“If you were to go back in time and change one thing what would that be?”

The bright and sunny sunshine of the dry season gave way to the dark and the thick thunderstorm clouds of Liberia’s tropical rainforest. I see mama eyes rolled back. The sunshine started to die down slowly. Mama blinked uncontrollably. She was facing me but her eyes started to walk away from me. Looking down as she started to take her Susu Card attempting to tie it back tightly at the end of her lappa’s tip—tied around her waist—so that no one but she could get her hard earned money that she is earning from selling under the sun and the rain—day and night and saving away as a Susu. And when time came for mama to eat her susu. Only she can collect her money by showing her marked and completed Susu’s Card.

Mama. I said, bringing her back to me. So what happened? I asked. Tell me please. I want to know. I want to know why my Yaie stopped singing.

Kerkulah-Kpàkolo. Mama said again. The tropical rain clouds started getting thicker but I could see a peak of sunshine in the midst of the thick clouds as mama said his name. Kerkulah-Kpàkolo.

Yaie’s husband. My ma ma’s man. The Man was a gentle and a kind man. He did not like hunting with guns. He hated hunting with guns. Almost everyone in the town was given guns but my grandfather would say “I don’t want your gun. I will walk to my farm and set my traps for animals just like how my forefathers, foremothers, and families taught me. I do not like guns. But you are still handing me a gun. Against my protests. I will carry this gun with me to please you because you told me so but I will never use it” My grandfather loved walking to the farm to tap his palm wines, and set his traps for animals in the evenings. He always returned back at exactly the same time every time. Grandpa went to the farm this time. By himself. Mama said.

Yaie had just gotten back from one of her singing performances. Time passed. Yaie waited for The Man but there was no sign of him. Yaie waited again. But your great grandfather still had not gotten back.  Yaie started to get nervous. We all started getting worried because this was not like him.

I think something has happened to him oooo, Yaie started to say over and over, almost like she was singing again—with passion but without joy and happiness. We started looking.

They came back running and yelling. My people y’all come for me oooo. Shouting his name. Kerkulah-Kpàkolo ooooo. Kerkulah-Kpàkolo. It nah-easy oooo. Putting both hands on their heads. Unwrapping their tightly tied lappas from around their waist and throwing it on the ground. Along with their bodies. Yaie hay-tie that was neatly wrapped around her hair started to slowly unwrap—in slow motion—exposing her long and thick black hair that was always tucked away under her hay-tie. Hair so thick and so black that there was zero hint of grayness when her sun set in June 2007.

We found him. The singing stopped. My Yaie stopped singing for me.

My grandfather who raised me along with Yaie, was murdered. He was shot and killed in cold blood. Abandoned alone in the forest. Like an animal. This was when Yaie stopped singing. Mama too had completely stopped signing Yaie’s beautiful songs for me by now. It started to rain. Heavy rainfall. We could not cover our faces as tears dropped from our eyeballs. The rain was too plenty. The kind of tropical rainy season rainfalls in Liberia that you just have to give up and let it—Soak. You. Wet—From head to toes causing everything that you are wearing to stick against your skin like a glue. An umbrella does not help you because the force of the winds turns it—inside out and down side up.

Things turned inside out and down side up. Mama said, hurriedly before I had a chance to ask my next question.

The palava hut turned into hell-lit-ver palava. Palm wines and kola nuts were not foolish enough to show their faces. The whole town of Foequelleh started fighting. The more people gathered around to spread their lappas.to spread their mats.on the ground.to throw themselves onto it.and bitterly cry the evil killing of my grandfather. The more the fighting went on. It was not-easy. It was hell-lit-ver—plenty plenty fighting.

Whenever I am presented with this question: “If you were to go back in time and change one thing what will that be?” 

Do I go back to 1978, and prevent that person from shooting and killing Kerkulah-Kpàkolo? My great grandfather. Kerkulah-The Man as Kpàkolo translates to The Man in the Kpelle language. The killing of The Man that killed Yaie’s singing and her love for entertaining others.

Do I go back to prevent the jealousy and the hatred that was boiling up inside that person? Do I go back further to prevent the colonialists, the incoming freed slaves settlers—from bringing guns and weapons to the land as part of the trade for salt.the trade for grains.the trade for black human slaves.the scrambled to colonialized the dark continent?

Do I go back even further to prevent the discoveries and the inventions of guns and weapons of mass destruction from the minds of human-kind? Stop time. Ease it. Completely. Just maybe, mama’s ma pa would have lived past 1978. Just maybe mama’s ma ma would have continued singing and joyfully entertaining people. Just maybe—all the fighting. All the hating. All the killings. Will Stop.

But mama’s Kerkulah-Kpàkolo lives. In the name and the flesh of her son. I have my own Kerkulah-The Man. My brother T. Kerkula Dolo.

Yes. My great grandfather was shot and murdered in cold blood in 1978, as he was walking to his farm, totally and completely harmless. Because of hatred. This is one of the things and events that my mother hardly talks about. No one on my mother’s side of the family talks about this event along with many others. They are tightly tucked away in a compressed bag without any air. As it brings back raw feelings and emotions as if these events happened a few seconds ago. For me, in America, this feeling resurfaces regularly. This feeling resurfaces regularly for me in Liberia, as the great granddaughter of Yaie-Gormai and Kerkulah-Kpàkolo. Every time I hear or read “there was a shooting” “there is a shooting” “people were shot” “someone is shot” “Again”. And again. With guns. I am transported through times.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. _{Don’t stop fighting for freedom. Peace. Justice. Equality. Unity. The cost of togetherness is very pricey. I know it too well. Like the color of my skin. Don’t give up the good fight.} 

Aalafayiah will tell you a story about the cost of togetherness next.

Just wait small small.

Thank you for reading.

Lawuo, Yemah-Gbokwoh, Zorkleene, Aalafayiah, Dolokolliemah, Cummings, and Naimah.