. Elizabeth Doe was seventeen and it was her first Vacation Job.
Sensing the man’s reaction, Rob had moved in.
“I told Mr. Alie the same thing,” he said, “but he would not hear it.”
“What can we do now?”
“Unless we do what he wants,” Rob said, “it is likely that we’ll have to go elsewhere.”
“Hmm!!” Elizabeth’s response had shown a bit of disappointment. But it seemed they would have to agree to be treated and then…
“What your say?” The manager’s voice had interrupted the discussion among the young interns, and it appeared they would just succumb to the appeals of this businessman or else...
“Don’t worry about this,” he told the young men and women, “All the people do the same.”
Unable to resist the man’s offer, Ron and his friends compromised and allowed the manger to take them through a treat.
After all the man had said that was how it was done here, and Ron could see that it was a tradition set by one of those who had warned about the corruptible influence of “cold water.” If not so, how did he know?
Mr. Samson Gabbie was the deputy manager at the Ministry Of Commerce, and he would have grown through the system. What did the man say?
“That’s how we do it here.”
Though Rob had felt disappointed for being unable to stand up against the offer, in the end, the records they came to examine, they realized had some bad problems. They were inconsistent with the copy of what they had brought from the Ministry.
In this case, it appeared that this man would be facing a lot of trouble with the law, and that happened Liberia would reap the benefits.
But here they were, with all their stomachs full with gifts, and edibles. Without knowing the man had ensured that a small pouch containing some money had been readied for each of the fifteen young vacation workers, and having compromised their faithfulness to Liberia, Ron could read the guilty verdict all over their faces.
But he realized no one was condemning them, which he thought was good.
That was how it had ended back then.
Now at the mature age of forty five, he could not deny that corruption had been in Liberia as long as many of those crying against it were born.
Then the civil-war came, and everybody, including the fighters and their leaders, took whatever they wanted: looting and looting everything!
While Prince Johnson and his group were looting the Freeport of Monrovia clean, Charles Taylor and his group were cleaning up the natural resources they could get their hands on.
Then the various experimental- governments came, one after the other. And that was how they also cleaned the national coffers, leaving the country poorer than before. But who would anyone blame?
“We must blame ourselves,” he told himself, “no need to blame anyone, ourselves.”
That seemed like a wonderful answer but then there were many who would not accept that they had contributed to looting Liberia clean.
Now he knew how such a practice had resulted in making getting the easy things in life more difficult. But he knew, yes, he knew…In Sundays and the various churches, the parishioners and their leaders would sing their hearts out for Christ.
They would listen to sermons, pounding on the weaknesses of man, and how those with such weaknesses would not inherit the Kingdom of God.
Rob had been in such a service, on numerous occasions.
But in the end he had watched with pain as the senior pastor compromising his faithfulness to his wife and making out with a girlfriend, without a fear in the world.
“That was bad,” was all he could say that Sunday.
He knew that was how things had been, and wondered how far would they be allowed to continue? He did not have any answer for it, but felt it would continue until every Liberian in authority, and those mature enough decide to put a stop to it.
“When will that be?” he was asking himself, “when will that be?”
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Author's Note: Omari Jackson is a writer and a journalist.
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