Sometimes writing is painful. It is when you gather in tranquility emotions you thought long forgotten, when you astonished realize your skin has been toughened, but is not tough enough yet, when you observe it lined with cracks and scars that go all the way to the foundation of your soul. It’s also when you discover yourself, if you dare to dream of meeting again your heart’s longing, as a spectator of your own life and not anymore as the main character that you once were. It is sometimes both at once. Then it becomes unbearable, and the inevitable question is whether it’s worth.
He was the man on the ground of a Swiss firm, and about twenty years older than I. Let’s call him Colman —that should throw off any clue seekers. He and I quickly became drinking buddies. Several times we tour together to decrepit night clubs frequented by insubordinate rebels, revolting foreigners, well-heeled Lebanese and the like.
At a time with no creed, 5,000 miles away from home, I found his fatherly company quite heartwarming, as the castaway I was, clutching to a warm rock in the middle of a violent and cold ocean of destruction and detachment. He used to speak with the charming black girls, “my future ex wives,” as he called them, in the sweetest tones, with flowery words and classic quotes, and they greatly enjoyed his performance, so much that they usually forgot asking him for drinks. His distinction overflowed, even drunk, amid all that inhumanity, and sometimes, a jazz quintet with a lead sax worrying out a riff on Summertime stopped its interpretation to hear him singing that old Irish songs, so out of place in Monrovia, that he mastered, and I never learnt. I remember myself hopping to hear him to sing that songs every time we came to a club, to finish throwing money around like confetti, as a benevolent Celtic god.
One Saturday night Colman and I returned to the jazz club. Two hot sisters were scheduled to sing that night, but at that moment the jazz quintet was killing BB King’s Woke up this Morning. We took Colman’s usual corner at the bar, and the bottle of Uisce Beatha —the Gaelic term for whiskey that translates to “water of life” as he explained, with his name written on it, and the bottle of JB with mine were soon produced. They were both half empty. Gorgeous smelling hostesses whose job is to do nothing but walk from table to table with an ice bucket filled our glasses. He was in his element.
That was the moment I saw a woman in a table across the room. She was not conventionally beautiful. She was not black. She was mulatto and a bit small by modern standards. Yet she had such poise. And the look on her face was of such rich enjoyment of the goings on that it was infectious. She wore a white T-shirt and jean shorts. She was just deep enough in her cups that her face was flushed and her inner coquette was out and about. I caught her eye.
Colman saw me nodding and smiling to her. He made a discreet inquiry. A cousin in the room talked to a cousin who talked to a cousin. Colman was summoned, and introduced to the small mulatto goodness. They chatted a few moments. Some kind of serious conversation went on between them and the cousins. I was called over. And I was introduced and invited to sit with her. As Colman took his leave to return to his future ex wives he whispered in my ear, “Be good boy, she’s special.” I certainly was in no mood to be good! I wasn’t even sure what good would mean in the circumstances. I had no idea! I tried in any case so I said, “I like that T-shirt.” She giggled and shrugged. We clinked glasses now and then. That seemed to break the ice. Liberians love to clink and drink. A waiter brought over my whiskey bottle and I poured her a stiff one. She knocked it back pretty quick and dared me to another. And yet another. We played slap the hand and we laughed a lot as we sank deeper into our cups. I took off my cap and placed it on his head. She gave me a little soldier’s salute. Eventually I began to hear that buzzing sound in my ears. Maybe you know it, too. All the other sounds in the world recede to some distant horizon and you’re only dimly aware of them. You just hear the buzzing. I’ll be discreet here and just say that Miss Mulatto and I were being indiscreet. That’s when a battery of colored lights penetrated my senses. The disco ball was spinning, the floor was thumping with a hard base, the very air was vibrating with the high volume. And I became aware that the two Hot Babes had taken the stage and were just working up a sweat singing “I Hate Myself for Loving You.” Instead I told her, “I love you,” and for the first time in my life I really meant it. Embraced tightly we left the club, and that single night heaven was on earth.
Next morning a few of us got recalled to the Command in the Embassy at Mamba Point. Another team was on official standby —normally that’s the team that blows out for a contingency operation. But they were not chosen. In the briefing, they actually kind of lied to us, being very vague. They mentioned underwater mines or some craziness. They hinted at Libya. I assumed it was a nuke, because why else are they sending us to Libya? The group left Liberia on Sunday morning.
I sent a message to Miss mulatto, but never got reply. One year later I flew back to Liberia after finished a deployment. Someone told me that Miss Mulatto and Colman got married and lived in Switzerland. Well shit! People like me don’t hold grudges. In Africa all the pretty little flowers are strong, and all friends are loving. Intimately I wish them well.
You know, humor is easy to write. In humor we’re all a happy family. But what can one write about pain? And the inevitable question is whether it’s worth…
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).
Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pig likes it 🙂 Now seriously, if my last name were Bedient, I’d want to Irishize it and have you call me O’Bedient. Of course, just because you call me, doesn’t mean I’ll come 🙂 🙂 Thanks for your comment!
Frankly, skipping my fancy talk, I like, in general, Irish people. You know some of us could die of thirst, but the Irish are born with one 🙂
Thanks for commenting!
Well, what for some are roses with thorns for me are thorns with roses… You know, we are all in the gutter, but some of us belly up and still looking at the stars 🙂
Wow, wow…beautifully written moment. Never leave to chance the opportunity of experiencing the words: «Embraced tightly we left the club, and that single night heaven was on earth…» That night still exists in both your hearts/world, and unknowingly you send out sparks of positivity whenever you think about it. Life is beautiful.
