Stories with no faces

It was just a random day, nothing too pressing on my agenda, when I got a notification on Messenger. Curious, I checked my phone. It was a picture sent by my cousin—a photo of my paternal grandfather. I was honestly shocked. How had I never realized I had no idea what my grandfather looked like? Hell, I didn't know him at all. Someone so crucial to my existence was a stranger. But that's a story for another day.

As the "thought" daughter I am, I started reflecting on the number of people whose faces I'll probably never see, yet I know so much about them. Take my maternal great-grandmother, for instance. My grandma often tells me how much I remind her of her mother. She said her mother’s spirit animal was a deer—delicate, shy, and wary—all traits she sees in me. A vivid memory she has of her mother is of her sitting under a tree with books, both for writing and reading, which are things I've always loved to do.

Looking back, it's funny how much that impacted me. If you’ve known or followed me for a while, you might remember my slight obsession with deer. It was the only connection I had to my great-grandmother. Every time I imagined her, it was in the form of a doe. I didn’t realize this until after I received that picture of my paternal grandfather, who didn’t even exist to me till then.

Now curious, I went to my mom and asked for pictures from her childhood. She explained how it would be almost impossible for any childhood pictures of her to exist still because our family home was burned down in a targeted attack. See, not only did my grandma have a government ID (an indication of government relations, which could have gotten you killed by rebels), but one of my aunts had romantic relations with a very involved figure. Because of that, our family was targeted.

Luckily, they weren’t home during the attack. My grandmother had placed all of our albums on the ceiling, hoping to return someday, but that wasn’t the case. Emotions welled up in me. This war, which had no head or tail, kept taking things away from us. There’s so much resentment towards those involved that if I ever faced them, I’d twist their ears and give the meanest konk known to mankind.

As a thought daughter, I couldn’t let it go. Honestly, how could I? I pondered how never seeing my mother as a child tainted how I view her now. Or how I might never fully understand who I am or why I am the way I am.

Pictures are still, but they capture so much. One good picture can hold the answer to a hundred questions. We do have a few, but they’re not enough. I want to see everyday photos in hopes of seeing myself in these people before the traumas of war negatively impacted them. Is that fair, or am I being greedy?

Growing up as a post-war baby is an interesting experience filled with confusion, resentment, and displacement. Even in your home, you feel out of place because, to some extent, you are. There’s a trauma bond your family shares amongst themselves and other Liberians that you just can’t be a part of, and I get a bit jealous. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy I didn’t experience the brutality of war, but life is yin and yang. Because I didn’t experience the yin, I don’t get the yang, only able to watch it from afar like a kid staring at your snacks before coming over and saying, “My mom said I can eat those.” The same amount of yearning.

Not only is there a barrier, but you actively have to put in the work to learn. My mom complains about me not being able to cook Liberian food well, but it’s like, girl, did you teach me? I have to take the initiative and make sure I learn on my own or ask questions so I can retain enough knowledge to pass down to my children and preserve my Liberian heritage. It confuses me why there seems to be no urgency for that. Our languages and customs are dying, and if they do, those warlords will have honestly won.

Maybe I’ll dive more into my experience as a post-war baby another time. But back to my original thoughts. I’ve heard so many stories and have family members I know about whom I will never have the privilege of seeing. From the family friend my mom watched get killed, to the old lady riddled with bullets by rebels, and to my great-grandmother, whom I supposedly mirror.

Ancestry is important, and captured memories are important. Knowing me, I’ll probably find a positive once I accept that this is my experience and there’s no changing it. But one thing I’ll never get over is this war and its unnecessary damage that maybe even my kids might feel.

It took me a while to realize that, regardless of whether I can see these people in human form, they see me. They are me. Like my good sis, Kamala said, “You exist in the context of all in which you live, and what came before you.” Maybe I can only visualize my great-grandmother as a doe because it’s how she wants to be seen. Regardless of what I want, I need to accept that and be grateful she even shows herself to me.

Thola Amadlozi by Brenda Fassie highlights the African tradition of calling forth ancestors to receive their guidance & blessings.

Thanks for reading :)