Phillip van Niekerk in Monrovia
AGAINST the insistent rattle of gunfire, people sheltering in Monrovia’s diplomatic enclave of Mamba Point speak of something as threatening as the war: hunger.
Once United States helicopters airlift Westerners and diplomats, those left behind in the Liberian capital will have to forage for something to eat in a city whose shelves are bare.
At the Black and White Entertainment Centre, where Liberians party on Friday nights, there is a small market. All the stalls have been closed since last Saturday and the only goods available are being hawked by children: a tiny bag of sugar is $3 (about R12), a blob of butter is $2.
A small boy carries a red plate of rotten, dried fish, swarming with flies. If the choice between hunger and dysentery seems a bad one, the search for water is even more thankless.
The only fresh water available is down the road, past a known encampment of fighters who let off volleys of gunfire with their AK-47s. The corpse of a young boy on a nearby beach is a stark reminder of the risks of stray bullets.
Hundreds of people congregate on the steps of the peeling two-storey Mamba Point House, once a mansion and then a public health clinic. It was transformed into a refugee centre four years ago — the previous time Monrovia was sacked.
As if by instinct, dozens of young mothers have fled the fighting to this crumbling stone structure, even though all the medical equipment they need to help their babies was looted in 1992. The women hold their babies in the air, crying: “We have no food. We have no pure water.”
Henry Newman, an elderly grey-haired man in a suit, shakes his head. “No, we’re not scared. We just want to go home and forget about it all.”
Until the outbreak of hostilities last Saturday morning, 400 people lived in Mamba Point House. Now the latest estimate is 3 000 people, packing in together on the concrete floors, with more coming every day.
A further 20 000 refugees are being housed at the US compound up the road. But with this compound also overcrowded, small refugee camps are springing up throughout the enclave.
Arthur Major, a refugee who insists that the international community take note of the plight of his people, points down the beach to another pathetic collection of refugees. “We are 100 there. Many children. You have to do something fast. Don’t know how long we’re going to be here.”
A soldier from the West African peacekeeping force, Ecomog, waves as he strolls past in combat uniform. A woman in the street pulls me aside and says he is not a soldier, but one of the militia members on surveillance duty.
These are the men who hold the lives of ordinary people in their hands now.