Hi, everyone. Life is pretty busy right now and I am down to the last few days of my crowd fund raiser for Finding Friday. Here is the "sneak" into part of the first chapter.
CHAPTER 1: MONROVIA, LIBERIA.
FRIDAY
The boy looked around, taking in the bustling picture. He was alone, although there were lots of people walking, standing, even bumping him as they passed by. He narrowed his eyes against the intense glare of the sun and tried to get the lay of the land. It was dusty, and hot, with lots of noise of a typical West African city. Lots of different dialects were being spoken as people did their business. They had places to go, things to do, they knew their destination. They had some sort of home or shelter where they could go even if they had nothing to eat, even if it was just to sleep in the searing heat at mid-day. He had nowhere, no-one, other than the man that brought him, who had lied bringing him through the authorities, saying he was visiting his family. He didn't even know where his family was. He was thirteen years old, he was scared out of his brain, and he had no-one to turn to here in Monrovia, his birth place. He had lived in America, the "Great America" for four years and he didn't belong here anymore. He had forgotten all of the ways of Africa as well as his native language. He didn't like the man Herman Schmidt, but liked being on his own less. Mr. Schmidt had left him for a while, said he would be back soon, had some sort of errand to run, so the boy stayed close to himself trying to melt into the crowd, all the while hanging on tightly to his possessions for fear they would be stolen.
He had a back pack with a couple of items of clothing and shoes on his feet. For that he should be grateful. He wasn't sure what his next move was. Mr. Schmidt had taken his passport, his birth certificate, his green card, and his social security card. At least he hadn't take his forty dollars earned doing work for his American father. He was puzzled about why the man would take his papers, because his American family had said they would bring him back when he was older, eighteen, they had said. Wouldn't he need his papers to come back to America? And, he now had no identity to prove who he was. Here he was Friday, although most people had called him Noah, but now he had become nameless.
Was that what they had intended? Friday was confused, and felt guilty most of the time. He absolutely believed he should be here as his punishment. The kiss he had stolen had not just crushed love, it had crushed his whole life. He had lost everything in that moment, and fully believed he deserved to be here, in Monrovia, in this hell hole, that he had come from just four short years before. His birth family, or what was left, could be here or could be farther south, in the interior. Either way, how long would it be before someone found him? He had been through some scary stuff in the last couple of months since he had been kicked out of his adoptive home in America. He had a taste of fending for himself even before he landed here. He remembered the bus ride north from Alabama to where he had met the man, Mr. Schmidt. That had made him frightened. There had been older people who were rough, tough looking, said bad words, and pushed each other around. And then there had been a few days where he was on his own to fend for himself with some street kids, before the man could take him on the plane, and land him here.
At thirteen no matter how tough you pretended to be, it was terrifying. He had been very protected in America, never going off the family property much unless he went to work with his Dad. Nobody in the family went anywhere much, unless it was to church, or the occasional visit to the little town to get some groceries. Friday looked around him and could see those people on the bus were pussycats compared to some of the kids within his peripheral. Survival. That's what happened here. Each to his own to get food, and struggle to live another day. There weren't many old people here, they died early, and somewhere in the back of his childish mind, he knew that was his fate, too. Die young, with nothing.
Mr. Schmidt, the one that had brought him on this journey, said his "grandmother" knew he was coming. He had told him that the Carson's, his family, had called her on the phone. They had sent money to her and she knew he was coming. Schmidt said that it was all arranged, a done deal, he would be fine. She would find him, that's what he had said. Friday hoped so, because he wondered how they, his American family, could have sent money to the Interior. There were no Western Union's there, that much he did know. There were so many questions arising in his mind that didn't make sense, but then he didn't feel he had the right to make sense of it.
