I married late and by accident, not because I hated women (they are men’s best friends)—nor because I was afraid of putting a girl in trouble to be forced to marry her in consequence. Though men and women live their separate lives in keeping with our tradition, they’re always in dire need of each other, and so no bachelors or spinsters are ever found in Kpelleland.
        I grew up healthy, happy, and deeply involved with such boyhood activities as wrestling, hunting, fishing, and farming. After each day’s hard work, we boys renewed our strength with the delicious dinners our mothers cooked. If the moon was up we played kpeya or danced demabai with our girlfriends in the square; should the moon refuse to shine, we sat with them by firesides and told tales. When our involvement with girls became intimate and frequent, the Elders judged that it was time we were initiated into the Poro Society, as it would be sacrilegious should we impregnate girls without going through the sacred ritual.
        Although initiation is a terrifying ordeal, we preferred it to The Bush Thing’s chilling esoteric voice, which sent us uninitiated boys behind closed doors and under beds, frightened to death, whenever it roared unexpectedly at night in Haindi. Many a non-initiate including myself often suffered diarrhea due to fright during these horrible raids. I remember a boy dying in a faint one night when The Bush Thing paid Haindi a surprise visit. And so as we danced to the sacred grove on our Initiation Day, swinging wooden spears and swords with the frenzied claps and war songs of a surging crowd—our capering feet filling the air with billowing dust—we challenged The Bush Thing to a “battle that will claim your ugly head!”
        Even though the Kpaan trembled and reverberated with the fierce roaring of the Poro Master, threatening us with instant death, we felt as if we had never lived until that day. We were on our way to becoming grown men and full-fledged members of the tribe—to winning the love and admiration of our girlfriends who wiped our necks and faces with their headties and cheered us with wild adulations—to freedom from the menace of The Bush Thing! We leaped and bounced and somersaulted; sweat bathed our naked trunks and drenched our scanty pants. When our “anger” reached its climax, I ranted out the last challenge: “You Naughty One, today your ears will become fanners for our mothers!” A futile gesture, but the crowd greeted it with resounding applause and cheers. Then The Bush Thing had ordered all women to leave. Then he “devoured” us. Then time had stood still, and we had graduated in four years at summertime amid elaborate feasting, love, and honor. Shortly after our graduation, the Land had whisked us to Kpolopele Mission to become kwii. Life seemed an endless battle no man could avoid or win.
        Too many government kwii now patrolled Fuama Chiefdom, demanding of the tribe countless cattle, foodstuff, livestock, money—and porlortor to haul their goods, make their farms, and be their servants. Tackling the naked thievery with any hope of success depended on young tribesmen’s joining the kwii world “to fight them with their own weapon.” It was another welcome battle, for the humiliation and cruelty of it all lay directly at our feet. Thanks to missionaries for gathering a large number of us on the secluded campus for schooling, away from the reach of the plunderers. How many times had our Elders, Chiefs, Zoes, and fathers not been tortured and even killed for failing to give the enemy what they wanted? How many times had we not fled Haindi on hearing a bugle herald the arrival of yet another group of these predators to town? Incensed with a determination to defend the lives and rights of our people as well as ours, we put woman palaver aside and trooped to the campus where we spent six long years “learning book.”
        Taking those of us who had managed to graduate to the Kpaan one sunny morning, the Elders expressed dismay when they noted that we were still in the grip of poverty, overtaken with age, and unmarried—while the ancestors cried to be reborn! Had we any laurels to show for our sacrifice? I spoke for the group, all eight of us. The Land couldn’t understand when I told them that the missionaries had armed us with Bibles to open their eyes.
        “Who says we’re blind?” cried Elder Gbakolo, his eyes trained on a patch of black cloud drifting eastward.
        “Let him complete his report,” Chief Gotoko intervened. “And what will they pay you for doing that?” he said, watching me askance.
        “Three dollars a month,” I said.
        “A cane or coffee farmer can earn twenty times that amount in less than a year,” the Chief heaved.
        “We’re working for God, not for money, NanGotoko,” remarked Lepolu in my support.
        “And that’s how you fellows will save us from the wicked government kwii and their cruel soldiers? Look,” the Chief said with severity, “we sent you boys to school to make better use of your heads. Don’t let white people fool you! They work for God but get enough pay to wear good clothes and shoes, eat good food, live in decent houses, and buy the best medicines when they’re sick. Right? I thought you boys would come home dressed in leather shoes, long pants, long-sleeved shirts, and hats—with kwii wives and plenty of money in your pockets.”
        “Don’t talk like that, Gotoko,” Elder Yaa Dawula conceded. “If such words reach the white people’s ears, we’re finished. It’s up to our sons to use, in the interest of the Land, the knowledge and skills they have learned from the Poro and the mission.”
        “Dawula, this is the only place where we can be frank and honest without fearing that what we say will reach the ears of sinners,” the Chief maintained wrathfully. “When the white man of God first came here, we welcomed him and placed the town in his hand with white kola and sheep—provided him with our best accommodation. When I returned his visit, he had no sleeping place for me. I came back home in the dark. Is that working for God?”
