Omari's Short Stories

                                                    By Omari Jackson
    “What are you doing now?”  The question did not come as a surprise to me, for the authorities in Ghana had made their position clear: all Liberian refugees must be out of the country by a certain date. The date was what I could not accept since I felt that I also belonged here.
   “Tom, Tom,” my shrill voice echoed, and I felt my own voice coming, from, as if it was from a distance, “there is the likelihood that we’ve no choice as refugees…” my voice trailed off, and to be exact, my voice failed me.
   I had lived at Buduburam for the last eighteen years, and hence I could argue that I was almost a citizen, or to put it mildly, I was a resident, who deserved the comfort and treatment like the locals. But then in Africa, this poor continent that many of us preferred to describe as, “a continent with all the natural resources untapped,” unless one was prepared to suffer downright human indignity, there was no need to insist that there was any right needed to enjoy.
   “What then are you preparing to do?” Tom’s persistent question probed my conscience and it was clear that I had to make up my mind to either leave Ghana before the deadline ended.
    Mind you, I had lived here for many more years, a situation I found myself informing my friend, Tom.
   “Tom, just in case they send me home by force,” I continued in my attempt to make some sense to my friend, “will you look after my interest in Ghana?” I had acquired some properties that I was not prepared to let them be trampled on by some future users of the Camp.
   “Let me see,” my friend said, his two hands outspread before me, “you have two houses, one near Area B, and the other near Area G, right?”
   “Yes and…”
   “I know about him, your son,” Tom interrupted me, and revealed my third property in Ghana. See, I had managed to build myself two mud houses and had born a child with a Ghanaian lady. My son, Kwame, named because he was born on Saturday, was to honor my wife; since she insisted that in the Ghanaian tradition, names march the days children are born.
   “Oh my son, Kwame…” my voice choked, wondering if I would leave him here in Ghana, or take him with me. He was now twelve years old. My friend looked at me for several seconds before I sensed that he was reading my thoughts.
   “Let me answer your question,” Tom, after lifting his right hand to hold my shoulder, said, “I will make sure that nothing of yours get destroyed, when you’re gone.”
    A faint smile came on my face as I nodded in agreement.
   Tom fumbled something in his breast pocket. Then his face registered what I considered as anguish, for he was a Ghanaian through his father and a Liberian through his mother. Now since he spoke the Fanti dialect so well, there could be no argument that he was not part of those of us who had been threatened by the Hon. Kwamena Bartels, Minister of Interior, to leave this land, formerly known as Gold Coast.
  “Will Gina go with you?” Tom wanted to know.
   “Well, with the news that Ghanaians in Liberia may not be happy about the situation, I don’t think she will be glad to go with me.”
  “But aren’t you taking her with you as your wife?”
   “We discussed it last night but she would not accept the fact that she would be fine, in Monrovia.”
   “Then you’ve a problem,” he said.
   “I sure do, but anyway I must return to Liberia and for good this time.”
    The early morning sun swept across Buduburam, and there were many Liberians, looking like zombies, for the decision by the Ghana Government had destroyed their spirits, since they had not expected the result of the peaceful-demonstration to turn out to be like this.
   “Heh, Sam, you going too?”
    I did not want to answer Janet, a neighbor, whose husband died the second day of the demonstration, leaving her with five children, the youngest three years old. The late Samson was a friend, and I felt I could not turn my back on his wife, since he was gone.
   “Yes, I am.”
    Several children raced after each other, and once in a while vehicles using the Awutu-Breku highway would toot their horns.
    I mentioned earlier I would be returning to Monrovia for good, yes, I had been going back and forth; doing what I thought was business. I would buy some “Fanti Lappa” and take it to Liberia and after selling them, or rather after crediting them, I would return empty handed to Ghana.
    I thought I was doing a fine business, till I did not have any more money to continue with it. The last time I went to Liberia, most of those I credited with the goods had woeful stories to tell me.
   That taught me how to do business, in the future.
    I wanted to sell my two houses at the Camp, and leave, but no one wanted to buy them. And since I did not have a registration card as a refugee, I was afraid that I could be arrested, and sent home against my will.
   Trying to avoid any humiliation, I decided to get my things ready, and whether I got any money or not, find my way out of Buduburam in particular, and Ghana in general for good.
    My heart ached inside me as I thought about the fortunes of Africa.
    When oh, when, would we understand that Africa is for all Africans? By now, I could not hold back my tears. My eyes misted with them, and the thought of leaving Ghana came back to haunt me. Another difficulty I thought of was the sense of hopelessness I had witnessed in Liberia during my failed business trips. There were former colleagues who were still struggling to find any kind of job, to be able to earn a living; and there were still others who seemed to have given up any hope that the future for Liberia could be bubbling with gold and honey.
   I then reminded myself that Liberia was no Israel, and the promise for a better future was by men and not by God. With such a forecast, I knew I had to return, even if it was on the orders of Hon. Kwamena Bartels, or someone else.
  “I am going, Tom,” my own voice surprised me. “One day, I’ll be back.” With that statement, I was reminded of what the former Liberian president, Charles Taylor said, the day he decided to go into exile. A frown on my face registered my disappointment and I wanted to take my words back. My fear was that since Taylor did not have the freedom to return to Liberia, I might not have the chance to return to Ghana.
  “I’m going home by Kwamena Bartel’s order, I am.”
   That was all I could say, though it was in the morning, I fell into a deep slumber, and in a dream I arrived in Monrovia to be received by some family members and friends.

