To serve and protect...and extort!
There are moments in life when you observe what happens to those around you and remark that reality is stranger than fiction. Then those moments happen to you and you can’t point at other people and mutter under your breath “fools!” In this story I became the fool, but it was entertaining throughout. It all began when a boy approached my door.
His name was Peter. He was a tall muscular youth of about eighteen. He had a slight afro, wore a boyish smile and walked with a confident stride. We began to discuss his life; this often happens as people look for money. His story was moving. He was an orphan, left behind after the civil war that killed his parents and brother. He was in a powerless position, wanting to go to school and to have a roof over his head. He had come down from Gbarnga, a town up the road from Monrovia, looking for more opportunities in the capital, Monrovia. It turned out that his fortunes turned the day we met. He drew me in and I fell for his story.
I helped him out with school fees. Last year I helped someone with school fees and was burned because the boy did not spend the money on school. I was not about to make the same mistake twice. So, I went to Peter’s school and paid the school fees. I also helped him out with a place to live. He kept coming back day after day. I was feeling pressured, since I had run out of money and I get tired of one sided friendships quickly. I had to continually ask him to try to make ends meet on his own. He called me Uncle Michelle. This was one family relationship that I was not willing to take on for it turned out that one day while he talked with me (and my roommate, Wilson) his story changed slightly. He said he knew people in our organization. Hmmm…I shook my head and realized that something was going wrong. So, I told Peter to return back after I had a chance to talk with my colleagues he implicated.
Peter kept returning; he was getting desperate. What he did next still gives me reason to shake my head (with my white man’s fro bobbing). Each time he came by I told him that I needed to check out a few things about his story and that I would talk with him on Thursday. On Wednesday I was at an adjacent house with a group of Brits watching the British / Holland soccer game (hup, Holland, hup) when the call of “Rogue. There is a rogue in Michelle’s house!” rang out. The Brits didn’t miss a beat. They ran out of the house before most of us had a chance to understand what was said. Nearly 20 ELWA security had my house surrounded with large sticks, brooms, machetes, and any other item that could pass off as a weapon. I was the only one with the key. They yelled at me to be careful. The atmosphere was electric. Guards yelling, Brits behind me ready to pounce, noise coming from inside the house. No one knew what would meet us on the other side of the door. There was only one way to find out.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Nothing! A guard yelled out, “He’s in the ceiling!!” I grabbed my flashlight and we went to the place where the ceiling tile was missing. Sure enough there was movement up there. Dave Thompson decided to climb up and try to talk the rogue down. As he entered the hole a stick nearly struck him across the head. Dave was overcome with a sudden need for self preservation and stepped down from the ceiling. At this point we were fighting an unknown intruder. The rogue was agitated and swinging. As he moved forward to swing I saw that it was Peter. I was shocked. We had the crowd leave my house and we got Peter down.
He came down with some coaxing and then I chatted with him. He said that he was sorry. He cried and cried telling me that he did not know what got over him. He begged me not to turn me over to the security guards (they are known to beat rogues). I had no choice. I had to follow procedure. They stripped searched him, which was awkward for all present. They took him away and I thought that was it for me. It was just the beginning.
The next day I was phoned by the deputy commander of Police Depot #3, Zone 5. After some coaxing I went down to give a statement. A pudgy little officer welcomed me into his hot, stuffy precinct. I wrote out my statement. The deputy commander then began to lecture me on the importance of justice. A sly smile crossed his face as he quoted Old Testament Scripture to me about the importance of punishment. He began telling me that I needed to ensure that justice is served. I rebuttled him: “So you want me to pay cash so that Peter can face justice?” He replied, “Not cash per se…but we cannot get him to the courthouse and we cannot pay the judge’s fee. Even me, look at this [police] depot, I don’t even have a window. And I haven’t been paid in three months. Surely you can find something small for this highly sensitive matter.”
Umm….see you later chief!
I decided to pull back and let the cards fall where they may. This situation brought many questions from the back of my mind to a place I do not like to see them, right in my view. Questions that I have asked previously became pertinent: When do we show grace versus justice? I thought of Les Miserable and wondered at how Jean Val Jean’s life would have been different had he not encountered the priest that one night.
(The priest invited Jean Val Jean in for the night even though he knew he was a former criminal. During the night Val Jean left with his most precious possessions, all of the silver cutlery. He escaped in the night only to be caught by the gendarmes. They brought him to the priest who saw the stolen possessions. Val Jean was clearly guilty. The priest, instead of condemning the man, offered the silver candlesticks and whispered in his ear: “With these candlesticks I have bought your freedom. Go and be free!”)
Anyway, it was all quite interesting. The comment that made me laugh in the end is after visiting Peter in jail he had the audacity to tell me that I did not understand what happened. I told him that I did understand. He was adamant, telling me again that my understanding was mislaid. I decided to test him on this, “So Peter, go ahead tell me what I don’t understand?” He looked up at me and pushing his guilt aside he sincerely told me that it wasn’t his fault. He looked straight at me and said, “The devil made me do it!”