        “Gotoko, I too once paid Dougba a visit with a deer haunch as a gift,” recalled Elder Dawula. “He and his wife and two children were having their dinner. He gave me a seat and a picture book to look at while they ate. It’s unthinkable for a Kpelle to eat without inviting a neighbor—not to speak of a visitor—but it’s how they behave in their country.”
        “Then they shouldn’t talk about doing God’s work,” the Chief protested. “They say Yiseh their God went about healing and feeding people without charge—even gave up his life so that we may have eternal life—but it’s good, as you said, that they taught our children book. Our government only enslaves us, anyway.”
        The discussion lasted until nightfall with no conclusion reached. Each boy had to find his own solution to the dilemma. I decided to continue with my education in Firestone or Monrovia after a year of evangelizing, for I was utterly convinced that a sixth grade education could not equip me to save my people or myself from the naked exploitation. Yes, I believe that Christ wants us to live a happy, prosperous, and fulfilled life—and sound education is the only means of attaining such quality of life. I could not communicate my conviction to my friends, most of whom had planned to acquire wives in Zulo and Lorla Clans where another session of the Sande Society was winding to a close. For me marriage was not an option—had the missionaries’ injunction against sex turned me against it? They had taught us that sex is sin, and that virtue consisted in being celibate until after completing school when you were permitted to marry only one wife. Unable to endure the harsh restriction, some boys had fallen along the way.
        Pastor James Schneider, principal of the mission and supervisor of Fuama Parish, assigned Vatiikeh and me to Digei where, in the town’s large palaver house with half a dozen Elders present, he put us in Chief Borlormee’s hands with white kola and vouched for our good behavior. The old Chief received us with misgivings and the utmost reluctance, complaining that lodging young men was not his policy, for they were fond of tampering with his wives.
        “And how did you boys happen to be God’s messengers?” he wanted to know.
        Speaking through the head evangelist of Lorla Clan, Ezekiel Jonah the pastor declared with pride, “My boys know their Bible very well and are trained. Besides, they won’t have time to chase after women, for the work here is heavy. Digei is a large town! That’s why I brought these extra hands.”
        The white man’s assurance did not impress Chief Borlormee, but, accepting it with a scowl, he turned us over to two families for lodging. After the meeting, the Elders gave us the following “strong warning”:
        “Don’t listen to the white man. He knows nothing about our ways. As kenablaa you must respect our traditions on pain of death! All unmarried girls in this land are wives of the Chief. If you fellows fall in love with any of them, make it known to him, and he will give her to you for a price. Otherwise, you’ll be charged with ‘woman damage’ which will cost you ten dollars.”
        The tradition was no secret. Chiefs usually owned everything in their domains including lands, creeks, rivers, and all they contained—but tradition also ordained that lands and waters are common properties of the tribe, and all living things belong to God alone, so we gave no heed to the warning.
        Harvest just over, Fuama Chiefdom was in the firm grip of the dry season. Indeed the Land came alive more than ever: the evergreen forest was blooming, birds and monkeys cried with hilarity in the treetops, boars grunted in the thickets; bubbling with joyful expectations, parents and lovers hastened to Haindi—and even to Kakata—to sell rice, coffee, palm oil and buy clothes, soap, trinkets, earrings, mirrors, powder, and pomade with the proceeds for the new initiates.
        Digei overflowed with relatives and friends of the prospective graduates as well as Chiefs, Elders, Zoes, visitors, and travelers who could not help stopping over to witness the grand occasion—and possibly acquire new wives.
        Despite hard pressure on young bachelors to marry, I firmly held to my resolution, taking comfort in the saying we boys often chortled about campus: “Girls are a multiplication of troubles, subtraction of money, addition of responsibility, and dividers of friends!” I sometimes added “breakers of hearts” to the hassles, which now occurred to me as puerile: I had no money girls could subtract and once you left them alone, they never bothered with you.
        Quite suddenly one misty Saturday morning, the Sande Paa and Kulubah (harbingers of the graduates) invaded the town to resounding shotgun blasts. Before we could harness our senses, the rhythmic sounds of their ankle rattles had already turned the town upside down; ablaze with joy and curiosity, the people stampeded to them in one great sweep as they skittered around houses and wandered in the square, awash with perspiration. Well chalked and dressed in white skirts with fringed trimmings and suspenders crisscrossed in the middle of their backs and between their pliant breasts, the “new girls” wore tall hairdos decorated with white safety pins, threads of many colors, miniature round mirrors, and camwood patterned zigzag on their faces and bellies. Large bunches of beads hung on their necks and larger ones circled their waists; silver earrings sparkled on their earlobes. Stooped and holding wands plaited with black, red, and white beads, they danced with unusual vigor and jubilation—squealing, squeaking, and waving the wands with the cadence of tortoise shells gbolongai tapped with sticks, responding to their strident calls. Men threw coins and kola nuts at their feet, watching them with lustful eyes.
