LETTER FROM SACLEPEA

A Chance Moment by River Weh

By Musa Hassan Bility

Last week, life paused for me.

It paused in the most unexpected and beautiful way.

A lifetime friend, my boyhood companion, Nvasekie K. Konneh, whom we affectionately call Professor NNK, came home. We grew up together in Saclepea. We shared dreams. We shared hunger. We shared confusion. We shared hope. And in many ways, we shared the turning point that shaped the rest of our lives.

From the very first moment we sat together, we did not speak as grown men. We became boys again. We returned to yesterday.

We returned to Saclepea.

I remembered the mornings when I was a student journalist. I would wake before dawn, sit with my shortwave radio, listening to the Voice of America and the BBC, gathering international news. I would combine it with local updates from our community, write everything down carefully, and stand at 8 o’clock devotion to deliver the news to the school.

It required discipline. It required dedication. It required belief.

And after delivering the news, you still had to sit in class and study your lessons like everyone else.

Those were hard days.

But they were beautiful days.

We laughed remembering Saclepea, calling the names of friends. Some are dead. Some are scattered across the world. Some are still in Liberia. All of them are part of us.

Then came the memory that shaped everything. As boys, confused yet inspired, we had immersed ourselves in the works of Malcolm X and Marcus Garvey. We were intoxicated by Pan Africanism.

We believed Africa could rise. We believed we would be part of that rise.

But we had no idea how to make it in the world. So we decided we would become musicians.

For days and days, we went down to River Weh, that sacred river of our youth, carrying our little tape player. We sat by the water with another dear friend who is no longer with us. We sang. We practiced. We believed.

Months passed. Then one day, after listening to ourselves honestly, we faced the painful truth that we were not musicians.

Letting go of that dream hurt. It broke something in us. But that day, that exact day, defined our future.

We looked at each other by River Weh and realized that life would demand different sacrifices from each of us.

He chose the road outward. I chose the road inward. He set out to cross Africa, through Libya toward Europe. The journey did not succeed. He disappeared from our sight. For years, we did not know his story. Then one day, he returned to Saclepea. And eventually, he left again, this time to the United States. He joined the US Army, served honorably, retired successfully, and has now returned home with pride.

As for me, I once went to my mother and told her I wanted to leave like he did. She cried.

My older brother had already left, first to Saudi Arabia, then to Nigeria. He never came back. To this day, our family does not know where he is. Over time, we have quietly accepted that he may be gone forever. My mother died with tears in her heart, longing for her missing son.

When I told her I wanted to leave too, she asked me one question:

If he is gone and never came back, and now you want to leave me too, what will be the meaning of my life?

I looked at her face. And I stayed.

That was my decision by River Weh. That was my sacrifice.

Sitting with Nvasekie last week, we remembered our admiration for great Black leaders, our excitement when Barack Obama was elected, our frustrations about tribe and religion dividing our country, and our determination, even in confusion, to be part of something bigger than ourselves.

It was Saclepea in real time. It was memory alive. It was laughter mixed with pain. It was the river flowing again inside our hearts.

When Saturday evening came and it was time to say goodbye, it was painful. But I told him:

Let us do this again. And again. As many times as we can.

Because Saclepea is not just a place. Saclepea is heritage. Saclepea is identity. Saclepea is sacrifice.

Yesterday is our today. And it is our tomorrow.

And when we gather again, by memory or by river, we return to who we truly are.

Have a pleasant week.