My Mother's Land: Tales and Tastes of Liberia

Copyright © 2012-2017 by Dena Olayinka Broderick.

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

In loving memory of my mother,

Vivian Messie Broderick.

As you dedicated your life to me, I dedicate this book to you, Mom. I only hope I have inherited a fraction of your strength and courage, charisma and grace, superb culinary skills, witty sense of humor, undeniable inner beauty—and maybe just a dash of your external beauty as well.

And thank you for always taking me to Sizzler when I did well on my spelling tests in grade school!

I love you.

Character Guide

A Note to the Reader

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Bright Enough to Light Up the World

Chapter 2 – Struck by Lightning

Chapter 3 – Aftershocks

Chapter 4 – Coming to Africa

Chapter 5 – Weyatta

Chapter 6 – Kakata

Chapter 7 – Archives and Records

Chapter 8 – Waterside Market

Chapter 9 – Facia

Chapter 10 – Repatriates

Chapter 11 – Identity Crises

Chapter 12 – Braids and Chicken Balls

Chapter 13 – Liberian Minded

Chapter 14 – Lasana

Epilogue

My Mother’s Elusive Land…

Recipes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Dena Olayinka Broderick – Me

Vivian Messie Broderick – Mom

Dennis Olanrewaju Broderick – Dad

Aaron Tucker Sr. – Mom’s father

Grace Jasse Kromah Tucker – Mom’s mother

Auntie Ciatta – Mom’s sister (same ma, same pa)

Uncle Lucky – Mom’s brother (same ma, same pa)

Uncle Fedelis – Mom’s brother (same ma, same pa)

Lasana – Mom’s brother (same pa, different ma)

Facia – Mom’s sister (same pa, different ma)

Kornah – Mom’s sister (same pa, different ma)

Hawa – Mom’s sister (same pa, different ma)

Aunt Gen – Mom’s first cousin once removed

Uncle V – Aunt Gen’s husband

Aunt Marlene – Mom’s first cousin once removed / Aunt Gen’s sister (same pa, different ma)

Uncle Ducky – Mom’s first cousin once removed / Aunt Gen and Aunt Marlene’s brother (same pa, different ma)

Weyatta – Aunt Marlene’s niece

Uncle William – Aunt Marlene’s brother (same ma, different pa)

Tamba – Crooked Archives and Records employee

Kemah – Grandma Jasse’s good friend

Ma Hawa – Grandma Jasse’s first cousin

Boima – Grandma Jasse’s informally adopted son

Auntie Massa – Mom’s first cousin

Joseph – House help

Dylan – Aunt Gen’s driver

Nathaniel – Uncle V’s driver

Bernice – House cook

James – Day shift watchman/security guard

Samuel – Night shift watchman/security guard

This is the story of my trip to Liberia in 2012.

While I was writing this book in 2014-15, West Africa experienced the world’s worst outbreak of Ebola virus disease in history. Although Liberia was declared free of Ebola on more than one occasion, the disease eventually reemerged, adding to over 11,000 deaths caused by the virus. As of September of 2016, all of West Africa was declared free of Ebola. But the impact of the disease continues to be tremendous on Liberia and its neighboring countries. Ebola was constantly on my mind during much of the time I was writing; however, the virus is not discussed in the main portion of this book as my trip to Liberia took place 18 months before the West African outbreak occurred.

Fortunately, none of the people mentioned in this book were infected with the virus. I would, however, like to acknowledge and honor my cousin from Sierra Leone, Dr. Olivet Buck, who contracted Ebola while treating a patient. After her diagnosis, a hospital in Hamburg, Germany, agreed to admit her, but the World Health Organization refused to transfer her, citing they would provide her with the best care possible in Sierra Leone. On September 14, 2014, Olivet lost her battle with Ebola.

What you are about to read is a personal memoir, based on my journal entries and my recollections. All incidents are accurate to the extent I remember them. I have done my best to double-check my memories against other sources where facts of history and geography are concerned. Some stories have been edited or combined for the sake of smoother narrative. All place names are accurate. Some personal names have been changed to protect the privacy of the members of my family.

Thank you for taking the time to read about this journey to my mother’s land.

Dena Olayinka Broderick

Los Angeles, California

April 2017

The year was 1994, and I was eleven years old. I’d been sitting with my friends ever since my aunt dropped me off at school an hour earlier, but one by one they’d all been called to board the bus, and now I was all alone. I was beginning to get nervous my mom wouldn’t make it on time. My sixth-grade class was leaving for a camping trip to Lake Arrowhead, and my mom was going to be there any moment now to turn in the final payment before the buses left. The money was due weeks ago, but Mom had made arrangements for an extension. She knew how badly I wanted to go, so she picked up extra hours at work to pay for it. I had spent the night at my aunt’s house because Mom worked the graveyard shift and didn’t get off of work until 6:00 a.m. She was getting paid that morning and had one hour to bring the remaining balance to school.

What if she didn’t make it on time? Would they still let me go on the trip or would I forever be known as the girl who got left behind? I frowned at the thought of the buses leaving without me. Then I saw my mother’s car pull up behind the school buses. She dashed to the person calling students to board; the woman smiled and nodded as Mom whispered something in her ear and handed her an envelope. I ran up to my mom and hugged her.

You made it! I said.

Of course I made it, Mommy, she said, hugging back. She had called me Mommy ever since I was a little girl because I reminded her so much of her own mom.

