Buduburam, in the name of Jesus
One of my workmates, Cephas, offered to take us to the refugee camp outside of Accra. He has lived near the camp for 14 years, since he escaped Liberia on the second boatload – a load of 42,000 people, all fleeing from what would become an incredibly blood, cruel and totally destructive war.
Buduburam was a prayer camp, a retreat for the devout to heal their spiritual souls with non-stop prayer and fasting. When Ghana agreed to take the Liberian refugees, the camp’s ramshackle buildings were picked as an appropriate spot and thousands of mudhuts sprang up around it.
Today, the camp is enormous and functions like a small village, although it has neither running water nor electricity, an atrocity that the UN should be made to rectify. It looks a little different from the Ghanaian villages and has a different feel to it, although I would be hard-pressed to say exactly what that is. It’s a lot cleaner than most villages. It’s also home to a gorgeous green clinic, walled soccer pitch, a cultural centre, a couple schools, a couple Internet cafes and a three-story home where the Ghanaian representative lives in splendor behind a metal fence.
My understanding of the history is that the UN took care of the camp, along with financial assistance from the Ghanaian government, until 1997, after the elections that installed Charles Taylor as president. When he received 85 per cent of the vote, they figured Liberians had made their decision, resoundingly, and they would begin the process of dismantling the camp and returning the refugees home. They slowly retreated, unhooking the water pipes and shutting off the electricity. The refugees, however, didn’t budge.
Cephas, for example, went to Monrovia on behalf of UNHCR to be an independent observer of the elections. He was promptly arrested and shown a file inches thick marking his every move around the camp. He was tortured and spent two weeks locked in a prison cell. It was enough to convince him that there is a lot of bitterness and rage in the country, a lot of people looking to settle old scores and not a lot of change in mentality.
We took a tro-tro out to the camp – a ride that consisted of a tro ride to Circle, then another to Kaneshie and finally the long ride out to the camp itself. All told, it took just over two hours, a distance Cephas travels every day to come into the Daily Guide. All told, it cost us c4,300, or about 70 cents.
About a half hour outside of Accra, in travel that crawled slowly down rutted red roads, a man in the front bench stood up and told us he was So-and-So from the Church of Annoying Evangelists and he’d come to give us the word of God. (In the name of Jesus.) His sermon went on for a half hour (in the name of Jesus) and he was kind enough to expound on his history as a womanizer (in the name of Jesus) and an avid dancer and music lover (in the name of Jesus) but when he became born again, he realized that sex wasn’t for pleasure (“you may think it’s 30 or 45 minutes of pleasure” – we all raised our eyebrows). Anyway, there was much eye-rolling amongst the obrunis.
The camp itself didn’t seem to have such a Christian focus, and by that I mean, in Accra every business, almost without exception, is called something to do with God or Christ. “In His time” metal and gas service. “In God’s Name” photocopying services. “By His Hand” barbering. It’s sometimes quite hilarious. But what really surprised us is how developed the camp is. At one point we walked past a lovely little store packed with Diesel jeans and the latest offerings from Nike.
Then we went to Cephas’ house and we were reminded that all was not as it seemed at the camp. Cephas, his wife Claudia and their two boys, Kaza and Kontee, live in a three-room concrete house less than 2 km away from the camp. They share the building with another family. Their living room is a dank, dark bare square of a room with plastic lawn chairs lining two walls and a small TV in the corner. There is one poster on the wall, a kitschy mathematical equation about how to produce a happy home. There is no running water, so Kaza goes every morning to buy a bucket of water. Water is c1,000 a bucket and this family of four gets by on a mere five buckets a day.
We went to a news conference in the afternoon, which was supposed to start at noon, but got underway a little closer to 1:30 p.m. (Liberians, apparently, are no more punctual than Ghanians.) The conference would prove to be pretty typical, stretching out roughly three hours and featuring a lot of windbags and not a lot of content. The only thing separating it from a Ghanaian press conference was the lack of soli, a curious and not-quite-ethical practice perfected in Accra, where journalists who attend press conferences are handed an envelope of money at the end, ostensibly to cover their “travel expenses.” No joke.