        “The slim one is mine,” I told Vatiikeh with raillery.
        “And the fat one is mine,” he said with a smile. Other young men were making the same claims.
        Sparsely dressed and meandering round the girls, a broad smile on her face, the Hawk came our way with an open palm on which young men tossed coins. Vatiikeh and I fought our way through the steaming crowd and flung two quarters in it. At sundown the girls disappeared into their Kpaan on the western outskirts. The town pulsated with praises for their expert performance—and with regrets for their summary departure. The fortnight that must intervene before “breaking the bush” seemed like ages, but daily feasting with rich food and palm wine made it slip through our fingers like fine sand. Graduation Day almost took us by surprise.
        Bent double, the graduates entered town one bright morning well dressed like the harbingers; they sauntered to the palaver house under the watchful eyes of their Zoes. The palaver house, which was decorated with new blankets, lappa, fresh palms, and furnished with new mats, could not contain them all; some sat outside on mats under umbrellas held over their heads. When the Land formally gave their blessings, a grand feast ensued, after which the “Dance of the Initiates” commenced in the square, stopping only when the moon had waned.
        Dancing gently in semi-circle, the girls sang a paean to the brevity of life, then an ode to love; then a passionate tribute to birds, the sun, the moon, and the rain—their piquant voices ringing through the town and piercing the echoing forest. The drums, bass and tom-tom, alternately exploded, moaned, murmured, and whispered to the accompaniment of the nostalgic songs. The crowd that habitually cheered such an excellent performance only watched the girls with reverence, lustily imbibing every bit of the thrilling music that invited you to celebrate life in defiance of all sorrows, worries, and anxieties. After maintaining this schedule of events for three consecutive days, the Zoes turned the new initiates over to their parents amid elaborate feasting and jubilation. And the battle over them began.
        Many wives lost their husbands to the new girls, and lovers who had amassed gifts for their beloved discovered to their dismay that their loved ones would rather marry school boys or sheer strangers from the blue. Aggrieved lovers settled scores with fisticuffs and even with knives and cutlasses, turning Digei into a battlefield. After all I made the right decision, I thought.
        Not a single service did we hold in Digei because all interest was focused on the graduation festival for weeks, especially the dance. Jonah, Vatiikeh, and I obligingly rang the gong in the palaver house each Sunday morning and called the people to worship with gospel songs, but nobody would come. Each Wednesday night we sat under the saffron light of a hurricane lantern in the palaver house and read the Bible with nobody else in attendance. Holding us responsible for the failure of the mission, Pastor Schneider dismissed the entire evangelism team but found it impossible to replace us. All the boys who had graduated with Vatiikeh and me had married and settled in the villages of their wives.
        The day we received our letters of dismissal, Vatiikeh and I sat under the eaves of my stranger house in the evening discussing our mutual predicament and making new plans.
        “What annoys me is not the loss of the job but his misleading criticism,” Vatiikeh said, then read from his dismissal letter: ‘—you have proved by your attitude that you don’t believe in God but in the desire of the flesh. I understand that all you fellows are concerned with up in Digei is woman. Is that the torch we gave you to take your people out of the darkness? You complain that the people don’t heed your worship summons. Why didn’t you go to them? The good Lord did not wait for people to come to him; he went to them wherever they were: on the fields, on the seasides, on the mountainsides, on the highways, in the homes, in the Temple—’” Vatiikeh put the letter back in his pocket, frowned darkly, and said, “The people followed Jesus and invited him to their homes of their own accord. He never imposed himself on them.”
        “The man stands charged with his own accusation,” I said dryly. “Were he a true believer he would have been here to accompany us to visit the people. They’ll pay more attention to him than to us. Anyhow, it’s useless debating the issue, for, as an Elder once told us, he has no knowledge of our manner of life. Whenever the Sande or Poro Society conducts a graduation, the celebrations override all other events.”
        “You are right! We’re old enough to decide what to do with our lives. I see no future for us in evangelism, anyway. It’s good we’ve learned how to read and write. As for me, I want to marry, settle here, and farm—perhaps one day I’ll become the Chief’s clerk.”
        “I’m going back to school.”
        “At your age?” Vatiikeh watched me incredulously. “Danuweli,” he declared, “you’re no longer a young man!”
        “It’s the hard life we live that makes us look old before our time. Anyhow, I want to prepare the way for my children. I don’t want them to become mere porlortor tomorrow. Let marriage wait.”
        Unexpectedly, a new girl brought a bowl of rice and soup and placed it by us on the bamboo bench.
        “Sengbe, this food is for you,” she blurted and sat by us. Scrutinizing her beautiful contours in the bright moonlight, we noted that it was Kulubah!