   “Welcome Home, welcome home,” they said, as if in a chorus.
  Though I was no Martin Luther King Jr, I heard myself shout: “Free at last, free at last, thank  God I’m free at last,” but then something jerked on my side, and I heard my friend Tom, asking, “what freedom are you talking about, here in Ghana?”
   “Oh,” I stuttered sheepishly, “So I was dreaming?”
  “Yes,” my friend Tom added, as a consolation, “and you spoke about freedom.”
   “Well,” I said, “I shall return someday.” Though I had the hope that God could make any unfortunate situation fortunate, I could not overcome the sense of let down, as a result of the perennial silence from the Monrovia Government, the United Nations and Liberian embassy staff in Accra. The consequent agony I had seen, since our women decided to do something about the disappointing situation we have had, brought it home to me that we were just alone in the battle. Suddenly bitterness mixed in my mouth. It was then that in my mind’s eye, I could hear a Liberian musician, I could not remember which of them, his lyric drumming in my ears, “Tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home, tomorrow I am going home.”
“Yes, I’m thinking about tomorrow, when I am gone,” I said.

By Omari Jackson

  She knew I was serious when I said, “You taking this thing for a joke, huh?”

  She held her breath for a few seconds and said, “I’m not, why?”

 “Why did you ask me?”

She said, “I didn’t hear you.”

I waited for her answer to sink into my brain, held the phone to my left ear, and listened to her soft breathing. It had been several days now since we came to know each other, and we were having fun.

I said, “You know I cannot say I miss you, right?”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because,” I said, “I don’t know you.”

I heard a sound of dissatisfaction in her voice. I was not trying to hurt Jeanice, for it was a fact that I did not know her, neither did she.

I heard her voice on the telephone line, and it was apparent that she wanted to say something. I held my breath, ready for her but she did not.

“You know I’m telling the truth, right?”

Her voice came in low and soft. It was like a hissing sound under a heavy rainfall.

She said, “I think you’re right.”

“You think?”

She said, “We never talked about our dislikes and likes.”

I said, “I already know what you like.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I can name them.”

“Ok.”

An echo came on the line and I thought the line was dead.

I said, “Are you there?”

Jeanice’s soft voice came on the line, to reassure me that she was still around.

“I’m here.”

I said, “Being human you deserve to be loved, and I don’t need you to tell me.”

“Ok,” she said, “what else?”

“Before I continue,” I said, “let me say that I can only imagine you.”

She said, “What do you mean?”

