I Hold Your Foot
After leaving the US passport agency, our taxi pulled up to a forties-style bungalow in the 16th Street Heights neighborhood of Washington, DC. The yellowish-colored house had once served as a residence for the Liberian Ambassador but now the official stateside Embassy for the Republic.
I noticed the familiar coat of arms hanging on the outer concrete wall as we approached the entrance. I thought back to sixth grade when I created a replica of the seal for history class—a 'masterpiece' on a white poster board: An ocean with a ship under sail, the sun emerging from the sea, a green palm, and the plow and spade. At the top, it read: 'For the love of Liberty brought us here.'
I saved it and even stuffed it into my suitcase when I came to America.
I even stuffed it into my suitcase when I came to America.
A lady wrapped in a tailored lappa suit opened the building door. Her brightly colored green and yellow ensemble glistened as the sunlight pierced an open window. In a deep-set Liberian English accent, she invited Aunt Lizzy and I in while she notified an agent of our presence. We waited in the lobby for an hour. "He can see you now," she said, as she escorted us down a dark hall and into a back office. The lady addressed the agent as "Your Honorable" when she introduced us. Aunt Lizzy sat facing the consulate in front of an oversized wooden desk, while I stood.
High class officials in Liberia are called Honorables, and it would be dishonorable not to use the term when addressing one, so Aunt Lizzy took the cue and began her request with the same. She explained that she needed a short-term visitor visa stamped in her passport if we were going to catch our plane that night. I held my breath.
Tapping his thumb on the edge of his chair, he gazed unseeing across the room. He mumbled something to himself while shuffling papers on the desk. Finally, he said: "Ma, I'm sorry for your loss, but I can't help you today. Go, come back tomorrow."
“I hold your foot.”— a term used in the Liberian vernacular when there’s no more begging left in your bones.
We didn't have tomorrow. Our flight from Washington to New York City was in two hours, and our flight to Liberia from New York was scheduled for nine o'clock that night. My mind raced. I had forgotten about the unspoken expectation. The ‘dash’—a customary gift, preferably monetary, would speed up the Honorable’s decision if something significant was to be offered.
‘Beg him,’ I thought. So I began a one-way sortie with the Honorable, spouting out words in Liberian English while making wild hand gestures as I pleaded for his help. "Honorable, I beg you. My auntie needs the visa today. We need to get to my sister's funeral. My ma and my pa are waiting for me." With the right amount of fluctuations in tone and pitch, I continued my theatrical pleas. But my courage soon waned. He wasn’t listening.
I sighed, “Ah bah."
I was desperate. Like a last-ditch effort in a final confession, I stabbed his conscience with four magical words: “I hold your foot.”— a term used in the Liberian vernacular when there’s no more begging left in your bones.
He stared at me and burst into laughter.
"Aye, yah. You're a Liberian girl, eh?"
I nodded. "Yes, I was born there."
"But you're white. White people don't speak Liberian English."
I shrugged.
I stabbed his conscience with four magical words: "I hold your foot."
With a soft grin, he stretched his arm across the desk and reached for Aunt Lizzy's passport. "Okay. Okay. Go, come back in two hours, and your passport will be ready for travel."
The corners of his mouth turned upward as he gazed at me softly. "Sorry, Missy. Don't worry. You'll make it to the funeral in time."
The kindness gave me a moment's relief from my heart's agony.
~ an excerpt from a WIPYou may also like these WIP journal posts