        “Thank you,” I told her quietly, trying to contain my fears. Our playful gesture had produced a practical result; I could be in trouble with the Chief. But Kulubah couldn’t afford to endanger our lives by being so brazen with her love had the Chief not permitted her to find her own man, I thought.
        My resolution now seemed irregular, for you never know what life has in store for you. Avoiding this invitation to love would not only cast a shadow between girls and myself, it would compromise my stature as kenamu, a title that had cost me so much time and trouble to earn. You can’t put on a lion skin and behave like cat. I must return Kulubah’s love.
        Vatiikeh congratulated me and went into the house for spoons and drinking water. “But where is my Paa?” he asked Kulubah when we began eating.
        “The Old Man has added her to his harem,” Kulubah informed him. “She has big enough body for him to hold.” She laughed slyly.
        “If that Old Man doesn’t look out, we’ll soon have a big funeral on our hands,” Vatiikeh said. We laughed heartily.
        Vatiikeh already had a girlfriend he was keeping under cover because she could be somebody’s wife or girl friend. “Woman palaver,” he often told me, “is not very pleasant. I love the pleasure in it but not the troubles.” Every day he challenged me to get a girl of my own—and keep it secret. Knowing that love affair could not be hidden no matter what you did, I was happy my resolution saved me the trouble. I never told Vatiikeh about it; but now, as fortune would have it, Kulubah had entered my life so boldly that I couldn’t make a secret of our relationship.
        “I saw you men give money to the Hawk for us that morning, but we’re not given such money,” she said. “The Zoes eat it. All the Hawk gave us was the information that you men wanted us.” Kulubah’s dimples deepened with a smile that exposed her even white teeth.
        Dressing close to her, I whispered my fears in her ear, “Won’t the Chief fine me for befriending you?”
        “Fine you?” she wrinkled her nose distastefully and glanced at me from the corner of her eyes. She loosened her headtie, revealing a beautiful hairdo that glittered in the moonlight; a soft breeze blew her scented pomade at us. My heart was pounding. “Don’t worry about that decrepit old man,” she said, retying the headtie. “His days are over but he doesn’t know it. What can he do with three hundred girls?”
         “Chiefs are husbands to all unmarried women in their chiefdoms—mostly for the women’s protection, and not to take them to bed,” Vatiikeh said as we ate the spicy chicken dinner.
        “But not this Chief,” Kulubah declared somberly. “He spares a young girl only when she has had a child for him. He doesn’t know he’s now too old for that.”
        All of a sudden Karney, my stranger mother, flew out of the house, shrilling: “Sengbe is a dog! Sengbe is a dog! Sengbe is a dog! Kulubah, you dog, who told you Sengbe doesn’t eat here? Take your food and get out of my sight!” The piercing voice tore the town, and a crowd of curious onlookers rushed to the house.
        The food having turned bitter in our mouths, we dashed the spoons aside; Vatiikeh restrained Karney while I held fast to Kulubah as she braced herself for battle.
        “Karney, you are a shameless witch!” cried Kulubah as she struggled to free herself. “Ever seen a woman with two husbands? You’ve had your children—what more do you want from men? You’re older than I am, but I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!”
        Several men came to our aid. As they struggled with the women, the Chief’s messenger squeezed his way to me and said that the Land wanted to see me immediately. My heart missed a beat. The deep-blue sky was suddenly overcast with a scudding black cloud. I felt creepy from head to foot as we picked our way in the impenetrable darkness to the Chief’s porch; I was hoping he’d judge the case impartially.
        “What are you doing with two women?” the Old Man drawled drowsily, staring at me with inebriated eyes. “I’m tired of lovers waging wars on each other for women in this town. I give you two weeks to leave Digei. Only two weeks! Don’t you know that Karney has a husband?”
        Yes I knew—and I had taken every care never to let our relationship exceed the stranger-hostess variety. Of course she had often told me of her aversion to “fattening frog for snake,” an allusion I never understood nor took seriously until now. Although the Chief gave me a different lodging for my two-week grace period, I decided that my best bet was leave the town because I knew that news would soon fly to Seywoo in Firestone that a school boy was tangled up with his wife. No, I didn’t want an angry man chasing me about with a cutlass.
        “You can’t run away from trouble,” Vatiikeh expostulated with me when we hung head over the problem. “It follows you wherever you go. Besides, woman trouble is no crime at all. Every man faces it. If you run away, people will say you’ve committed some grievous crime and are running from justice!”
        It’s no gainsaying that misfortune loves company! The next afternoon as a group of us boys returned from swimming in the town’s creek some thirty minutes south, we met, as usual, a group of women on the outskirts bathing in buckets by the roadsides. (The creek being small at this point, women bathed in buckets about ten yards away from it to avoid polluting it. On seeing a man approach them, they’d squat in the grass and press their thighs together; if he made the mistake of looking at them, they’d slaughter him with widened eyes. Men usually waited until they finished bathing before continuing their journey, or, if they were in a hurry, looked in the treetops with a fixed gaze and walked past them quickly. We often took the latter course.)