“Remember I said I cannot say I miss you,” I repeated, “because I don’t know you.”

“You’re right,” she said.”

I said, “I can miss hearing your voice.”

“Yes,” she said, “and I can miss hearing yours, too.”

“I’ve seen your picture,” I said, “and therefore I can only imagine you.”

“Oh,” she said, “but I didn’t hear what you said from the beginning.”

I said, “Hello sweetheart was what I said.”

“Ok lover-boy,” she said, “and that was why I asked about what you said.”

I was smiling from my end. Like all things in life, distant relationships were some of the enduring ones. Internet had made it easy for easy communication. The element of having romantic relations with someone on the opposite end of the world was becoming fashionable, and it was my first time into it.

I said, “As I was saying about you…”

“Yes,” Jeanice said.

“I know you’ve value, meaning you mean a lot to me.”

“Yes,” she said.

“A man needs to cheer you up.”

“Ok,” she said.

I said, “You need to be surprised.”

She laughed.

She might have felt the truth of what I said, because I had surprised her with a wonderful gift, when she had not asked me for it. The discussion was heating up, but then she made a request.

She said, “I’ve a signal that my battery is dying.”

I knew then that it was time to end the discussion. She had told me about the frequent rains in her town, Monrovia, and it was clearly the reason sometimes the phone-networks would interrupt in our frequent discussions. As we said goodbye to each other, I could only imagine her.

                                                                                            The End

By Omari Jackson

     It was difficult the day I saw her image, and as I gazed at her picture, my heart’s beat increased and I felt the world would not be the same again for me.

    I said, “Honey…” and lost my capacity to continue. Her voice was calm, and full of life, when she said, “I mean it,” and tears came down my eyes.

    Her message, sent to me on facebook, said, “I’m a very weak woman,” and I could hear the echoes of her anguish of tears.

   I said, “You’re worried for no reason, Honey P.”

 She said, “I was afraid of losing you.”

  I said, “What happened?”

  She said, “I just don’t know.”

My hand shook at the thought of her anguish, and I blamed myself for that. For starters, Honey P told me that love was in her heart for me.

 At the time I said, “Honey P, isn’t love a dangerous animal?”

  She said, “Sometimes my heart would want to break.”

“Why?” I said, “Haven’t I told you, you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to me?
She laughed.

  Then she said, “I was so afraid.”

   I said, “Afraid of what, Honey P?”

She could not reply and I could hear her breathing, so hard.

  I said, “Is honey not sweeter than even sugar?”

  She said, “It is, honey do you believe that?”

Her question hit me on my face, and I laughed at that one. It was apparent that her reaction was due to the accidental removal of my facebook content that made it difficult for her to access it. I did not realize it at first and so when I was able to understand the reason of her agony, I rushed to my facebook account to fix the damage.

   Having repaired the cause of her anxiety and reassuring her of my undying love, I said, “Honey P, you are reaching an unfortunate conclusion.”

  She said, “How could I not reach such a conclusion?”

  I said, “You realize I did not mean it?”

She said, “I am so weak now.”

I said, “Huh?”

She said, “Yes.”

I could no longer allow the woman of my dream to shed unnecessary tears for me, and I had to move in to assure her of my undying love.

I said, “Give some meaning to your tears, Honey.”

She said, “Am I losing you?”

I said, “No, honey.”

She said, “You can say that again.”

With that reply, I assured Honey P of my growing confidence in her. Our love was in its infancy, and we were yet to make it official. The thought of meeting her the very first time was building up in my lanky frame of body. For truly speaking, Honey P was an angel, and her pictures proved that to me.

I said, “Honey P, you’re an angel.”

She could no longer control her tears, and she said so.

“I’m trying to be.”

I said, “Honey P, you’re already my angel.”

She said, “Thank you, love.”

I said, “Remember there is no one but you.”

She said, “I’m confident now.”

It was enough for me, as a smile came on my face.

I said, “Enjoy your day, Honey P.”

She said, “So long and take care of yourself.”

