Displacement [Thursday, July 12]

Today I was walking down Wilkinson Road when two young men called out "hey!" Usually I simply turn and smile, but there was something unusual about the way they shouted out, so I walked on over. It turns out Weah and Michael were Liberan refugees returning from Mali. They had left Liberia in 2003 as fighting raged through Monrovia and went across West Africa, eventually learning French and working in Mali. (Knowing Spanish has been completely useless here in West Africa - French or Arabic would be much more beneficial.) They had seen Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, the first female African president, on television and decided to return home, and so were hitchhiking back to Liberia. As I needed to go to lunch myself, I bought them some cassava and rice at a small restaurant on Wilkinson Road. I must admit my motives for buying them lunch were slightly skewed, as I really just wanted to have Liberians write in my happy book. (The happy book is a journal that anyone can write in - you simply write whatever makes you happy.)

Anyways, I left Weah and Michael behind - they were heading over to the UNHCR office to try to see if the Liberian refugee repatriation program was still continuing - and went to iEARN, where I taught for a bit before returning home to the YMCA and another fantastical dinner at Kiemann's. I was expecting to lose weight on this trip but Momma (as we call her) and her daughters have ensured at least one delicious meal every night. We never order - the food simply comes out around 8 pm everynight. Our usual meal begins with rice and a sauce of some sort, such as groundnut soup or boil stew, although sometimes curry or jollof rice. She even makes us two different sauces, as there's several vegetarians in the daily crowd, so she ensures one of the sauces is meat-free. Then Mariam, Momma's eldest daughter, brings out fried plantains and sweet potato chips (french fries in America). A plate of sliced vegetables usually appears at some point and then Mariam brings out the highlight (at least for me) of the meal: a giant stack of succulently grilled beef skewers.