        As we walked with haste through the columns of naked women, our eyes fixed in the trees, who told me to turn my head round to see the rock or root I had stomped my toes against? A slim girl with abundant hair who was retying her lappa burst into tears when she glanced at me. Her weeping soon modulated into loud lusty wails. Puzzled, I wondered what I had done to offend her. As if fleeing from snake, I ran across the creek in the winking of an eye and joined my friends who had already entered the town. Then I lingered hoping the girl would catch up with me so that I may apologize to her. Her bathing mates who were mostly middle-aged, reproved her for the unprovoked weeping, shouting at me to go on and not fret over it. Crying was Teehma’s pastime, they said.
        Late that evening, Vatiikeh and I went to Teehma to apologize to her because I was afraid if news of this my second woman palaver reached the Chief’s ears, I might get into serious trouble. We met her sitting with her little sister and mother on a mat before their house telling folk tales; her father sat near them on a stool. Old Man Flomo welcomed us warmly, offered us chairs, and expressed regrets for not having new girls in his house “for the young kwii.”
        Furtively I related the incident with Teehma at the creek, apologized with white kola, and swore that I never saw her nakedness. Her bathing mates could bear witness to it. The Old Man dismissed the apology with a shrug and a smile, took a bite at the kola nut and handed it to his wife. Looking in the moonlit sky with a steady gaze, he said quietly:
        “Have no fear, my son. You’re a stranger here, that’s why you’re worried over Teehma’s crying. She cries at dawn, noon, and dusk. We don’t know why! Zoes of great renown have examined her, cut her sand, and said nothing is wrong with her; she’s only a spoiled child. She’ll outgrow her childishness when she gets matured.”
        “If you disagree with her opinion or criticize her cooking she cries,” her mother added. “If she misplaces a spoon or a comb she cries. Rainstorm, darkness, and the death of a relative or an acquaintance make her weep! People here are used to seeing her in tears, but a stranger will never understand. That’s why you’re so disturbed. Don’t apologize, my friend. You did no wrong.”
        Although the strange testimonies and kindly reassurance exonerated me, they did not relieve my guilt feelings. How Teehma had come by her sorrow or what had made her so tear-prone was not my business. The fact was that I had met her at a certain time and place and in a certain circumstance—and that meeting had wounded her tender heart. The amusing tale would now circulate that Sengbe Danuweli of Haindi, a “woman lappa”, had violated an innocent girl in Digei and should be watched. Enemies were certain to turn the tale into an accusation of rape—and madness! Sengbe, turn the girl’s mourning into joy with prayers to reclaim your good reputation! Meanwhile Teehma was telling her sister and mother a tale titled, “Why Death Has No Cure.”
        “What man will marry this cry baby?” remarked NanMo in a tone that betrayed dismay and anxiety. Perhaps he was afraid Teehma might never earn him a bride-price.
        Vatiikeh said, “Don’t worry, Old Man. When she gets her first baby, she won’t afford to cry, for someone else will be crying on her, and her husband will surely beat her for such childish behavior.”
        “I dare any man to put his hand on me,” Teehma said to our surprise.
        “You caused this problem,” NanMo chided his wife, “by letting Teehma suck your breast until she almost came of age! The milk still bursts on her heart.”
        “What could I have done?” NeKorpu defended herself, clapping her hands once and opening them to the sky. “She took too long to walk—three whole years! And the Vianlee Zoe advised that she stand on her feet and tote water before I took the breast from her mouth, or we’d continue burying one child after the other.”
        The subject seeming too thorny to handle, Teehma’s parents dropped it suddenly and went into the house. Her sister followed them. Vatiikeh excused himself and went to the dance while I elected to stay with Teehma to keep her company, but she began sobbing as soon as I raised a conversation. I left for the dance feeling that it was I who had a problem. Encounter between boy and girl is supposed to be fun, a cure for heartache, and a refuge from the troubles of the world. Why should mine unleash tears?
        The following evening, Karney’s husband arrived from Firestone. Seywoo brought his wife much clothing, pomade, powder, earrings, a mirror, trinkets, and similar gifts for a new girl he had engaged. It took no time for him to learn of Karney’s fit of jealousy over me. He beat her severely. Karney revenged. She fled to Kuyetaa in the dead of night and called her eldest brother who beat Seywoo almost to death.
        “I’m going home,” I told Vatiikeh breathlessly early next morning. My things were already bundled up. “The Bible says whatever you must do, do it quickly.”
        “Don’t run away,” Vatiikeh advised me again. “A kenamu takes responsibility for his acts. How many times must I tell you this?”
        “Don’t you see my troubles?” I said with alarm. “The incident with Karney and Kulubah! Then with Teehma! Then Karney’s brother and husband! Look, my name has spoiled in this town. I want to go home!”
        “As I told you the other day, you’ll always be a bone of contention for women till you make your choice. And forget that cry baby. If you’re going to spend the rest of your life with a girl, make sure she’s mature. Borlormee may not be educated but he has plenty of common sense. When he looks into this matter, you’ll be found innocent because Seywoo made no investigation before beating his wife. He went by hearsay. His brother-in-law made the same mistake. If you leave Digei unceremoniously, they’ll say you are a fugitive.”
