Keith Neville Asumuyaya Best Aaron: Breaking Out What a remarkable journey it has been, since humankind first began to roam the earth in search of food and shelter, down through the ages, to the present. How humbling that the astonishing scientific and social strides of today are traceable to the tentative steps of yesteryear’s pioneers. What a legacy: the body of beliefs, standards and practices sifted through, safeguarded and passed on from one generation to the other. How, one wonders, had those customs that were settled on and deemed preferred, become the norm?  Had they been studied, tested and approved before they were catalogued as acceptable? Or, had treasured beliefs and practices that showed promise and seemed desirable simply insinuated themselves onto the status quo?  Keeping customs and traditions undiluted and unpolluted must have been quite a challenge. What about common interests—an important part of that system—that gives society its cohesiveness? How could communities contend with the unexpected, or cope with the innovative yet unknown quantities that seemed disruptive of harmony and stability while securing the status quo?  A favored method of safeguarding what time had helped established as ‘known,’ ‘understood,’  ‘good’ and therefore, prized, was by barring from the mainstream, individuals and practices whose interests and activities seemed out of step with the majority. How strange that the very dynamic that ensured growth and expansion and change, thus, progress, seemed the most threatening to those traditions society struggled blindly to protect.  Had society indulged every member’s curiosity or passing fancy, on the one hand, or had its “oddballs” given in to society’s demand that they be more practical on the other, much of the resulting creative energy generated would have been lost!   How fortunate for humanity that some of these agents of change persisted and persevered along the rugged road of progress, guaranteeing humankind’s relentless—though conflicted—reach for change and improvement.  Society’s "weirdos" began their creative journeys, as little more than scatterbrains, quacks, light-heads, bohemians, etc., in the eyes of their communities. Dogged by skepticism and, sometimes, hostility, many ended up as tragic figures. Like the so-called, songless thornbirds that, in casting themselves upon sharp and piercing thorns, were forced by the searing pain to emit the sweetest sounds they otherwise could not have issued, such standouts declined ‘traditional’ routes to industry and success; the narrow and uncharted trails they opted for, more often than not, led to poverty and sorrow. Such bold steps, onto ramps not often taken, would not be taken lightly by society. Those first deliberate steps toward a voice beckoning them in new directions would draw the ire and condemnation of their friends and neighbors alike.  Why would society shunt aside proven traditions and practices only to let nonconformists challenge and skirt the unchangeable? Imagine a ‘strapping’ young man with a rock in one hand (I think it was) and a feather in the other, dropping them again and again over a banister! What were people to think? But the Newtons, Galileos, and Edisons of the world, eventually would make their mark; for their industry and perseverance, quite a few would get their due.  As more and more individuals wandered off down those seldom chosen paths—succeeding a bit more frequently than before, they would come to command the recognition and respect that comes with various measures of success. Even those facing stiff odds early, could count on their tirelessness and determination to open other avenues to success. Such survivors would come to be called poets, sculptors, painters, musicians, artists, writers and athletes, even!  Much would be written about their lives; their backgrounds, their genetic and societal influences would ensure they remained objects that intrigued, animating discussion and stoking passion the world over.   Quite a bit has been said and written of late about Liberian artists who, like their counterparts, bore the scorn of a disapproving public because they refused to stem the flow of their creative—and sometimes progressive—juices. For years, that pool of such ‘wayward’ individuals, thanks to non-diversity and limited opportunities, seemed confined to athletes, those called to music and song, and artists.  Soon, employment outside of an expanding government bureaucracy would come to be regarded as ‘uncool’ and, more importantly, ‘unprofitable’, consistent with the cash-cow mentality prevalent in the 'Third World.'  One look at the cars that government officials drove, the clothes they wore and the restaurants they frequented, helped explain the reason why. Why would anyone want to work for himself rather than take up a lucrative position in government? Even individuals that worked for businesses sometimes were laughed at as not being gainfully employed.  Liberians who found themselves called to even less traditional professions —football players, musicians and other entertainers—proved easier targets for dismissal as dropouts or ‘gronahs,’ lacking ambition and goals.  How much more success did Wanibo Toe, the soccer legend need to earn the respect of his country; or garner him an award---of any kind? Though Mr. Toe had a song written about him, it would take an artist from another country to do the honors. Talking about song, will the performer and revolutionary, Ms. Miatta Fahnbulleh, ever get the credit she deserves for her many contributions to her country and people? Someone named Aaron Brown was responsible for the statues that adorned the Public Square bordering Ashmun, Center, Broad and Buchanan Streets, I was told as a youth; I have neither heard nor read anything of him since.        Something about Liberians’ perception of things must have gone awry in the past---something that persisted right down to the outbreak of civil strife in 1988 on. Where did that come from?  Had there been something in the past that that attitude could be traced to? There had been, and someone soon showed up to point that out: Edward Wilmot Blyden, a recently arrived Liberian of West Indian descent, had the advantage of observing patterns of Liberian behavior from a different angle. It struck Dr. Blyden that though clearly focused on the task at hand in the early 1870s, Liberians seemed mixed-up about labor and the fruits of labor; what was of essence and what was not. That confusion — of form with substance—might help explain an enduring delay in the development of policies and regulatory institutions to weed out weak and unproductive customs while strengthening desirable and self-sustaining traditions. Edward Wilmot Blyden went public with his findings: negative dispositions he identified, clearly were a throwback to the years the ancestors of Liberia’s settler-class spent in servitude. Naturally, not very many influential individuals, groups or institutions cared for Blyden’s radical thinking at the time; nor would later generations be spurred to action by his views. Ambivalence about a range of social structures like industry, leadership, responsibility, oversight and priority would persist.  