The setting was a little series of outdoor pavilions, the kind you see Rotary clubs in small towns fundraising to build. We started outside, then rain forced us to pick up our chairs and take them under a little shelter. There was some wrangling with the sound system, which started to smoke not long after the rain began.
The “program,” as it was called, started with a little selection from the band, a keyboard and bass, accompanied by a gospel singer whose out of tune singing was saved only by the wonky mic, which so distorted the sound it sounded like a robot was singing. That went on for about 10 minutes, until the crowd descended from its fevered pitch (“When Jesus says yes, no one can say No!”) and then there was a long and rambling prayer, then the official welcome – which took roughly 12 minutes and made sure to mention and welcome nearly every segment of society, including the fourth estate. Then everyone was officially recognized – from the women’s groups to the youth groups to the fourth estate again and finally, the international observers. It was quite touching, actually. The man thanked us profusely and reminded everyone that the world needs to keep an eye on Liberia, as everyone present knew the heavy toll paid when the world turns its back.
A little musical interlude followed. It was moving, even for me. A woman and five others, decked out in their Sunday best, sang two songs, “placed into their hearts by Jesus.” The crowd got up on its feet, swaying, dancing, waving handkerchiefs. One man had tears streaming down his face.
An hour into the program, we were still no closer to figuring out the official reason for the presser. Then a long series of speeches began, starting with a PhD candidate who explained why Liberia needs a change in government. The gist is that Liberia fell because it was under the control of the devil and God needed to exacerbate the wickedness so people would clearly see that penance was needed. So much suffering and grief would convince them of the right way, which is, coincidentally, God’s way.
Then the Clinton representative appeared – what would a presidential nomination be without a Clinton? – this time in the form of Rev. Marilyn Clinton, a Pentacost pastor who spoke about the importance of women in the party in a nasally Nell Carter-sort of voice.
Then the camp’s chair of the Liberia Refugee Welfare Council – kind of like a mayor – stepped up to the mic to talk about the importance of reconciliation and repatriation and return to the promise land. It starts to hit home how desperate everyone is to get home and how there is very little happening to make that happen. The election is still more than a year away and who knows what its outcome will be… Perhaps they will be no better off.
Another windbag steps up to the mic and then finally it’s time for the man himself, the skinny, slight man in the navy blue leisure suit -- not a suit jacket, but more like a Panama outfit. At first there is confusion. He’s unsure whether just to stand and wave to the masses or whether he should start sliding down the aisle to the podium. Eventually someone comes to collect him. His “bodyguard” follows.
Throughout the proceedings he has been sitting next to his wife, a youngish looking woman wrapped in pale blue who chomps unsubtly on a piece of gum. He is variously on his white cellular telephone and looking around at the crowd. When he takes the mic, he appears nervous and it’s clear within a few paragraphs of his speech that he has some sort of lisp that makes “wife” sound like “wyeth” and “serve” comes out as “serth.” So far I know nothing about the party, except that one of the underlings says that socialism most closely mirrors the true ideals of democracy. I assume that means they’re a socialist party. And someone else makes the statement that they feel Liberians should be cared for from cradle to grave. I’m not sure whether that means free education, free health care, etc. There is no platform or manifesto.
It’s clear from his comments that Rev. Aloysius Kpadeh thinks he is headed for greatness. The previous speakers comment on his nomination coming straight from the mouth of God via revelations and dreams. Kpadeh likens himself to Moses or Mohammed, prophets who led their people to a promised land. He makes the same sweeping promise to his congregants: his presidency will mean their triumphant return to Liberia.
As we’re leaving a man stops me to ask an excellent question: how is he going to pay for this bid to be president? Other men will run for the position, men from America and England, who will have deep pockets and influential backers, he notes. Where will this man, who has spent the past 14 years 1,700 km away from Liberia manage to build a presence and a party.