Though we were writing to each other, it was like we were sitting face to face. My heart jumped with gladness, and as I signed off from my facebook account, I was reassured of Honey P’s faith in our enduring friendship. With the thought of Honey P in my heart, I slumped on the couch, and before long I was dreaming, meeting Honey P again in memory lane.

By Omari Jackson

Vanessa Brown’s eyes met mine and the message seemed clear to me, and I responded in kind. A smile came across my face, and I turned to look at her.

She said, “Hi,” and smiled.

“Are you a Liberian?” I said, shaking my head.

“My mother is a Liberian,” she said, “and my dad is a Ghanaian.”

“Good,” I said, “have you been to Liberia before?”

She said, “No.”

I knew she was one of the children born in the United States, and had not had the chance or opportunity to visit the countries where their parents originated.

Vanessa’s voice was soft, and her eyes were delicate and curious.

“Can you give me a number?”

She said, “Yes…” but did not finish the sentence.

I nodded my head, and I could not hide the excitement that was building in me. It was not that I had not seen Vanessa until that time. The truth was it was the very first time that I was taking the time to chat with her and to at least come to know her.

All the time I had seen her, she appeared to be a wonderful young woman of great promise, for she was so young, and the promise was too clear for me to see. She seemed in her early twenties. Her body was athletic, meaning she had been keeping eyes on her weight. She had on a nice pairs of jeans, which complemented the blouse she wore.

It was clear she was a woman of fashion, though she was now working for NCR, whose Suwannee location, I had been assigned and where we were checking each other’s up.

I said, “What’s your name,” and turned to look away, for her smile was like a magnet, which I could not ignore.

 “Vanessa,” she said, and smiled again.

“I need you to call me.” I was becoming fond of her, a secret admirer, the reason being that my spirit was taking her and loving her. It was like meeting a friend for the first time and a part of you suggesting there should be some personal contact.

She said something which I did not hear, and I went closer to her to hear it.

I said, “What did you say?” straining to hear her.

“I don’t have a phone,” her soft voice breaking the silence in my brain.

Which was strange but I did not voice it up to her.

I said, “Why?”

She smiled, and I could read a sense of unhappiness in her face. Nonetheless I probed on and staring her in the face, I heard her soft voice penetrating my brain.

“I owed a lot on my phone and so until I pay it,” she said, “I may not be able to call you.”

I said, “How much are you talking about?”

“It’s big,” she said.

I kept my focus on her face, as we walked towards her area of assignment.

“How much is it?”

She said, “It’s like two hundred dollars.”

She was given me this message two days after I had hoped to hear from her, but did not.

“I see,” I said.

She said, “That’s why I could not call you.”

I said, “You don’t make any effort to call me, for I can raise the money in two weeks for you.”

After some seconds she said, “Ok I’ll try.”

It took a couple of days, and when we met, she stressed on the phone problem again.

“Do you have a facebook account?” trying to find another medium to communicate with her till the phone problem was solved.

She said, “Yes.” She turned around, and I walked alongside her.

I said, “Can you give it to me?” She rolled her eyes, and I could see a smile on her face.

 “Ok,” she said, and smiled her usual smile again, swinging her hands back and forth.

What I was learning from Vanessa was that anytime she smiled, her beauty would enhance her image, and my heart would go out to her. It was a strange feeling, and the idea that I always wanted to see her became more pressing.

I was no kid and therefore I could handle any situation of that nature. However, that I would always want to see Vanessa was what excited me.

Though I could not get her facebook information, a social network, I consoled myself, saying, “She would be back here tomorrow.” That assurance kept me sane, as I waited for the next day to come. But why was I too much to know about Vanessa? What was happening to me? I could not find an answer to satisfy my questions.

It was just that I liked her and therefore I had to make the extra effort to get to know her a little better.

But suppose she continued to indicate that she had no way of calling me on the phone, though I already gave her my number?

Then of course I could explore the avenue to provide her with some assistance. Was that the best way to begin a friendship with such an incredible, but charming woman? I examined the issue but I could not come out with a reasonable answer.  But that did not stop me, and did not lessen my desire to see and speak with Vanessa Brown again.