        Chief Borlormee placed the blame for all the fighting on Seywoo and Suronkoly. He said since it was he who had lodged me in Seywoo’s house, should I commit any crime there Seywoo should have referred the matter to him before taking any action. And who told Suronkoly to fight a man in Digei? Had Digei no Chief to look into his grievance? Each man was fined a goat and five pounds, his legs locked in kpornoh for a week.
        Vatiikeh’s advice against my tampering with Teehma was quite reasonable, for anyone with inclination to tears was likely to make life miserable for others because there is no limit to sorrows, but I wanted to take the tears from Teehma’s eyes, although I knew not how I’d succeed where reputable Zoes had failed or seen no cause for alarm. I visited Old Man Flomo’s farm on the pretext that I wanted to hunt with his boys, but I really wanted to be with Teehma to unravel the underlying cause of her deep-seated distress. We were fortunate to trap a duiker on our second day of hunting. Teehma and her mother cooked plenty of it with cassava leaves, palm oil, and hot pepper, which we ate to repletion with fine-grain swamp rice. Instead of taking a nap like the rest of us to digest the luscious dinner, Teehma excused herself, sat under a palm tree, and cried bitterly for an hour; she repeated the same drama at sunset. When I tried to comfort her, her father said, “If you bother her, the crying will take a long time. She’ll soon stop.”
        On my fourth visit, I shammed stomach pains to remain with Teehma at the shed while her family cleared bush for a cassava patch some distance beyond the old farm. I resolved to let her be the first to start a conversation. My response would be companionable and amusing. I’d tell her about life in Haindi—about how animals got their horns—somehow manage to delve into her heart to know the root of her sorrow.
        After a while Teehma began pounding rice for the evening meal. When I took a pestle to help her, she laughed blandly and said: “It’s a woman’s job.”
        “My father helps my mother pound when the day is far gone,” I said. “You need help if we’ll eat this rice before going to town.” Then in a guarded tone I said, “Teehma, I want you to be my friend. I love you with all my heart.”
        We stopped pounding suddenly and she looked at me with astonished eyes as if the words had come from a ghost. Tears trickled down her plump cheeks. Did she doubt my sincerity, or had my proposal offended her?
        “You’re the first boy telling me such a thing,” she said between stifled sobs. When the gloom dispersed, she wiped her face with the back of her hand.
        “I mean it,” I said, putting my arm around her waist and watching rivulets of sweat running down her pretty breasts and belly. Glancing at me, she took a bucket and set off for the creek. I took another bucket and followed her.
        “You, a kwii man, will marry a poor Kpelle girl like me?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re making a sad mistake, Sengbe. Look round first. There’re many of us. Besides, I’m not a new girl, nor that pretty.”
        “Teehma, nobody forced me to this choice. I don’t care about new girls. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Please marry me.”
        “What about Kulubah?”
        “The Chief has forbidden her to leave his quarters.”
        “Foolish man! Who can put a fence around love? Kulubah will soon get her man, and quite easily, too. Or he might turn her loose tomorrow, and, before you know, she’s hooked on you.”
        “You’ll already be my wife, then.”
        “Are you serious?” Teehma said. Flinging her head back at an angle, she remarked, “We’ll see after a good wind blows over Digei. Too much blood has flowed here for woman palaver.”
        “Once I make up my mind, it is made!” I said. Teehma stopped in her track and confronted me with swimming eyes. To forestall a tear-flow, I said softly, “Teehma, I don’t want you to cry anymore. Whenever you feel like crying, remember that I love you.” I gave her a dollar as my word. We went for the water and returned to the shed in silence.
        NanMo, the first to return from the cassava patch, hardly took a seat when she gave him the money and said: “Sengbe says he loves me. This is his word.”
        “Is my daughter telling me the truth?” the Old Man asked me, gazing at the silver coin in his open palm with blissful eyes.
        “Yes,” I said. Teehma’s eyes lighted. “She’s telling the truth! My only regret is that I have to go to school.’’
        “No problem,” NanMo said. “Teehma can wait until you finish school.”
        “School takes a long time, Old Man.”
        “How far is Haindi from here? A brother of Teehma’s could take her over to you whenever you want her—or she could live with your parents while you go to school.”
        That night Teehma brought me food shortly after I had gone to bed and demanded that I get up and eat in her presence. Placing the bowl of rice and soup, which was neatly tied up in a headtie, on the wooden table by a hurricane lantern, she sat beside me on the bamboo bed, cupped her chin in her hand, and watched the flickering lantern light with smiling eyes.
        “I don’t want some other girl to feed you,” she muttered. “I’m afraid she’ll take you from me.”
        “So, it’s need for husband making you cry?” I asked, fumbling with her waist beads. “You now have one. No more tears!”
        Jolting, she looked at me with suspicion, shook with laughter, and held my hand.
        “Be careful,” she said. “Don’t—” The words choked her.
        I tasted the bitter ball and venison stewed with fresh palm oil, hot pepper, and kpaa only to register my gratitude for the food. I was still full after the feast on the farm, and my curiosity to diagnose Teehma’s moody spell had dulled my appetite.