Its God’s plan is the only answer.
Buduburam was a prayer camp, a retreat for the devout to heal their spiritual souls with non-stop prayer and fasting. When Ghana agreed to take the Liberian refugees, the camp’s ramshackle buildings were picked as an appropriate spot and thousands of mudhuts sprang up around it.
Today, the camp is enormous and functions like a small village, although it has neither running water nor electricity, an atrocity that the UN should be made to rectify. It looks a little different from the Ghanaian villages and has a different feel to it, although I would be hard-pressed to say exactly what that is. It’s a lot cleaner than most villages. It’s also home to a gorgeous green clinic, walled soccer pitch, a cultural centre, a couple schools, a couple Internet cafes and a three-story home where the Ghanaian representative lives in splendor behind a metal fence.
My understanding of the history is that the UN took care of the camp, along with financial assistance from the Ghanaian government, until 1997, after the elections that installed Charles Taylor as president. When he received 85 per cent of the vote, they figured Liberians had made their decision, resoundingly, and they would begin the process of dismantling the camp and returning the refugees home. They slowly retreated, unhooking the water pipes and shutting off the electricity. The refugees, however, didn’t budge.
Cephas, for example, went to Monrovia on behalf of UNHCR to be an independent observer of the elections. He was promptly arrested and shown a file inches thick marking his every move around the camp. He was tortured and spent two weeks locked in a prison cell. It was enough to convince him that there is a lot of bitterness and rage in the country, a lot of people looking to settle old scores and not a lot of change in mentality.
We took a tro-tro out to the camp – a ride that consisted of a tro ride to Circle, then another to Kaneshie and finally the long ride out to the camp itself. All told, it took just over two hours, a distance Cephas travels every day to come into the Daily Guide. All told, it cost us c4,300, or about 70 cents.
About a half hour outside of Accra, in travel that crawled slowly down rutted red roads, a man in the front bench stood up and told us he was So-and-So from the Church of Annoying Evangelists and he’d come to give us the word of God. (In the name of Jesus.) His sermon went on for a half hour (in the name of Jesus) and he was kind enough to expound on his history as a womanizer (in the name of Jesus) and an avid dancer and music lover (in the name of Jesus) but when he became born again, he realized that sex wasn’t for pleasure (“you may think it’s 30 or 45 minutes of pleasure” – we all raised our eyebrows). Anyway, there was much eye-rolling amongst the obrunis.
The camp itself didn’t seem to have such a Christian focus, and by that I mean, in Accra every business, almost without exception, is called something to do with God or Christ. “In His time” metal and gas service. “In God’s Name” photocopying services. “By His Hand” barbering. It’s sometimes quite hilarious. But what really surprised us is how developed the camp is. At one point we walked past a lovely little store packed with Diesel jeans and the latest offerings from Nike.
Then we went to Cephas’ house and we were reminded that all was not as it seemed at the camp. Cephas, his wife Claudia and their two boys, Kaza and Kontee, live in a three-room concrete house less than 2 km away from the camp. They share the building with another family. Their living room is a dank, dark bare square of a room with plastic lawn chairs lining two walls and a small TV in the corner. There is one poster on the wall, a kitschy mathematical equation about how to produce a happy home. There is no running water, so Kaza goes every morning to buy a bucket of water. Water is c1,000 a bucket and this family of four gets by on a mere five buckets a day.
We went to a news conference in the afternoon, which was supposed to start at noon, but got underway a little closer to 1:30 p.m. (Liberians, apparently, are no more punctual than Ghanians.) The conference would prove to be pretty typical, stretching out roughly three hours and featuring a lot of windbags and not a lot of content. The only thing separating it from a Ghanaian press conference was the lack of soli, a curious and not-quite-ethical practice perfected in Accra, where journalists who attend press conferences are handed an envelope of money at the end, ostensibly to cover their “travel expenses.” No joke.