So on the third day when I saw her, I was elated, and shouted at her as she walked along with a couple of her workmates.

 I said, “Hi Vanessa,” and my voice was so high that she heard me and turned, and with a smile on her face, indicated with her hand that she would come near me soon.

“I didn’t get the facebook account as you promised,” I said, with a smile. I was following her example, and it was a good thing.

Vanessa smiled, and explained she did not see me the previous day, which was the truth.

I said, “Can you give it to me today?”

 She agreed, and said she would see me later.

And lo and behold, before she left that evening, she returned with the facebook information, and though I was far away from my station, she lifted her hand, and when I nodded, she placed the piece of paper on the computer I had been working with.

Few minutes later, when I held the piece of paper in my hand, I saw her “email address” and smiling at it, I placed it in my trouser pocket, with firm satisfaction.

Though Vanessa was out of my sight, I could still hear her soft voice in my ears. This was a wonderful experience.

The End

By Omari Jackson

Caroline’s eyes filled with tears, as she wrung her hands.

“This is difficult,” she said, as she flung her right hand about herself. “Did you see all these, Benarda?” Benarda‘s eyes stared her as if in disbelief.

She said, “I was there, this is not something someone told me,” and hesitated for her response to sink into her friend, then said, “It was like a movie, you know.”

Caroline could not agree to that. Her unwillingness to accept the events that led to the death of Holman did not surprise her.

For Holman was the father of her three children and though during their eight years of marriage, Holman never treated her like the woman she was.

True, he was what Benarda described as a compulsive liar at heart, but Caroline did not, or she failed to accept that her former husband was what he had been described.

But now that it seemed he was dead by his own actions, Caroline, deep down her heart, could not agree that her patience in enduring the years of suffering under Holman had been paid.

She remembered the early stages of their married, how sweet and remarkable Holman was. It was then that she heard the voice of her friend, as if from afar.

“It was difficult at first,” she said, her eyes wide as she hung on the chair, “but when I went closer, it was clear that he was the one.”

Caroline said, “Where was Napoleon?”

“I did not see him at first,” Benarda said, “not until the police came.”

“You mean,” Caroline said, “both were dead already?”

“The police now think so.”

Caroline said, “So what did they say happened?”

“Officer Mark was one of the first to be on the scene,” Benarda said, “and he told me later that he believed the two men committed suicide.”

Caroline listened and waited for some seconds before she mustered courage to say, “Why did they kill themselves? Why?”

Benarda said, “You know our wedding anniversary was on Thursday, and Napoleon told me we needed to celebrate it.”

Caroline remembered the third anniversary of her wedding, and how she had visited several places, including the historic Martin Luther King Jr, center in downtown Atlanta. Like a movie reel, she could see Holman holding fast to her hands and with her eyes aglow with joy, moved leisurely down the main street to the center.

Holman said, “Can you believe our marriage has reached three wonderful years?”

She laughed at the way he said it, before saying, “I’m glad to get you as a husband.”

Holman said, “When you bowed before the altar and declared to the world that you would be my wife, I knew I was the happiest man on earth.”

But the thought of Holman’s declaration of his love for her was mixed with his violent behavior, two weeks’ later.

With tears now in her eyes, she now remembered  the dramatic change that came over Holman, and how that led to more violent behavior.

Coming out of her day-dream, Caroline said, “Sometimes I don’t understand how what seems to be a perfect relationship becomes so violent?”

Benarda said, “You know Napoleon was one of the sweetest men I could have but then see what happened? There was nothing I could do to help him…”

Caroline could agree to that.

How long did it take Holman to become a monster? Two weeks? It happened two weeks after their third anniversary but she condoned his behavior till the eighth year of their relationship. Did she have any reason for that?

Benarda broke her thoughts: “At least you have three beautiful children out of your marriage.” Caroline could hear the sadness in Bernadetta’s voice, and moved closer to comfort her.

