a good decision that was. Within a couple of months of our leaving, Liberia became a danger zone. It had been just a month after the Liberian elections, and Monrovia was still reeling. Most believed the opposition should have won, but Samuel Doe had entrenched himself in power. There was a general sense of fear, suspicion and outrage. So when news broke that General Quiwonkpa, a former ally of Doe, had crossed over from Sierra Leone with a group of mercenaries to attempt a coup, the capital erupted in hope. But it was short lived. Doe’s forces crushed the uprising, executed the rebels and, shockingly, some reports claimed they even cannibalised them. The brutality was horrific. And then the wrath turned to civilians. People were being killed like flies. Monrovia descended into a dark season, despair, fear and sadness wrapped around the city like a thick cloud. Just watching the news sent shivers down my spine. Foreign missions began advising their citizens to leave immediately. From then on, Fiifi made the decision to leave Liberia, hoping to wrap things up and bring our belongings home. Where is Dada? When the Liberian war fully broke out, we lost all communication with Fiifi. We waited anxiously. Each group of returnees to Ghana raised our hopes, but days passed with no news. The house grew quiet, and the children became mopey. “Mama, maybe Dada is dead,” they said more than once. But deep down, I refused to believe it. “He’s going to come back,” I would say, trying to sound confident. I prayed for hours. I had to be strong for the children. It reminded me of my own mother, single, poor, raising many children. With Fiifi gone, times were hard. He had been our main breadwinner, and now there was little to live on. Looking back, I see how my tough childhood prepared me for this. I came from strong, entrepreneurial women. What would my mother, grandmother, or aunt have done? I gathered our few valuables and began selling meat pies, snacks, and ice cream—anything to keep us going. I never wore misery on my face. I kept the children’s spirits high. Once I handed the problem over to God, I had no fear. The days dragged on, then weeks, then months. The children’s hope faded, but I held firm in my faith that Fiifi was alive. Joy Comes in the Morning “Mummy! Hurry! Quick!” The children screamed with excitement. I rushed outside, unsure what to expect. At the top of the hill, a smallish, familiar figure appeared. “It’s Dada!” they shouted, running with arms outstretched. Fiifi smiled widely, a small bag hanging around his neck. He opened his arms and ran towards them. They crashed into his embrace, nearly knocking him over. Tears flowed. Relief washed over me. It did not matter that he returned with nothing; he was the miracle I had prayed for. Neighbours came out to see the celebration. Soon, the whole neighbourhood rejoiced with us. A New Beginning I looked into my money box—no cedi left. But I was not sad; I was grateful. We had lost everything in the war, but we still had each other. And that was everything. “We will start again,” Fiifi said, and I agreed. We had already paid five years’ rent on our house, so we renewed it. I suggested building our own home since Fiifi was a seasoned civil engineer and builder. From the little we had gathered, we began construction. By 2003, we moved into our new home. 16 The Birthday Journal
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