Chapter Eight - Circling Back

Saturday, August 10; Sunday, August 11: Ah yes, these are the protocols of a West African wrap-up weekend.

There’s Saturday morning’s last slug of hair-inducing Americano at Kaldis; scoring good gift material, hand-sewn, from Jay’s colleague Willette; and my guest-chef turn at Jay’s house Saturday night (patented “hot dog” spaghetti, African ingredients approximating) while Myia rocks out post-meal to Jay’s brother Steve’s loud and lively tune selection and the widescreen streams (with sound down) women’s WWF Wrestlemania Tag Team Smackfest. #yesTimthistooreallyisAfrica.

Come Sunday and Jay and I are on the road to the New Georgia Baptist Church, way on the far side of town, beyond the paving and through the massive whole road puddles aspiring to become ponds, if not lakes. We arrive, sit front row right as is custom, with the service is starting. I hope I’m not really a novelty here any longer, being I’ve been coming for over 12 years. This is certainly no longer novelty to me.

The choir has new director and they are popping. Pastor Wesley is up and he’s energized, preaching it man, “… will you pass the test, Passing a Godly Test?!”

The congregation is vibrating, reminded, inspired and aspiring to the Higher Scale that’s always there, no matter the “impossible” crush of material Reality. This is community true, power in fellowship, in shared struggles and triumph, in Faith. Religion is from the Latin re-ligio, “binding back together.” Perhaps in Africa, it’s no more starkly illustrated: there would be no individual or collective perseverance without congregations as this, any faith, prevailing. New Georgia Baptist: “This is the Church Where Everybody is Somebody, Because Jesus Christ is Lord.”

We pass through Red Light Market (named for what was once one of

the nation’s two novelty traffic lights and normally a ten-plus on the “packed and chaotic” scale, but definitely in Sunday-light mode today). We navigate ELWA junction (Eternal Love Winning Africa, named for the nearby radio station and marked by huge broadcast antenna). We arrive at Global Cares Mission Academy, a modest (understatement) school and orphanage found at the end of a non-descript lane at the other end of ELWA.

My first stop on my first morning ever in Liberia (May, 2007?) was at Global Cares. Then, it was in another house nearby. When we got out of the car (tropical hot, Equatorial Sun straight down), there was the buzz of A LOT of children in there. The “living room,” size of a couple of saunas only hotter, had an easy 150 kids packed in. Mother Florence had them greet (“GOOD MORNING SIR … HOW ARE YOU?? … WE ARE FINE”), then sing in unison, overwhelming. Then Mo Flo kind of took me by the collar to a backroom, crammed

me into a desk small for a ten-year-old, and with her staff as witnesses announced in no uncertain terms that I was helping them, I was from America and I was definitely helping them.

We have been friends ever since. So today is the customary courtesy visit, press a bill into Mother Florence’s hand, commune with ever-present young, younger and youngest (mainly tactile), and take the photo op. (note: impossible to take a bad shot of an African kid).

Two sans-parents residents I’ve been tracking particularly are Prince (first met him at three, 2008, in yellow cloth jumper, perpetual runny nose, then the adored baby of the litter, irritated at his disadvantage but keeping up) and Titus (a similar man-baby, 2014). Prince is 12 now, to my knowledge still to crack a smile; Titus around 8, lighter; both Persisting. Same could be said of Mother Florence, colleague Reuben Boe and their whole fledgling flock. Survive here despite all the reasons why not, no choice.