Both women sat at the 345 Classic Apartments where Caroline had been staying for the last two years since her marriage to Holman ended. Though she had had the occasion to call the police, reporting that someone like her former husband was stalking her, she never encountered him.

In their last encounter, Holman’s violent assault sent her to the Gwinnet Medical Center, and she was in surgery for three days. It was after that experience she realized she could not save Holman, and she was better living alone than being with him.

Napoleon, yes, sweet Napoleon as Benarda described him, was a man whose descent into violence against her friend had come as a surprise. Caroline could not believe that Napoleon’s friendship with her Holman changed the former so much.

She heard about their drinking binges, and she had had the occasion to advice both men, but it seemed to have fallen on death ears. But if it was true that both men had committed suicide, what could or was the motivating factor to that? Searching her mind, she could not find any reasonable motive. The police could come up with a theory of what might have happened to the two men.

She was thinking about what she would tell her three children about their father. Suppose they ask her, whether their father was a good man, what would she tell them? It might depend on what kind of good her children would want to know.

She was a good mother, caring for her children’s needs. She could not remember a time in her life when she had to demand to know about her own father. True, her father was always there, safe the period he had to leave from their small town, somewhere in Colombia to come to the United States.

A smile came across her face.

Then Benarda said, “We need to take courage,” and smiled, gazing at her friend.

Caroline said, “I know,” lifting her face to meet her friend’s gaze. The morning weather felt warm, and she believed what the weather people had been saying in the TV the other night.

Caroline said, “Sometimes it is just difficult with the children but all the same I’m glad they bring me some joy and comfort.”

“I know,” her friend said, and laughed.

True, Caroline was now in a relationship, she did not know if she was ready any time soon, to rush the man to the altar. Sometimes the idea of marriage made her cringe, but she knew she would need to marry in her life someday. Though she would not allow any man to treat her like Holman did, she was now prepared to play a meaningful role, and be a woman of her own.

As the door squeaked open, she knew it was time to get breakfast for her children.

The End

By Omari Jackson

      The icy weather held Georgia captive, and for the first time in many years, Atlanta felt the pangs of the winter cold. But no one thought it would be her final moments in life, despite the truth that there is a time to be born and to die.

     “How did it happen?”

      The voice boomed from behind me. I whirled around; a young woman of about twenty three was standing there, her face serious and wanting to know how Elizabeth’s death had come. I could not figure out where I had known her, but true Elizabeth had been pronounced dead when she was rushed to the local hospital, the night before.

     “I wish I know,” I said, with a weak smile.

      The young woman held her head high, and though it was a little dark in my apartment I could see worry on her face.

      “Do you believe that she is dead?”

     “I don’t know what to believe,” I said, “but it has been reported in the media and those who had gone there brought the news that she was dead.”

     “Did you know her personally?”

     “Not exactly,” I said, grinning bitterly in the face that seemed to change at every speech, “I know friends who knew her, and she was a sweet young woman.”

      “Oh,” she said, as if she was no longer interested in the discussion, “they say that about all of them.”

       “What did you say?”

        My voice was louder now, but I could not feel the presence of anyone in the room. It was then that I began to have a fit.

       My body shook, involuntarily, and my hands danced by my side. Who was I talking to?

        I sauntered toward the corner of the room, and checked around and there was no one in there.

       I began to talk to myself.

      Anyone here? Was I going mad or something? I was talking to someone a while ago but who was that?

     Fear held me captive. My two-bedroom apartment was becoming a nightmare for me. Then I began to get the picture somehow clearer.

      A Liberian woman was reported to have been struck down, along with an American woman, when they stopped their cars to check a fender-bender, and another woman had driven straight through the women, killing them both.

      The story on the news had unnerved me, and I was wondering how could that tragedy have been prevented, and then boom, someone, a woman, had responded and we had chatted for a while.

      I initially thought it was a dream or that I was standing somewhere outside and there were people familiar with the case, and therefore I was sharing my opinion on the story, but did not realize that I was alone in the room and someone had come to join in the dialogue.