His name was Peter. He was a tall muscular youth of about eighteen. He had a slight afro, wore a boyish smile and walked with a confident stride. We began to discuss his life; this often happens as people look for money. His story was moving. He was an orphan, left behind after the civil war that killed his parents and brother. He was in a powerless position, wanting to go to school and to have a roof over his head. He had come down from Gbarnga, a town up the road from Monrovia, looking for more opportunities in the capital, Monrovia. It turned out that his fortunes turned the day we met. He drew me in and I fell for his story.
I helped him out with school fees. Last year I helped someone with school fees and was burned because the boy did not spend the money on school. I was not about to make the same mistake twice. So, I went to Peter’s school and paid the school fees. I also helped him out with a place to live. He kept coming back day after day. I was feeling pressured, since I had run out of money and I get tired of one sided friendships quickly. I had to continually ask him to try to make ends meet on his own. He called me Uncle Michelle. This was one family relationship that I was not willing to take on for it turned out that one day while he talked with me (and my roommate, Wilson) his story changed slightly. He said he knew people in our organization. Hmmm…I shook my head and realized that something was going wrong. So, I told Peter to return back after I had a chance to talk with my colleagues he implicated.
Peter kept returning; he was getting desperate. What he did next still gives me reason to shake my head (with my white man’s fro bobbing). Each time he came by I told him that I needed to check out a few things about his story and that I would talk with him on Thursday. On Wednesday I was at an adjacent house with a group of Brits watching the British / Holland soccer game (hup, Holland, hup) when the call of “Rogue. There is a rogue in Michelle’s house!” rang out. The Brits didn’t miss a beat. They ran out of the house before most of us had a chance to understand what was said. Nearly 20 ELWA security had my house surrounded with large sticks, brooms, machetes, and any other item that could pass off as a weapon. I was the only one with the key. They yelled at me to be careful. The atmosphere was electric. Guards yelling, Brits behind me ready to pounce, noise coming from inside the house. No one knew what would meet us on the other side of the door. There was only one way to find out.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Nothing! A guard yelled out, “He’s in the ceiling!!” I grabbed my flashlight and we went to the place where the ceiling tile was missing. Sure enough there was movement up there. Dave Thompson decided to climb up and try to talk the rogue down. As he entered the hole a stick nearly struck him across the head. Dave was overcome with a sudden need for self preservation and stepped down from the ceiling. At this point we were fighting an unknown intruder. The rogue was agitated and swinging. As he moved forward to swing I saw that it was Peter. I was shocked. We had the crowd leave my house and we got Peter down.
He came down with some coaxing and then I chatted with him. He said that he was sorry. He cried and cried telling me that he did not know what got over him. He begged me not to turn me over to the security guards (they are known to beat rogues). I had no choice. I had to follow procedure. They stripped searched him, which was awkward for all present. They took him away and I thought that was it for me. It was just the beginning.
The next day I was phoned by the deputy commander of Police Depot #3, Zone 5. After some coaxing I went down to give a statement. A pudgy little officer welcomed me into his hot, stuffy precinct. I wrote out my statement. The deputy commander then began to lecture me on the importance of justice. A sly smile crossed his face as he quoted Old Testament Scripture to me about the importance of punishment. He began telling me that I needed to ensure that justice is served. I rebuttled him: “So you want me to pay cash so that Peter can face justice?” He replied, “Not cash per se…but we cannot get him to the courthouse and we cannot pay the judge’s fee. Even me, look at this [police] depot, I don’t even have a window. And I haven’t been paid in three months. Surely you can find something small for this highly sensitive matter.”
Umm….see you later chief!
I decided to pull back and let the cards fall where they may. This situation brought many questions from the back of my mind to a place I do not like to see them, right in my view. Questions that I have asked previously became pertinent: When do we show grace versus justice? I thought of Les Miserable and wondered at how Jean Val Jean’s life would have been different had he not encountered the priest that one night.
(The priest invited Jean Val Jean in for the night even though he knew he was a former criminal. During the night Val Jean left with his most precious possessions, all of the silver cutlery. He escaped in the night only to be caught by the gendarmes. They brought him to the priest who saw the stolen possessions. Val Jean was clearly guilty. The priest, instead of condemning the man, offered the silver candlesticks and whispered in his ear: “With these candlesticks I have bought your freedom. Go and be free!”)
Anyway, it was all quite interesting. The comment that made me laugh in the end is after visiting Peter in jail he had the audacity to tell me that I did not understand what happened. I told him that I did understand. He was adamant, telling me again that my understanding was mislaid. I decided to test him on this, “So Peter, go ahead tell me what I don’t understand?” He looked up at me and pushing his guilt aside he sincerely told me that it wasn’t his fault. He looked straight at me and said, “The devil made me do it!”
Comments
Your wish is my command...check out the new post. Peter definitely does, i think i do too! I guess on a subconcious level I am still looking for adventure. Hope to hike the hills with you again someday.
Cheers ~ Marcel
PS - I am really enjoying your blog. Love the cross country wipe out pics. Reminds me of Waterton cross country ski trip. They have to make those skis a little wider!