Thank you. Life is for the living, and is under no obligation to give us what we expect, so better don’t cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened. On other hand I believe things that never come again are always the sweetest —as we don’t have the opportunity to spoil them 🙂
Love that response…»don’t cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened.» It is the best way to live, and to have many more such glorious moments.
Thank you!
Everybody has hundreds of separate people living under his skin. I just try to give them their separate names, identities, personalities and have them related to other characters also living within me 🙂
Inside of me there are two dogs. One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time. Which dog wins, “The one I feed the most.” 🙂
Thanks!
Matar no es tan fácil como creen los inocentes 🙂 Es un complicado deseo de ganar… a fondo. Y está prohibido —a no ser que uno mate en grandes cantidades y bajo el sonido de una trompeta. Me alegro que te haya gustado. Ya sabes Mariela, tu opinión es importante pues hay algo que siempre me ha gustado de ti … Piensas como un criminal! 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂
Nobody can replicate three or more writers at once without producing an authentic new metamorphic stile, juicy and original like a Margarita… 🙂 The quality is in the mixture itself, as a musical band compared to a solo player 😉
In normal life we hardly realize how much more we receive than we give, and life cannot be rich without such gratitude. It is so easy to overestimate the importance of our own achievements compared with what we owe to the help of others. Thanks for your remainder!
I’m going to answer you with a Nietzsche’s quote, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
In any case I appreciate your point, so my next post will be in the same line 🙂
Any fool can tell a story. Take a few odds and ends of things that happen to you, dress them up, shuffle them about, add a dash of excitement, a little color, and there you have it. 🙂
Thanks to you for reading my blog.
I suppose Irish eyes are smiling. };-)>
Never wrestle with pigs. You both get dirty and the pig likes it 🙂 Now seriously, if my last name were Bedient, I’d want to Irishize it and have you call me O’Bedient. Of course, just because you call me, doesn’t mean I’ll come 🙂 🙂 Thanks for your comment!
I am laughing at your O’Bedient joke. Wise advise about pigs as well. Nicely said, Sir.
Frankly, skipping my fancy talk, I like, in general, Irish people. You know some of us could die of thirst, but the Irish are born with one 🙂
Thanks for commenting!
It was my pleasure, Sir.
Fine post Sir.
Some people grumble that roses have thorns; I am grateful that thorns have roses. Thanks a lot for your opinion!
looking at pain
clearly seeing its roots
for potential of fully healing 🙂
And who wants to be cured? 🙂
considering our addiction to suffering
it’s not clear a cure is desired 🙂
Well, what for some are roses with thorns for me are thorns with roses… You know, we are all in the gutter, but some of us belly up and still looking at the stars 🙂
Wow, wow…beautifully written moment. Never leave to chance the opportunity of experiencing the words: «Embraced tightly we left the club, and that single night heaven was on earth…» That night still exists in both your hearts/world, and unknowingly you send out sparks of positivity whenever you think about it. Life is beautiful.
Thank you. Life is for the living, and is under no obligation to give us what we expect, so better don’t cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened. On other hand I believe things that never come again are always the sweetest —as we don’t have the opportunity to spoil them 🙂
Love that response…»don’t cry because it’s over, but smile because it happened.» It is the best way to live, and to have many more such glorious moments.
That’s it! 🙂
Simply wonderful! I like your talent!
Thank you!
Everybody has hundreds of separate people living under his skin. I just try to give them their separate names, identities, personalities and have them related to other characters also living within me 🙂
True story?
Tolstoy said, “Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story” —but there is no doubt fiction makes a better job of the truth 🙂
Sometimes… Define «good».
😉
I like your story !
Inside of me there are two dogs. One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time. Which dog wins, “The one I feed the most.” 🙂
Thanks!
Also works with wolves. Or ants. 😉
Sure 🙂
I am so far from my fiancee` that it seems like I am writing to her from the «front» of a war (life). Nice post. Major Props.
10Q!
Very fine writing!
Thank you. You know, writing sometimes is a struggle against silence.
Ufff… me mataste con la entrada, te quedó fantástica.
Matar no es tan fácil como creen los inocentes 🙂 Es un complicado deseo de ganar… a fondo. Y está prohibido —a no ser que uno mate en grandes cantidades y bajo el sonido de una trompeta. Me alegro que te haya gustado. Ya sabes Mariela, tu opinión es importante pues hay algo que siempre me ha gustado de ti … Piensas como un criminal! 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂
Fine writing all right! A touch of Hemingway, a drop of Graham Green, and … some St. Zweig? May be I need more tequila… Or, too much already have?
Well thank you very much, albeit I rather prefer being a first rate version of myself than a second rate version of someone else 🙂 🙂
Thanks indeed!
Nobody can replicate three or more writers at once without producing an authentic new metamorphic stile, juicy and original like a Margarita… 🙂 The quality is in the mixture itself, as a musical band compared to a solo player 😉
In normal life we hardly realize how much more we receive than we give, and life cannot be rich without such gratitude. It is so easy to overestimate the importance of our own achievements compared with what we owe to the help of others. Thanks for your remainder!
Now it’s my turn to bow…. and stay there 😀
🙂
The depth of the soul is worth every word. Thank you! Xo
I’m going to answer you with a Nietzsche’s quote, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
In any case I appreciate your point, so my next post will be in the same line 🙂
Great writing and great storytelling.
I’ve read two posts so far and look forward to reading more.
PS Thanks for the like over at sublime days.
Any fool can tell a story. Take a few odds and ends of things that happen to you, dress them up, shuffle them about, add a dash of excitement, a little color, and there you have it. 🙂
Thanks to you for reading my blog.