     “This is weird,” I told myself, and by now my body had adjusted to the fear, and my hands were no longer dancing by my side.

      The noise startled me.

       “Who is that?” I shouted, and moved towards the door. I had been living alone in this apartment for the last two years, and it was the first time that I was becoming openly afraid to remain here alone.

        A voice said, “Huh?”

       “Huh what?” I said, nearing the location now, my heart fluttering in my chest. Questions came to my mind, and I wondered if someone was playing some tricks on me. I did not know the young woman who had been reported dead, and considering the nature of her death, I was in sympathy with her.

     Accidental death is one of the most unfortunate ones in places where every day trip is made by a car. But from her story, she was apparently coming from work or something and when the fender bender occurred, she wanted to make sure that there was nothing wrong with the car.

     My residence in Lawrenceville neared one of the local grave sites, and though there were always fresh-painted graves, I never saw anyone burying relatives there.

    On several occasions, I wondered about the future of mankind, and had reassured myself that since in death there is no conscious existence, it sounds reasonable that the dead will be concealed till the resurrection promised in Scripture.

   The idea of a resurrection has always comforted me, and also by knowing what is also written in Scripture that whether we live or die, everything is to His (Jesus’) glory, and therefore I have a comfortable understanding of death and its mystery.

     But then why could such a belief? It was clear that someone had been in the room with me, but who was she?

     Having searched all the corners that I thought someone could hide to scare me, and finding no one, I rushed to the center table and grabbed the Holy Bible, and held it in my hands, like a mother cuddling an only child, after a tragedy.

     “The Lord is my Sheppard,” I sang, “and I shall not want.”

      Like a riddle, my tongue rattled the famous Psalm 23, and in a few seconds, I had regained some reassurance of God’s grace, deep in thought.

     I could not help, but felt appreciative of God’s wonderful comfort for the living, realizing that no matter what the situation would be, God would be our only protector.

     The mystery of life is fraught with uncertainties, and it is only in the Scripture that some understanding is gleaned from the curse of it. Salvation was becoming clearer to me now, for after all our hard work, if death would smother everything, and there is an apparent hopelessness, then why was man described as the glory of Devine Creation?

     I could not imagine the shock when the death of the young Liberian sister was announced to the family, somewhere in Atlanta, and as I gazed at the distance, watching and imagining it, I shuddered at the thought, but I regained the comfort that is promised for those who wait on the Lord.

      Personally, I had been waiting on the Lord; the day violence broke out in Liberia and smothered the living and the beast.

      In my most difficult moments, I had sought refuge and sang the song, Amazing Grace, and when the goings seemed tough, I would hide behind the song, “Hear Me Dear Lord, For the Days Are Wicked,” and these had comforted me!

      Now with the death of a young Liberian sister, I was awakening to the reality of sorrow. And what was more, the recent tragic earthquake in poor Haiti, where close to two hundred thousand were buried alive, gave me much to think about.

     “We should always remember the only condition that is inevitable,” I said it aloud, “for in the end, which comes unexpected, we would meet mankind’s enemy to complete the circle of our existence.”

       I may never be able to know who engaged me in the conversation, but one thing I was finally certain about was my determination to face the certainty and the uncertainty of life head-on. For the Scripture has also assured that there is no hatred, work or devising in the grave, where the living finally end up in death.

       “I know she is gone,” I mused, “may God’s undeserved kindness remember her forever.”

                                                                       The End

Copyright

    2010

                               By Omari Jackson

    James could not admit that he was fast losing himself. He was twenty two, and for the last three weeks, he had found it hard to even sleep and eat. Why? It was the simple question that had come into his mind, since the beginning of the three weeks.

   Sitting under a shade, he held a book between his hands, and frantically searched in between to see something. What did he want, really? He appeared confused, and on several occasions, he put the book down on a table beside him and looked into the heavens. He was searching for an answer, and that answer was not in the house of God.