        “If you’re expecting some other girl to feed you tonight, she’ll be disappointed,” Teehma said, laughing. “I’m sleeping here.”
        “What will your parents say?”
        “They want a grandchild to hold! Haven’t yours asked you for one yet?”
        “Yes, they have. But I won’t be here to help you take care of the child!”
        Leaning her fiery breasts on my arm, she said, “There’s nothing wrong with leaving your picture with me. Look, my father and mother are living, and I have a big sister and two grown brothers! In fact, a girl’s first child belongs to her mother.” After a pause she added, “Who says any time a girl sleeps with a boy she gets pregnant, anyway? I know a woman who got her first child after five years of marriage.”
        “Teehma, I’m not afraid of responsibility. But it isn’t fair—”
        Grinning, she sidled close to me. I hugged her hungrily and asked, “What really makes you cry? Tell me. I’m sure it isn’t need for a husband. If you step outside right now, flocks of men will be after you.”
        “You have a keen mind,” she said, her lips puckered in a smile, and laid her braided head on my chest; I stroked the tribal marks in her loins. “You know how to read people, Sengbe,” she declared. “Of course school boys think plenty. Thinking makes one sad. I wonder how most people go through life without tears. When I witnessed the burial of my grandmother, I thought she had only gone on a journey—”
        I held her tight with one hand and lightly squeezed her springy breasts with the other to abort the sorry tale. She sniggered briefly and tried to push my hand away but gave up when I wouldn’t let go.
        “We will all die, Teehma,” I said, looking in her dark eyes concealed under long lashes. She turned her lips away when I tried to kiss them.
        “Don’t you kwii people know that it’s wrong to put your mouth on human flesh?”
        “It’s called ‘kiss’—I don’t care much for it myself, but that’s how they express love.”
        “For us love means service—remembrance—kindness. You kwii people play too much with each other’s bodies. No wonder your women give themselves away for money. It’s a bad habit!”
        “Teehma, I’m a Kpelle like you—only trying to be kwii.”
        “Some school boys brought picture books here last year Christmas; you could see grown men and women with their mouths actually locked together, holding each other tight!”
        “Promise me that you’ll never cry again or fear anything, not even death.”
        “Don’t you fear death?”
        “I do, but since it’s a top secret—”
        “Who says it’s a secret? That’s the only thing you can be sure of.” Sighing deeply she said, “I wish it had a cure.”
        “You’re too young to worry about death.”
        “Too young?” Teehma gave me a quizzical glance and sat straight. I released my grip of her breasts but continued stroking her loins. “Babies die too, Sengbe. It’s unfair that my fine body and beautiful hair I love and care for so much will be buried in the ground one day.” As she spoke, she stretched and twisted her forearms, watched them tentatively with blinking eyes and then tucked at her deep-black hair.
        “I know of someone who can cure death.”
        “Don’t tease me, my friend. When people die they don’t return.” She cupped her chin in her hand, placed the elbow on her thigh, and stared at the dirt floor pensively.
        “I’m not teasing,” I said, holding her by the shoulders. “Long ago God sent his son on earth to save us from our sins by dying on a cross and coming back to life. If you believe in him you’ll not remain in the grave.”
        Shaking with laughter, she said, “The white people have put many strange ideas in your head. I don’t want to go in the grave—anyhow, I hope what you’re saying is true. Evangelist Jonah always tells us the same thing.”
        “You know about Jesus, then. Why do you fear death? Or you don’t believe in him?”
        “I do believe in Jesus, but I think he should have abolished death altogether.”
        Roosters were announcing dawn when we went to bed. Teehma’s fear of death made me apprehensive about my own mortality, but her warm supple body was so responsive to mine that I thought I was in the highest heaven where all was well and only the moment mattered. Let the world end tomorrow if it might. That day her parents allowed us to remain in town and rest. Teehma cooked a whole rooster for me. How strange life is. I never thought I could be so closely attached to a girl. Indeed I had become a husband!
        One evening the grand old Chief welcomed me to his town with white kola in the presence of Elders and said I may build a house anywhere in Digei and make a farm anywhere in Lorla Clan. “This Land is now your Land,” he announced, watching me with benevolent eyes.
        Teehma became pregnant in three months; her parents turned her over to me with white kola and three cowries as my wife—the happiest event of my life—but the urge to go back to school was so insistent and urgent that I was constrained to go away before she delivered. When I imagined the terrible fate I’d suffer if I didn’t get enough education, I thought no sacrifice was too much to make for it. I knew that Teehma would always be there for me, for I had made an indelible mark on her no one could erase.
        “Good luck to you, Brother,” Vatiikeh told me on the eve of my departure. “I’m glad you’re now a married man. May Teehma bear you a son. Kwiitaa is pregnant, and her parents have just turned her over to me. Our secret is now exposed. I want to be with her until she delivers. I think I can make it here. The Chief will turn the Land over to me tonight.”
        “May Kwiitaa bear you a son, too,” I said. We snapped fingers warmly. With a heavy heart, I set off early in the morning for Haindi.

