From the glory of it’s ocean to the broken hospital windows, Africa is Beautiful. From the cloudless sky to the amputated leg of a guy who hates to beg but has to eat. Africa is Beautiful. Futbol in the streets, families sitting down together to eat, and a young man singing as he speaks. Africa is beautiful.
The atlantic sits calmly just beyond the shanty towns. Africa. The dust covers bare feet playing amidst the burning trash. Beautiful. Palm trees sway in the breeze. Africa. Crickets beatbox heavy in the evening to accompany the buzz of traffic. So Africa. And radios rumble jubilant sounds slowly waving away the day. Beautiful Africa. A mother in a doorway calls her children inside from where they run and laugh. It’s a soothing tune, a restful moment that fits together like sand. For Africa is beautiful. A grandmother stirs the fufu and listens to her granddaughter’s stories of another day at school. You are Africa’s. There is always time. Beautiful. Fences are falling into crumbling streets. Africa is Beautiful. From open door you can hear faith flow out, gospel congas and the people saying, ‘amen’. Africa. And yes, those busted out, cracked and broken windows of the hospital are caked with dirt and beautiful as a girl sings hallelujah in a high pitched voice as she walks by them. Africa is beautiful.
And just in case this seems as complex and unclear as life- and you perceived some sarcasm or poetic irony. Sorry. Its just true. Africa is beautiful.
Showing posts with label Luke Nephew. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Luke Nephew. Show all posts
Monday, April 14, 2008
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Now it's Real (Luke Nephew - Liberia)
We step out into the thick warm night of Liberia. Liberia, land of freedom. Land of life and war. Land of African American Hip Hop Rebellion Villages Tupac Civil Conflict Dead and Born Again. Land colonized by the freed men. Land shredded by ethnic violence. Liberia, right here right now. March 29th 2008 year of Liberia, Land of anything.
Life is here. Liberians walk or stand by the side of the one lane highway, waving for us to stop as we pass. Looking for a late night lift toward the capital. Dark skin, bright eyes open wide glisten in the headlights. Children skip as they walk. young men chat as they wait. Women carry heavy loads. Some walk. Some wait. Short hair, long thin legs. Colorful t-shirts, shorts, skirts, and dreams.
Inside the truck, we discuss how rape is the most common crime in Liberia. Its lamented that even to advocates it’s practically accepted as normal here. My heart hurts in my chest. Tears being made.
We roll and bumble down the road into the capital city of the land of freedom. Monrovia’s streets are pulsating slowly by the candlelight of small food stands and headlights of the passing traffic. Many young people fill the streets. Moving, walking, heads held up. Moving.
At the entrance to the parking lot, David smiles like the world is a just place. We shake hands. Watch the traffic go by on foot, motorcycles and cars. A girl walks by and looks at me with one eyebrow up like I was a possibility of some sort. She is wearing her work clothes. Short skirt, tight tank top, and her hair down. She is sad and beautiful through my tired eyes. David smiles his smile. We agree that Liberian women are beautiful. Quiet.
I notice David furrow his brow. What’s wrong man? - “ahhh, the electricity. Its liberia’s biggest problem.” He points out that the hotel and the supermarket across the street are the only places with power. I look farther down the street and see he is right. People walking, waiting, moving in the glow of candles and cars. Across the street young men sit amidst the pitter pattering illuminations with their backs against the wall. One plays a smooth rhythm on a plastic barrel. Laughter and conversations bounces off the wall and over to me and David. Why is there no electricity? I ask. –“It was destroyed by the war.” The smile is gone. “Everything was destroyed by the war.” Quiet. Now it’s real. I am in Liberia.
My eyes are on the ground where dusty feet track home or away from home. Moving. I try to sum things up with David, so what’s up with Liberia?
-“Oh, Liberia, well… it is free.”
Life is here. Liberians walk or stand by the side of the one lane highway, waving for us to stop as we pass. Looking for a late night lift toward the capital. Dark skin, bright eyes open wide glisten in the headlights. Children skip as they walk. young men chat as they wait. Women carry heavy loads. Some walk. Some wait. Short hair, long thin legs. Colorful t-shirts, shorts, skirts, and dreams.
Inside the truck, we discuss how rape is the most common crime in Liberia. Its lamented that even to advocates it’s practically accepted as normal here. My heart hurts in my chest. Tears being made.
We roll and bumble down the road into the capital city of the land of freedom. Monrovia’s streets are pulsating slowly by the candlelight of small food stands and headlights of the passing traffic. Many young people fill the streets. Moving, walking, heads held up. Moving.
At the entrance to the parking lot, David smiles like the world is a just place. We shake hands. Watch the traffic go by on foot, motorcycles and cars. A girl walks by and looks at me with one eyebrow up like I was a possibility of some sort. She is wearing her work clothes. Short skirt, tight tank top, and her hair down. She is sad and beautiful through my tired eyes. David smiles his smile. We agree that Liberian women are beautiful. Quiet.
I notice David furrow his brow. What’s wrong man? - “ahhh, the electricity. Its liberia’s biggest problem.” He points out that the hotel and the supermarket across the street are the only places with power. I look farther down the street and see he is right. People walking, waiting, moving in the glow of candles and cars. Across the street young men sit amidst the pitter pattering illuminations with their backs against the wall. One plays a smooth rhythm on a plastic barrel. Laughter and conversations bounces off the wall and over to me and David. Why is there no electricity? I ask. –“It was destroyed by the war.” The smile is gone. “Everything was destroyed by the war.” Quiet. Now it’s real. I am in Liberia.
My eyes are on the ground where dusty feet track home or away from home. Moving. I try to sum things up with David, so what’s up with Liberia?
-“Oh, Liberia, well… it is free.”
Welcome to Liberia Sir (Luke Nephew - Liberia)
“Welcome to Liberia, Sir.” Even though it’s weird to be called sir, I feel that strange anxiety in my chest start to come undone with the warmth of his smile. We’ve just landed in a small country on the west coast of Africa called Liberia. It was ‘founded’ by freed slaves from America in 1822. The lineage of these ‘Americo-Liberians’ runs clearly into the present day as they control most of the countries economic and political power, despite constituting only five percent of the national population. Even today Liberians of all ages show an intense interest in all things American. The country was recently ravaged by a 14 year Civil War that ended in 2003 after taking the lives of 300,000 Liberians and displacing 1 million. The country only had roughly 2.1 million people. But five years later, Liberia is bustling and moving forward, and here we are to sit and listen.
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