35

an excerpt from Inanition

A year ago today, I lost my sight. Time really flies, whether or not you’re having fun. I can’t believe I’ve been dealing with this for 12 months. The highs and lows of my journey haven’t made me any stronger than I was 12 months ago. In fact, in some ways I could be perceived as weaker...I allow more for vulnerability; I let the tears flow; I talk about my pain; I don’t take on as much responsibility as I used to; I admit all of my problems; I want to be 11 again, on the cusp of a dramatically new existence yet living an uncomplicated life.

My eleventh birthday was the last of seven birthdays celebrated in Monrovia. On that day, a civil war had already been alive for about two months and after making it through an attempted coup in 1985, the thought of going through a war was daunting to say the least. But on my birthday, the war was still far away from the city. Rebel soldiers were still far away from the city. Destruction was still far away from the city, though corruption had long existed in the city.

Every now and then I’d think of soldiers opening fire in a local market. I’d think about my parents being caught in the midst of that fire. I’d anxiously await their return; the smiles on their faces would say “We’re just fine...we’re all fine.”

Yes, my life was uncomplicated. There was war. Check. I was being home schooled that year. Check. I went to church every Saturday. Check. I knew Jesus loved everyone in the world, including me. Check. I invited everyone to church. Check. I could go next door and watch old episodes of the Cosby Show. Check. My family was safe. Check. Our dog, Chris, didn’t like strangers. Check. People liked my dad; he’d even met the president. Check.

But, in a few months, we were leaving Liberia for the United States of America. However, since the USA had running water and electricity at all times and since its roads were all paved, it was bound to be a better place. And even though people teased my older sister and me, saying that we’d pick up a funny accent, I knew I’d be alright. We’d been in Liberia two years more than originally planned so it was okay to move on. And plus, in two years we’d go back to England where my life began very early one Wednesday morning.

11 was uncomplicated. I knew everything that mattered. There was no such thing as mystery. The unknown was of no concern to me because parents made decisions back then, not children...I just did what I was told. The world was crazy but I had an older sister, a younger brother and sister, a mum and a dad. And, in my mind, we were pleasantly similar to the Huxtables. Check.

Fourteen years later, the truth’s set in like an unwanted child: you can kill it but that won’t solve a thing. It didn’t take me this long to figure out that not all our half hours have TV endings but it took me this long to see how much we need a makeover. With all the reality TV shows out now, you’d think there would be one about fixing dysfunctional families (a redundancy that is both comforting and a reason to hurl).

I’ve moved back into my parent's house where my younger siblings still reside; it’s their last year of high school. It seems as if every waking moment makes me more aware of the many issues that make us who we are and cause us to act the way we do; our humanity is that much more prevalent and distasteful to me now. It’s disappointing. Sort of like when you can’t get a device fixed because “they not longer make these” so you’re forced to either stick with the defect or buy a new model. Unfortunately, you can’t buy a new family. The only way to improve it, is to help it see what’s wrong and do whatever’s necessary to produce something positive.
 

When we moved to the USA, I was eleven and a half. Things have never been the same. And at twenty-five and three quarters, things aren’t looking any brighter. According to my memory, eleven was just right.