Three years later

        I had just come from Booker Washington Institute, a polytechnic school I was attending in Kakata, which is two days from Haindi, and was sitting on our porch awaiting my parents’ return from the farm. When the town began humming in the waning starlight with people greeting each other and children squeaking as they came from their farms, they arrived with Teehma and a toddler surprisingly walking before them. Greeting me with warmth, Mother and Teehma took their baskets of foodstuff and cooking utensils into the house to light a fire and cook dinner. Father dropped a bunch of wood he had on his shoulder, held the toddler by the hand, and said:
        “Teehma’s brother Kolimiling brought her and this child here at harvest time and said that she is your wife and the child is your son. The child resembles you so strikingly that we accepted him and his mother to await your arrival.”
        “Since Teehma came here, I know nothing about toting water, pounding rice, washing clothes, or cooking,” Mother said. “She has taken over the house from me!”
        Sitting in a chair in the yard, I placed the infant in my lap. He laid his head against my chest. Teehma sat by us on a low stool. The full moon now showed with immense brightness. Looking at the man on the moon, I thanked Teehma quietly for her courage and faithfulness, then looked her over briefly. The years had done nothing to diminish her charming beauty, and she seemed to have disposed of her childish sentiments.
        “Sengbe,” she said amiably, her hands clasped in her lap, “I now understand that we’ll appreciate the resurrection better if we die—the same way we enjoy daylight after going through the night. I want to go to school to learn more about Jesus—a kwii man must marry a kwii wife. Are you satisfied with your picture? His name is Lomeni.”
        “That’s a good decision, Teehma,” I said. Regarding Lomeni with a benign stare, I said, “Why did you name him Lomeni?”
        “Mother’s idea,” Teehma admitted. “As I turned down proposals, she said the child had tied me to you, and since you were nowhere around, I’d remain—I don’t have the mouth to speak it—I knew you didn’t run away. You just couldn’t.” Smiling broadly she dressed close to me.
        I wasn’t surprised that Teehma decided to go to school. From our initial discussion on the farm and during the first night she slept with me, I knew that she had a good mind which only needed a chance to develop. How many Teehmas did we not have in Fuama Chiefdom going to waste?
        “I don’t blame anyone who supposed that I ran away,” I told her. “I should have stayed with you until you delivered—or brought you with me. But if I had not come alone and at the time I did, I might have never returned to school, for we’d have had another child.”
        “You’re right, Sengbe,” Teehma agreed. “It was a difficult decision—doing right is always difficult. God will take care of us.”
        As girls now attended Kpolopele, Teehma had no problem going there to school. Mother found her a birth control talisman that postponed childbearing until she completed the sixth grade. By then I had completed high school and become an auto mechanic. Finding a job in Monrovia, I took her there with me and enrolled at the University of Liberia. She continued her education in night school while Lomeni remained with my parents and attended Kpolopele.
        A year after I graduated from college, the president appointed me superintendent of Bong County to maintain “tribal balance” in his government—pure accident—I’m happy I was prepared for it, though. I abandoned my job at the Freeport of Monrovia to take over the affairs of my county. Now government officials and their soldiers can’t patrol Kpelleland without my permission and presence. We still extend them hospitality but according to our own behest and discretion.
        My family and I now live in Gbarnga, the county’s capital, where Teehma teaches school. I have mobilized my people to develop all parts of the county, and the youths of Bong County are increasingly following our example. Taking our rightful place in our own country means hard work, patience, and sacrifice!

Copyright © Wilton Sankawulo Sr.

The Bush Thing: Master of the Poro Society who spirits uninitiated boys or men into the forest for initiation. He is called by many other names such as Ngamui, Basai, The Big One, The Dragon, the Devil

cut her sand: Investigated her spiritual background to determine if she was bewitched

demabai: matching game

Dougba: Rev. James Schneider, the missionary in charge of Kpolopele Mission. Symbolic tribal names were given to missionaries as a gesture of acceptance, love and friendship

gbolongai: Old initiates of the Sande Society

the Hawk: A Zoe who spirits girls away into the Sande Society

hung head: To ponder a problem

kenablaa: Members of the Poro Society. The singular form is kenamu

kenamu: A seasoned member of the Poro Society and a matured man

kpaa: Forest spice

Kpaan: Meeting place for members of a society usually located on the outskirts of a town or far deep in the forest. Initiation takes place in the Kpaan; delicate and difficult cases that cannot be settled in the Chief’s court in town are resolved in the Kpaan

kpeya: hide-and-seek

kpornoh: Stocks or a log in which a criminal or an insane person’s leg is locked for security reasons

Kulubah: The last girl that joins a session of the Sande Society

kwii: An educated person or someone living according to modern standards

the Land: When capitalized, “Land” refers to the dead, the living, and the unborn members of the tribe, as well as the locality the tribe occupies. It also refers to the Chief or the entire leadership of the tribe, including all Zoes (medicine men or women) and Elders

Lomeni: For the sake of a child

porlortor: Forced laborer or laborers

Poro Society: Institution that trains all males to be good citizens, husbands, fathers, full-fledged members of the tribe, and teaches them the traditions of the tribe, and how to eke out an existence in the bush. The Poro is the highest arbitrator of all disputes and cases that cannot be settled in the Chief’s court

Sande Paa: The first girl who joins a session of the Sande Society

Sande Society: Female counterpart of the Poro Society

sinners: Non-members of the Poro or the Sande Society are considered sinners. They presumably have no knowledge of tribal laws, decency, or the ability to keep secrets

Vianlee Zoe: A female Zoe who is also a midwife

white kola: Goodwill gesture which could be either a real white kola nut or a white coin

woman lappa: A man with an abnormal sexual drive

Zoes: Medicine men or women who supposedly possess supernatural powers. They lead the Poro and Sande Societies and settle matters affecting the interest of the tribe