   “Hmm…” His breath was long and hard. He was about one hundred and forty pounds, and his hands were rather long. His face was coarse, and it was said that he looked like his father. But who should he resemble? Sony was not the type to argue when others decide to make him the subject of their gossip. He was not the one to even challenge others when they spoke badly about him.

   He was not the kind also to fight back in any way, which did not mean he was some kind of a coward.

   Now his heart was completely empty, and had been empty the day he came to know Dorian Gray, the beautiful eighteen year old, who lived a block away from his residence in his Arizona quarters.

   He was taking the situation very hard, and for all he knew he might find life more attractive if Ms. Gray did not agree to share her love with him.

   He had heard about people, some his age that had committed suicide when the love they had anticipated failed to respond to the dictates of their hearts, and had wondered how that could be. To die for love could be a noble thing to do in fiction, he knew, but in reality should be in the hands of God. His determination was to win Ms. Gray’s heart by telling her how he felt about her.

   And when the opportunity came to him three days ago, he had told her, despite the difficulty he had felt from the beginning:

   “I cannot explain this, Ms. Gray.” He had begun the confession with a little difficulty, his voice losing its vitality, and his hands shaking. He held his hands as if he was playing with his belt to keep them steady. “I must confess my love for you.”

   There was a giggle, as if of derision from the young woman, as both sat under the very shade of the tree they were occupying. Initially she had feigned angry, and had twisted her mouth like any little girl would.

   Then she laughed, and turned her face away from him.

   “Do you mean it?”

    It was not a question to Sony, for he had meant it the moment he set his eyes on her, one Sunday after church, and he had said it all. Looking around him, he realized the opportunity for him to re-emphasize and spill what had been in his heart for several days, until then had presented itself.

   “To demand whether I mean it,” he said, a smile curling up on the corner of his mouth, “is like asking me if I am sound in mind.” He waited a couple of seconds, to hear her speak.

     Then she spoke, and laughed a little louder, before she said again, “Give me sometime to think about your request.”

    What seemed like cold bumps had descended upon him, and in a daring move, he thrust his hands to hold her, which she did not withdraw.

     That day was like day of blessing for him.

      Afterwards they had walked together, holding hands, and after he had come out of what seemed like some confusion in his mind, the young woman told him, she was not sure she understood what was happening.

    “I have observed you in our community here,” she told James Sony, “You’re different and you appear to be a serious kind of guy.”

     “I appreciate your comment,” he had also told her, grinning from ear to ear.

     “But,” she continued, and James pricked his ears to hear what was coming, “I feel we are different, since you come from Africa and….”

     “But we’re the same, and I love you to death.” James’ open retort had held what he considered a kind of fascination for her, for she had looked into his eyes, and seeing the fire in there, had remarked, “I’m not sure my parents will agree for us to become what you just told me.”

     She had walked on hurriedly and before James knew what was happening, she was gone.

    Now as he considered that experience, he could only sit and wait, hoping that someday, some power from above would come down and direct his actions. The thought about a young African girl, who had recently come to their neighborhood, now came to his rescue. She was young, and beautiful, too!

    He remembered the first time they met somewhere, also at the church. Her face radiated some innocence, and she had smiled at him. He now wondered why he failed to read the meaning on her lips. That Sunday, she had simply said, “Hi, I’m Mickey.” Now he remembered the sweet aroma that had emanated from her, and he wanted to ask himself how he could have failed to understand her.

   Now that Ms. Gray had reminded him that he was an African, he decided to take some interest in those of his kind, maybe he could find a companion, to give him the kind of happiness that he had always wanted.

   He felt bitter, but not angry, for love was meant to bring happiness.

   Standing up, he looked into the heavens again, and instead of questioning himself, he understood the truth that he must go for his kind, the very people that would not remind him of where he had come from.

   There was a smile at the corner of his mouth, as he picked the book on the table beside him. He walked leisurely and crossed the road, feeling a sense of peace in his heart. He would not worry anymore, no matter what.

   The reason, he now admitted with all his heart, saying, and “love is made to be celebrated and enjoyed to the end.”