My arms were still wrapped around her when the chaperone signaled for me to board the bus. You go and have fun, you hear, Mom said. I nodded. She helped me load my bag under the bus, and as she watched me board she called, I love you.

I turned around and smiled. I love you too!

SUBJECT: Host Family Invitation

DATE: Mon, 29 Jun 2009 09:38

FROM: JWellington@walie.org

TO: Dena Broderick

Dear Dena,

Good news! One of our host families has invited you to live with them in Barcelona, Spain. Attached is a description of the family and their contact information, as well as the contract between you and Work & Live in Europe.

After you have reviewed the information and the Agreement, please sign the Agreement where indicated and return it by post. Please also make arrangements for your final payment.

Once you have confirmed acceptance of the invitation from the host family, please feel free to contact them directly to introduce yourself further and to make arrangements for your arrival.

As always, should you have any questions, please contact me via phone or email.

Regards,

Jane Wellington

Program Coordinator

Work & Live in Europe

It had been three years since I earned my master’s degree in business, which I pursued more for my parents than myself. I had given the nine-to-five corporate world an honest try, but I felt immensely unfulfilled and dissatisfied. I’d had an overwhelming desire to experience a different way of life and see what it was like to live outside of the United States, but after months of waiting for placement, I was beginning to think the British program I was registered with had taken off with my $600. I tried reasoning with myself: I live in Los Angeles so of course it makes sense I paid someone I’ve never met in London to find a family for me to live with in Barcelona. I analyzed this thought and realized I might be in trouble. Just then my phone alerted me to a new email. It was from the program coordinator—they’d found a family to host me!

I would be living with a couple in their mid-30s and their two young boys. The mother was an interior decorator and owned a boutique furniture store, and the father owned both a café and a chocolate shop in Barcelona’s city center. Although the family looked good on paper, I was a nervous wreck the entire week before I left. My stomach was in knots and I had no appetite. I wondered if this Spanish family would like me. Would I like them? I was to teach the two sons English in exchange for room and board. Was I capable? They were only three and five years old, and as an adult in my mid-twenties, I hadn’t interacted with kids that age since kindergarten.

My plane was taking off in a few hours, and I still felt so unprepared. As my thoughts raced, there was a loud knock at the door. Who could be visiting so late at night? I’d said goodbye to everyone at my going-away party over the weekend. I ran down the stairs.

Who is it?

A sweet Liberian voice answered, It’s me.

I opened the door. My mother stood there looking more beautiful than ever. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a bun, showing off her radiant face. Her fuchsia blouse glowed against her rich coffee-colored complexion, her slim white slacks hugged her curves just right. She stood taller than her usual five-foot-three frame. I glanced at her feet to discover she had on spectacularly high strappy white wedge heels.

The heels were something I hadn’t seen in a long time. When I was little, my mother had impeccable style. Every year in elementary school all the other mothers would show up to our Christmas recitals wearing drab skirt suits purchased from Moms R Us, and each time my mom would appear in a hand-woven lace skirt, a camisole made from silk chiffon and her Nepalese cashmere shawl—or something similarly fantastic. My dad says she was always a class act. While their peers were buying trendy polyester outfits in the ’70s, she had no qualms about spending hours at thrift stores searching for the finest of clothes. She purchased pieces so classic that decades later, whenever I wear her clothes, I get just as many compliments as she was undoubtedly showered with back then.

How times had changed. Now, my mom rarely dressed up. Her regular attire had become a loose sweatshirt, track pants, black UGG boots and a scarf tied around her head. I guess it was all she had time to throw on, as busy as she was.

She was a true entrepreneur, having opened, and eventually closed, three beauty supply shops over the 30 years she lived in California. Between businesses she would take on odd jobs to make ends meet; she once worked in a factory as a sprinkler head inspector. Her latest venture was a market she’d opened in Pasadena seven years earlier called Yinkus African and Caribbean Market, named after my African nickname. Come to think of it, all of her prior businesses were named after me in one way or another.

Things with the market started off well, but with the downturn of the economy much of her clientele moved to more affordable neighborhoods and were no longer regular customers. To support her business, my mom began working the graveyard shift as a caretaker at two group homes. I saw how hard she was working and how tired she was and I begged her to shut down her market so she could have time for herself. I wanted her to rest and enjoy her life, but she had faith in her store and refused to give up on it. Between running her shop during the day and working her two night jobs, she didn’t have a moment to herself, let alone time to dress up. But tonight, as she stood on my front porch, I was reminded of how stunning she was.

Mom, you look great! I said, giving her a long tight hug.

Thanks, Mommy! she replied. Her steps clicked on the tile floor as she strolled into the den. She carefully lowered herself onto the couch and slid off her four-inch heels. These shoes, they ain’t made for walking. These the kind of shoes you sit in, she said. I laughed. We chatted about what I thought Spain would be like. She was incredibly skilled at finding something to worry about in even the most joyous of occasions, so I kept my nerves to myself and put on a brave front for her.

Suddenly she leaned in as if she had something truly important to tell me. Don’t go mix-mix your food when you having dinner with the family you coming live with, she said. Apparently, I tend to mix my food around my plate too much when I eat, a trait no one else on this planet seemed to notice or care about except my mom; it drove her insane and she often reminded me not to over-mix my food on first dates. She feared it would turn men off, leaving me single