Sombre Sunday

As so often in expatriate life in a place like Monrovia, the variety of experiences within a single day is simultaneously heartbreaking, heartwarming and outrageous.

My Liberian colleague Danny's son, in his twenties, died in the early hours so Danny spent most of today at a family meeting to plan the funeral arrangements. He's the one who introduced me to the guesthouse where I'm now staying, and after dinner I was surprised to find him back there. We only met a few days ago but as I'm taking an interim role managing the project that Danny is a critical cog within, I must gen up quickly on compassionate leave in Liberia and understand what we can do to support him.

Danny wanted to talk, to tell me about the history of his relationship with his son, and it was an honour to hear it. I was fighting back the tears in the face of his strength.

When Danny was younger, in his words 'before he was ready' for fatherhood, the precautions he was taking with his girlfriend failed, but they'd gone their separate ways before Danny knew she was pregnant. The First Liberian Civil War was causing ethnic strife in many areas and people were fleeing to Ivory Coast to reach refugee camps in Ghana. Only through word of mouth and a scribbled note by a friend did Danny find out that his ex-girlfriend was expecting his child. It was a long search across countries and through family links to unite him with his son. By that time the baby was with his maternal grandparents in a region of Liberia that was dangerous for Danny to visit because of ethnic tensions. When peace came people returned from exile and resettled in Liberia. The boy lived with his mother and her new husband near Monrovia and later with Danny and his wife, but rebelled against his stepmother's attempts to introduce discipline. The boy returned to his mother, and Danny feels she 'brainwashed' the child to become distant from him and made it difficult for him to provide the support he offered. She changed the boy's name from how Danny knew him. Thinking it inappropriate to visit the boy's mother alone due to respect for her husband, Danny would dispatch his wife to give money for the boy's needs; a kind act by her as the mother had not always viewed the wife charitably.

Danny thinks the boy did not fulfil his potential compared to his younger children with his current wife. His oldest daughter will soon graduate university but the boy only recently finished high school. However Danny sounded happy that as an adult the boy was reaching out to him more and had started discussing how to attend university whilst developing a small IT business to finance himself. He joined Danny's other children (his half-siblings) for family events and they would share jokes about the name change his mother forced on him.

Danny is miffed as to why his son hadn't communicated about feeling unwell, which would normally be the case. He received a call early today to say his son was in a critical condition, so he rushed over, but he was in fact already dead. The boy's maternal uncle (usually a very strong father figure in many African cultures) had not wanted to tell him the worst news over the phone. The boy had been suffering from heart pains and died in the early hours.

The upheaval of the early part of the child's life is unfathomable to most of us living in the UK, and the torture of experiences like these creates the most resilient characters. Danny's humility as he spoke was incredible and heart-wrenching. I have no doubt that he is processing a huge amount of sorrow and guilt for not being present throughout his son's childhood, however much his duty was affected by war and relationship dynamics.

The day began more comfortably at a swish café I'd spotted, where I met a friend of a friend working here as an accountant. Good coffee, lemon iced tea and mozzarella sticks, in stark contrast to Liberian street food. The café adjoins a high-end supermarket and as I arrived a fleet of cars with sirens and security descended, similar to the entourages I've seen whip along the main city artery of Tubman Boulevard. This was the President George Weah arriving for a spot of shopping.

Later walking back to the guesthouse I saw billboards urging the new President and his deputy not to 'forget your campaign promises'. This could serve as useful public accountability. The walk was hot and pleasant, with very little attention paid to the foreigner in the midst. In such situations I am always attuned to the subtle contrasts in daily life between different places. A man was being whipped in the face by a lady's blue headscarf as they rode on the back of a motorbike. Men washed cars and wheelbarrowed random materials. 'I like your shades' yelled one guy who I passed. There were very few approaches and recent similar length walks in Cambridge have solicited more begging.

Emmanuel, the generous owner of the guesthouse, drove us to dinner at a lively joint along Tubman Boulevard (because everything is). When waiting for the lift home we realised many prostitutes were working in the parking lot. Emmanuel confirmed prostitution is rife in the city and that we'd been at a hotspot. I asked about Liberians' attitude to sex, and it sounded liberal, although I imagine there's a huge divide between promiscuity and chasteness. Emmanuel reminded us of the Liberian Girl who had made such an impact on Michael Jackson that he penned a song about her. He also confirmed that if we wanted to bring prostitutes back, he would be happy to drive us and ask no questions. We will not be taking up this gesture, however selfless.