The setting was a little series of outdoor pavilions, the kind you see Rotary clubs in small towns fundraising to build. We started outside, then rain forced us to pick up our chairs and take them under a little shelter. There was some wrangling with the sound system, which started to smoke not long after the rain began.
The “program,” as it was called, started with a little selection from the band, a keyboard and bass, accompanied by a gospel singer whose out of tune singing was saved only by the wonky mic, which so distorted the sound it sounded like a robot was singing. That went on for about 10 minutes, until the crowd descended from its fevered pitch (“When Jesus says yes, no one can say No!”) and then there was a long and rambling prayer, then the official welcome – which took roughly 12 minutes and made sure to mention and welcome nearly every segment of society, including the fourth estate. Then everyone was officially recognized – from the women’s groups to the youth groups to the fourth estate again and finally, the international observers. It was quite touching, actually. The man thanked us profusely and reminded everyone that the world needs to keep an eye on Liberia, as everyone present knew the heavy toll paid when the world turns its back.
A little musical interlude followed. It was moving, even for me. A woman and five others, decked out in their Sunday best, sang two songs, “placed into their hearts by Jesus.” The crowd got up on its feet, swaying, dancing, waving handkerchiefs. One man had tears streaming down his face.
An hour into the program, we were still no closer to figuring out the official reason for the presser. Then a long series of speeches began, starting with a PhD candidate who explained why Liberia needs a change in government. The gist is that Liberia fell because it was under the control of the devil and God needed to exacerbate the wickedness so people would clearly see that penance was needed. So much suffering and grief would convince them of the right way, which is, coincidentally, God’s way.
Then the Clinton representative appeared – what would a presidential nomination be without a Clinton? – this time in the form of Rev. Marilyn Clinton, a Pentacost pastor who spoke about the importance of women in the party in a nasally Nell Carter-sort of voice.
Then the camp’s chair of the Liberia Refugee Welfare Council – kind of like a mayor – stepped up to the mic to talk about the importance of reconciliation and repatriation and return to the promise land. It starts to hit home how desperate everyone is to get home and how there is very little happening to make that happen. The election is still more than a year away and who knows what its outcome will be… Perhaps they will be no better off.
Another windbag steps up to the mic and then finally it’s time for the man himself, the skinny, slight man in the navy blue leisure suit -- not a suit jacket, but more like a Panama outfit. At first there is confusion. He’s unsure whether just to stand and wave to the masses or whether he should start sliding down the aisle to the podium. Eventually someone comes to collect him. His “bodyguard” follows.
Throughout the proceedings he has been sitting next to his wife, a youngish looking woman wrapped in pale blue who chomps unsubtly on a piece of gum. He is variously on his white cellular telephone and looking around at the crowd. When he takes the mic, he appears nervous and it’s clear within a few paragraphs of his speech that he has some sort of lisp that makes “wife” sound like “wyeth” and “serve” comes out as “serth.” So far I know nothing about the party, except that one of the underlings says that socialism most closely mirrors the true ideals of democracy. I assume that means they’re a socialist party. And someone else makes the statement that they feel Liberians should be cared for from cradle to grave. I’m not sure whether that means free education, free health care, etc. There is no platform or manifesto.
It’s clear from his comments that Rev. Aloysius Kpadeh thinks he is headed for greatness. The previous speakers comment on his nomination coming straight from the mouth of God via revelations and dreams. Kpadeh likens himself to Moses or Mohammed, prophets who led their people to a promised land. He makes the same sweeping promise to his congregants: his presidency will mean their triumphant return to Liberia.
As we’re leaving a man stops me to ask an excellent question: how is he going to pay for this bid to be president? Other men will run for the position, men from America and England, who will have deep pockets and influential backers, he notes. Where will this man, who has spent the past 14 years 1,700 km away from Liberia manage to build a presence and a party.
Its God’s plan is the only answer.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 6:15 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home