The Lioness—Suah Koto. Dolokolliemah. I never met her. But I know of her. And a Suah Koto Dolo. Suah K. Dolo—my great grandmother—papa’s strong bush—Dolo—tree.

A very strong tree to the Mano speaking people and the Kpelle speaking people. Did I confuse you? We just got started. Buckle-up. This is a bend-bend trip. I did say way-way back that Dolokolliemah means Strong Lion, but where do you think strong lions live? Or comes from? You see, Dolo is a name from both the Mano speaking people and the Kpelle speaking people found in the Republic of Liberia. And other places. But we are not going to those other places on this trip. We are traveling to Foequelleh. Where Dolo—is the strongest tree you will find in the forest.

See? I told you that I am a bush girl. So, what tree do you think we Dolo trees are? I will tell you what tree Dolo isn’t—The Cotton Tree—that is the Chief, and the rest of them.

So, I beg you, be careful what tree you try to cut down. You might find a lion behind those trees. Or a Masked Spirits—and you won’t know if we lions are gentle or furious. And most definitely, you should never. ever. make the Masked Spirits angry. Therefore, don’t you go messing with our Dolo trees. And our other relatives of—trees. Trees are a blessing. I know the Dolo—trees are. Well, some of them. Not all, you see. Papa told me which ones are and which ones aren’t—then papa ended by telling me. Always remember—Ku Kaa Tornor—because in the end—we are STUPID Kpelle people.

The Lioness Suah Koto Dolokolliemah—the strongest of trees protected papa. The Lioness took papa and made papa her backbone. Papa will be on The Lioness back, tied tightly and gently with a lappa as The Lioness bends over stretching her rice farms. The Lioness will join other women and girls in the Kuu, sowing rice seeds into the soil. The women and girls will sing traditional songs of praises to each other as they scratch their farms excitingly and energetically. Sometimes Yaie will be leading the singing of these Kuu of women and girls. Lifting the spirits of each other, as they work together, as one. The rhythm of their songs and singing echoes in the raying heat of the sun—as sweat comes rushing and towering down their foreheads, their arms, their backs, and their legs. Making the melanin color of their skin glows beautifully from a distance. Beautifully in the sun’s ray. Beautifully in the sun’s eyes. Causing all the birds to starts—to sing back—to them in love. Then, the women will start to dance. Do you know The Dance—that I am talking about? No? Yes? Well. It is a very very special dance. It is—The Traditional Kpelle People Farming Dance. A female—only dance. No males are allowed to dance this dance. The women and girls will start dancing—opening the palms of their hands, scooping up the golden colored rice seeds, into the palm of their hands—watering the golden colored rice seeds into the earth’s soil. The rice seeds filters their way out of the Women’s and girls’ fingers and hands like a—sfil-ter—filtering palm butter and fufu in preparation for cooking.  The women and girls will continue their—singing and dancing and praying to the Masked Spirits, naŋ Aala, the ancestors, and the rest of them—for a fruitful harvest. And more.

Papa was The Lioness backbone as she stood up straight to cut and harvests her endless field of golden colored rice that dances with the winds and to the beautiful singing and songs of the birds starting in the month of October to December.

The Lioness carried papa on her back while carrying woods, harvested rice heads, cassava and water and yams on her hay as she walks from the farm back to the town. And to the farm the next morning. The Lioness will have papa on her back as she beats rice in the mortar—in preparation for cooking.

Woahtepha—The Lioness will say. When papa is  called upon. The Lioness never once called papa—Tokpa. Tokpa was reserved for The Lion. Kollie-Tokpa Lollon. And Papa was The Lioness little husband. Her little lion, and her Woahtepha—from 6 months old. When The Lioness took over—becoming Nyampu Pellecham in Nyampu Pellecham’s visible absence.

And so—it was only fitting for me to name my very first born. A girl. Suah Koto Dolo. My grandmother. The mother I knew. In the absence of the mother I was told about as I grew up and got to know.

Oooo how I missed running in the endless fields of rice farms barefooted and praying that I do not come across a king cobra, bathing in the hot sun. Or traces of the king cobra’s layers of clothing that it has taken off its body and left behind—messily in its passing. Whenever I came across the layer of such abandoned clothing—a shedded skin layer of a snake—my foot hits the brakes instantly. My eyes open wider than before like a rat caught in a trap by its neck. My ears tone sharply like a lion out on a hunt after going days without any food. My nose stretches out long like a pipefish—and all the hairs on my body spike up like a frightened porcupine—scanning, searching, smelling and listening for any slight movements, that might cause me to start releasing my spiky porcupine’s spines in the direction of whatever living or non-living thing that is causing such movements, and while calling upon my feet to help the rest of my body. Quickly.

A rule to remember. Do not ever wake up a king cobra while the king is having his beauty rest in the hot sun. Unless you can run very fast. Or you have a specific type of Zoe-Bush magic where the king cobra sees you as a friend does you no harm and you also sees the king cobra as a friend, and does him no harm. Then, you and the king can meet, sit down, have a conversation and drink palm wine. Like two long lost best friends meeting for the first time in years.

Do I have such Zoe-Bush magic that projects me from snakes? Well, you will have to wait and see for yourself. When you meet the Lorma people’s  Lawuo.

Did you notice the shift in gears? I told you this is a zig-zag trip. And who is the—I now? The—I is now and going forward is papa.

At age at five, I started traveling to the farm. One of my duties was—to drive birds away from the rice farm. I will spend all day long running around chasing birds of all colors and shapes. There are over hundreds different kinds of birds in Liberia.

Some of the birds are as colorful as the rainbow.

Some of the birds sing beautifully. Joyfully. And sorrowfully.

Sometime, I will think that the birds are trying to trick me by singing the most beautiful songs.

And for a moment, I will stop and listen, stop and admire their beautiful and bright and vibrant colors, like some of the Liberian fabrics. The fabrics the women tie around their waist as lappa, and use to carry their babies—on their back as they walk to the farms and from the farms. I will stop and listen to the beautiful songs and callings of the birds.

Allowing their songs to sink to my soul, permitting me a little day dream.

Then, I will remember what I was supposed to be doing, and start running around and yelling and clapping my hands and waving my hands and dancing around so that the birds can fly away.

And the birds will fly away.

The End.