Where There Once was Sand

An Excerpt from

In The Constellation Leo

By Alfreda L. A. Clarke

During the early 1990’s, my family and I resided for a brief time at one the capitol city’s finest hotel resorts—Hotel D’Afrique; courtesy of the Liberian civil war. If you had been living under a rock for a while and were dropped at Hotel Africa during that time, you wouldn’t even know that there was a war going on. From the palatial high rise hotel with its jumping nightlife, to the fanciful villas strung out along the beach, the resort boasted a simple grandeur that had now become the playground for the civil war’s pseudo-elite; a group which my family and I had become a part.  It was all in who you knew now, (who had the most guns and the most power). Or had it always been?  Someone in the know knew my father, so the result was a lovely beach-front villa with sweeping views of the sea. It was a haven temporarily safe and unspoiled. One would have to drive down the long stretch of private road that intersects the city main and then drive on that road into the heart of Monrovia to notice any desolation and despair consistent with the cruelty of the war; or maybe you’d have to hear the gunfire or cries of woe drifting from one of the frequent death scenes. From here, for now, all you could hear were the gentle lapping of the waves, soft breezes that swayed the palm and coconut trees, the sound of laughter and good times.

We latched on to it—the good times–it seemed the only way how.  And with four post-adolescent girls residing in Villa #5, it was hard not to. There were frequent get-togethers, girls’ nights and outings to the hotel’s nightclub (no ID check).  One all-nighter ended with us leaving the dark atmosphere of the club in the early hours of a Sunday morning.  A Sunday morning. Sunday afternoons were the most fun. It was when all the main town folks flocked to the beach for the day. There you could hear the frequent squeals of long lost friends; friends we thought had fled to America, joined one of the fighting groups, or were dead. There were always simple joys on Sundays. Like not being dead.

The rest of the days held a fascination for me that centered on the beach. I craved the feel of sand in my toes; loved watching the sun kiss the horizon on a quiet evening. And the water—on a clear day, the sea sat so low that you could wade out for nearly a mile and still be standing in waist-deep clear blue water.  A friend and I had gone out that far once, under the auspices of learning how to swim.  But more often than not, it was just me and my notebook, writing down the things a teenage girl from the other side of the world writes down when caught in a third-world country’s civil war: boys, of course.  Along with that was a feeling of sadness for the land I once knew and an apprehension that we all felt but no one talked much about.  Nothing now was certain or any condition permanent, as the locals were fond of saying. Somewhere in my teenage mind I knew that this idyllic island existence could not last much longer.

It was from the gentle slope of sand of the back end of the villa that I heard the commotion. My father called out and all of us (my mother, sisters, brothers and I) gathered to the front car port to watch a procession. It seemed one of the reigning warlords had taken it upon himself to ride in a presidential-style convoy, along with his young entourage of gun toting freedom fighters, through the resort’s tiny streets.  It also seemed we would indulge him. Other households stood as we did, waving and cheering politely as they snaked their way through the villas. Our “saviors”. Hell, no one wished to die that day so we played the part of a doting people. The warlord walked a part of the way and paused to shake hands and chat.  As he passed Villa # 5, he stopped in front of me, as say a stripper in a strip club who’s confident in his prowess and reputation finds the one female patron in the room who looks terrified to death and in awe at the same time.  He reached out his hand to me. I looked to my father. He gave a small nod, so I reached out and shook hands of a known killer. I didn’t know this for a fact and there was no physical blood on him but, one heard things.

That night it rained something awful and the following morning, on my pristine piece of beach was a dinner plate sized section of black rock.  I thought it blemished my paradise and I wanted to cover it, which I did, with sand.  Over the next weeks the season changed and more rocks appeared as the sand washed away. I sat there some days, now on a smooth part of a large rough stone instead of soft sand, and watched as the seas became harsher; angrier, the waves growing bigger and eating away at the beach.  One Sunday morning soon after that, I opened the window looked out toward the beach to find the biggest black slate rocks you have ever seen gathered in one place at one time. It’s like they came out of nowhere; like they were flung out by warring angels in some overnight battle.  No more sand; just huge car-sized stone being slapped and beaten by the encroaching sea. A wave landed at that moment and sent enough spray to drench my face.  I figured it would soon be time for us to leave this place. I shut the glass and tasted on my lips the bitter, salty sea.

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