He was the guilty one, the one who had done wrong, and maybe coming here, or being sent here, could make all the guilt go away. He tried to remember his "grandmother" and father, but he had been only nine when he left and those memories were like a fog in his brain. His father had sent him to the orphanage when he was about five, and although his grandmother came to visit him sometimes when she travelled to Monrovia for medicine, he didn't have a clue what she looked like now. He wondered if he would recognize her or if she would know who he was. He had changed. He had grown up in the last four years. He wasn't a small underdeveloped nine year-old. He had physically developed from doing construction and painting with his Dad, which he had done on most days for the last four years, so his frame had become muscular even though he still wasn't very tall.
What if she didn't come? He knew that she lived further south, in the Interior, Rivercess, but he didn't think he had been there, no memories of that, but he was pretty sure there were no phones there, so how did his Mom and Dad get in contact? It wasn't like people went there very easily. It was a long way. You had to get a car, and they were not very reliable here, and then it was further after that. At least that's what he thought his grandmother had told him once when he had asked where she lived and why she only came now and then. If she didn't even have a phone, then how would she know? Would anyone tell her? Maybe his African father had. His mind whirled around with chaotic crazy thoughts of being left here with no-one. When you are thirteen there is no other choice than to hope Mr. Schmidt was right, that his family really did know he had come back.
It was sort of exciting at first, having everyone's eyes on him. He liked attention, but not the sort that got him in trouble. He had messed up, been stupid, but there wasn't anything else to do. He had either gone to work, or when that dried up, he had run around the family property with the other kids. There had been no school, or at least not much. And he had certainly got up to some mischief, but not as bad as some of the other kids. Confusing, that's what it was. Why were some things OK for some people and not for others? He had belonged to a mixed family, some biological kids who were all white, and his sister, and a couple of others who had been adopted from the orphanage here in Liberia. He never expected to be treated the same as the white kids, he didn't know why he thought that, but it had been so.
Somehow, the black kids got into more trouble, even though they all did the same things. It was like he had to prove to them that he would be a good son. The words that had been said to him still echoed in his head and would for years. "You're a bad boy, you deserve to be put out of the family. You have committed crimes against our family! We don't want you anymore!"
He had tried his best to be what they had wanted him to be, but he had failed. He couldn't please his mother, who had asked uncomfortable things of him, and he couldn't please his father, who wanted him to disobey his mother. Then his mother betrayed him and he had been put out of his adoptive parents home, sent to live with a couple of young men for a while. His parents had convinced him he didn't deserve to live in America anymore, that he should go back to Africa, in shame. He knew this was his fate, his death sentence in fact. People didn't live long in Liberia. You could get over the starvation, or at least sleep a lot so you didn't notice, but it was the lack of hope that got everyone in the end. And if that didn't get you, then the rebels or bad men might.
A tear slid down his face as his sentence handed down by his new family sunk in. He knew he was on the verge of embarrassing himself and just sobbing, he felt so helpless, and rejected. He thought he was free of all the hunger, the abject poverty, and the incessant fear that was life here in Liberia, but he had taken a full circle back. The man had returned, and walked him towards the orphanage where he had so gladly left behind over four years ago. It was empty now. They had shut it down. Too many kids had gone to the "Great America" and caused trouble.
He remembered as he looked at the vacated buildings. They looked worse, if that was possible, than they did before. Friday's mind went back to when he first came to this place. His mother had died, something to do with childbirth, he thought, but he really didn't know, couldn't remember. Not long after that his sisters had gone away to the orphanage, this one right here, and he had stayed with his African father. Then his father married again and more children came, so he couldn't stay there anymore, not enough food for him, so he ended up here as well. It had been strange, because he knew his sisters, but didn't really know them. They weren't close, like in hugging or any of that stuff. He was beginning to realize that he didn't remember much of anything. It was like his mind was filled with lots of blank pages in a story that you couldn't understand because it was missing too many pieces, pieces he chose to lock away deep somewhere in a forgotten place, never to be unearthed again.
