Eva Acqui


Eva Acqui is Hungarian by birth, Liberian by marriage. Her poems reveal an intimate acquaintance and tender love affair with Liberia’s peoples and landscape. She writes:

I feel that I understood and have loved Liberia and the people enough for me to be considered a ‘Liberian writer,’ by Liberians themselves. I went through the 1985 coup, through the outbreak of the war, and did my best in working for various peace related issues, but I was finally pushed away by family and friends, things worsening there. Many of the people in the family, friends, urged me to leave and tell the story. I made a promise to my people there that I will use my brain and words to fight. This is one of the purposes of my life. My weapon is the word, which I will use until the voice is heard, because I am extremely indignant about what happened to Liberia. Some day all this effort has to yield results. There are things we live with night and day, one of these is the feeling of belonging to a country, a community, a people. How can I forget something which is so alive? I feel rain all over me and I hear the ocean roar. I haven't been able to cure my sadness and it is always associated with rain.

Reminiscing about her years spent in Liberia, from "Red Light District to Sinkor to Kakata to Bong Mines", Eva effortlessly and fluently slides into Liberian English:

The beach in Bassa, when you move small up from the Buchanan port area, towards the opposite end of the town, there are some huge rocks, and a little gulf, surrounded by palm trees on the left side, and so-so bush on the other side. The water is crystal clean, all blue, and the sand is very clean. From there, you can go up into the bush, for the big lobsters. That's the place you send for Ma' Esther, a Bassa woman who know everything about fried fish and pepper.

Eva’s poem, Back in Sinkor, was published by the International Association of Poetry, of which Eva holds a Distinguished Member title.

Back in Sinkor

Love of Liberty

Love of liberty brought you here,
along the sun’s and ocean’s crest,
to a paradise grown out of nowhere,
to host your people in its nest.

They found iron, diamond, gold, and stood still in front of them:
to divide, to split, or hold?
what to do with all that gem?

Evil spirits of the treasure
shaped rebels, soldiers out of men.
They hold guns and start to measure
all the riches unearthed then.

Wooden idols stare helplessly
over land deserted, burnt,
while people tread on diamonds
weeping over blood-stained gold.

Drum beat, praise and dance,
all cease on your blessed shore,
and the love of liberty hence does not bring people anymore.

Rebel Woman

(Snyder, you’ve always been on my mind)

Tired and dusty,
she sat by the road,
her green, spotted uniform
and sneakers outworn.

She took off her hat
and leaned against a tree,
her rifle on the ground,
rough hands on her knee.

One of her chest pockets
hid a pack of cigars.
she lit one, then
threw the rest in the grass.

The bush grew around her,
dense, hot and green,
over the place where once,
her house, children and
husband had been.