The sounds of the orphanage echoed in his head. The grounds were dry and dusty, but he smiled as he remembered playing soccer with whatever sort of ball they could find. Of course, they didn't know the rules but that didn't matter. They were tough and played that way. They were fast on their feet. Their world consisted of being awakened very early and leaping out of bed immediately. If you didn't, you got a beating. He had his share of those and was smart enough to avoid them whenever possible. Beatings made you learn to survive here. Survival was now his greatest skill.
He learned about hunger here, too. One cup of rice a day and whatever else you could scavenge. There wasn't much of that either. If you were quick and fast you could avoid all the poop on the beach and try to catch a fish, but he had been too young to master that skill. Funny to remember the poop, at least he had an indoor toilet in America, and didn't have to go find a place to squat. The beach was the most popular place for that here. He never did master the art of catching fish too well, so he was glad he was one of the younger ones, because sometimes there wasn't enough food for the older kids. They had to wait and hope tomorrow brought more food than yesterday. He knew his sister, Patience, often went hungry, in fact, sometimes she even gave her portion to him and his younger sister.
He kicked the dirt angrily. Anger was never far from the surface these days. He lived between fear and anger, but fear would kill you here or get you something you didn't bargain for. Anger heightened your awareness, and he needed that to make sure he made it and didn't end up dead in the bush somewhere. He looked back at the orphanage. Herman was on the phone, distracted, as the sharp image of a twelve year old kid holding a gun to his head popped into his head. A street kid who had joined the Rebels. The kid had looked at him deep into his eyes deciding whether he would live or die. Friday had survived, although a chill ran through him like a cold wind as he remembered.
He had seen bloodshed. When the fighting had come, he had seen throats cut, deep with flesh falling out like little tentacles, with blood everywhere. He felt the warmth of his own blood rush to his face as he remembered shame here, too. He would never forget the older boy coming to his makeshift bed in the night. He was vulnerable then. His innocence was spent that night and would be no more. He would walk in shame that such a thing had happened to him here. But he would also put on a new skin that nothing or no-one would penetrate, ever. He was only six years old when these atrocities had happened to him, but he had become someone much older that night in the darkness. He had changed forever.
There wasn't anybody to tell, and it would be many years before he ever had the guts to do so. This went on he realized the longer he stayed there, and nobody cared. Everyone turned a blind eye in the dark. You had to stay awake, be on guard, not be available, hide, whatever you had to do not to be raped and dominated and, to have your very own spirit crushed till it was no more. Friday had only told one other person, trying to save himself from the fate he now had. He had bared his soul, told of his shame to his new Dad, Aaron, but it didn't matter. His Dad just thought he was a monster to be rid of, which still confused him. He couldn't think any more about it. It was too debilitating. It was not something he would ever tell of again.
There were not many adults for the amount of kids in the orphanage, and the pastor that ran it only came now and then. When he would come he would bring extra food and clothing and stuff, but it was never enough. They never had enough of anything, but that was life here in Liberia. There wasn't even one of those big organizations, like the ones that brought food and water and stuff. He vaguely remembered fleeing from the orphanage in the middle of the night once. There had been a lot of yelling and guns, loud noises and men running here and there, and the girls and women who worked in the orphanage screaming as they fled into the bush. His older sister had kept him and Francis, his baby sister, safe. Patience, had kept them protected, covered them from the bullets and the men who shouted and killed anyone who was in their way. He remembered being out in the bush hiding for days until the bad men had left. They were hungry and left out to hide and fend for themselves.
It had become one of those pages in his mind he chose not to recall. But, when he had been out there, hungry, dirty, scared, he had wondered if there really was a God. If there was, He wasn't here in Africa. God only came on Sundays when the missionary preached. He had learned early that God was not protecting him. No need to listen. He had hidden his heart within a covering made up of rejection, shame, and abandonment, impenetrable, sort of like the Grinch, at the ripe old age of six.
If you are led to donate to my campaign at Indigogo here is the link.
No comments:
Post a Comment