For decades the Liberian society would languish in the socio-economic and moral morass that its educated and political class allowed.  Thankfully, a social critic popped up every now and then, whose thankless duty it has usually been, to serve up to society an image of itself.  One of such insightful individuals was a colorful young character that wandered Monrovia from one neighborhood to the other, socializing with everyone he met. Bull-Shitter Tubman cut the figure of a modern jester, bringing back memories of that profession that livened the courts and courtyards of old. Like those ancient members of his guild, Bull-Shitter had a routine he had perfected to a 'T': a convincing impression the late president, William Tubman. With an imaginary cigar between the fore- and middle fingers, he turned his head from side to side, extended his neck upward and puffed into the air as well as Tubman ever did.  William Tubman seemed to spring to life whenever I caught Bull-Shitter’s roving act.    Had Bull-Shitter been possessed as many considered him? Clearly: possessed of a dimension that made him a ‘sentinel’---pensive and reflective — of the social contradictions it became his duty to mirror. It has been over twenty years but if anyone remembers how the following jingle went, join me in a feeble attempt to recollect, piece together and organize the collection that Bull-Shitter the philosopher shared when he stepped away from his role as a self-employed entertainer to provide passers-by—his students—a lesson on the vagaries of life.    When you cry, they say you laughing You don’t laugh, they say you bad If you beg, they say you lazy You ain’t beg, they say you proud You ain’t steal from government, they say you stupid If you steal, they say you rogue You work hard, they call you roko You don’t work, they say you crook You tell the truth, they say you lying When you lie, they say you smart You frown, they say you hateful You make fun, they say you clown What tin I muh do nahn?       In 1973, a group of former classmates and friends invited me to join them in a venture just as I considered quitting my job at the Liberian Star in Monrovia. The Star had made it clear it would no longer would pressure the government of the day for reform. My new co-workers included Ernestein Cassell, C. Patrick Burrowes, Vittorio A. Jesus Weeks, Willard G. Russell, C.T. Othello Brandy and H. Boakai Freeman. Aaron Brown and veteran pamphleteer, Albert Porte, joined us a little later.   Like a zephyr, Aaron breezed into my mother’s living room around the middle of 1973. We were weeks away from launching The Revelation Magazine; the New York Times would call it "one of the most important developments in Liberia's recent history." Aaron’s friendly and expansive smile lit up the room and everyone felt he had always known the artist. Working with stencils, he brought a modern touch and precision to our mimeographed pages I had not thought possible. Suffused with his spirit, his illustrations lent “The Revelation” a professional outlook and flair we had not anticipated. With its September 1973 launching, The Revelation Magazine — a social, political, economic and cultural monthly announced that:     A brave new dawn had broken, A youthful cry: “Let’s go” Raised up young dormant ‘tokens:’ Somnambulant no more!  The magazine’s motto read: “Be not warned by the speaker but by what the speaker speaketh.”  The publication was seen as a medium to foster discussions that would help chart a new direction; that would have meant devising and adopting a comprehensive plan with appropriations and commitment to an even distribution of national resources for a more diverse development of the country’s regions and its peoples. The problems that Liberia faced had not begun with the incumbent at the time; the country would go down on his watch.  William Tolbert had talked about a dialogue, but didn’t seem committed to getting one really started.  Those close to him would say he rarely listened to anyone.  He reminded lawmakers once that it was his turn as president and nothing his predecessor enjoyed should be withheld from him. The previous regime clearly had possessed the political shrewdness necessary to keep a fractious, even volatile, body politic together.  Would the Tolbert administration be willing to take steps radical enough to prevent a breakdown of society? Was the leadership aware that protecting the country—and itself—from external intrusion was one of the things it was paid to do? The Revelation tried to ensure that good choices were made. Aaron Fallah Brown understood what he was getting into when he agreed to handle The Revelation Magazine’s artwork. He wanted to be a part of what the magazine proposed to do; he welcomed the challenge to make a contribution. Of course, there would be a price to pay for challenging the Tolbert administration. Aaron was willing to make the sacrifice.  He would work tirelessly and with an artist’s pride.  I am not really sure that—as per the terms of our agreement—Aaron received full compensation for the work he did; the quality of his work made it seem that he had.  Motivated by more important things, money would not become an issue. Someone wrote sometime ago that the editors of The Revelation were  “. . . the children of “big shots.” The same writer went on to say that former president Samuel David Coleman resigned the Liberian presidency in 1900, because members of his cabinet refused to adopt a national policy to bring the country’s native populace into the political mainstream!  How could anyone fairly dismiss Coleman’s decision to stand up for what he believed as being of no consequence — simply because the man had been a big shot, or a rich man? How ironic that the writer in question turned out to be the son of the late president David Coleman! Aaron was possessed of wealth—but wealth of a different kind. So were the other editors of the Revelation—possessed of conviction, pride, selflessness and love for their country and people, and an understanding that a lot was riding on their shoulders. The security and welfare of their people were at stake and someone had to try to make a difference. The Revelation did what it had to do to make that difference. In 1975, the magazine's four senior editors, The Revelation Four, were held in contempt for speaking out against conflicting interests and other corrupt practices in the Judiciary; its four senior editors, Ernestein Cassell, Jesus Weeks, Willard Russell and Keith Neville Asumuyaya Best were fined $17,000 by the Supreme Court and kept in jail until the amount was paid.  Monies came in from around the world. Aaron Fallah Brown had done his duty, impacting his society in more ways than one. The name of one of our earlier artists, Aaron Brown, is today recalled in these pages, because of the good work that Aaron Fallah Brown did and the sacrifice he made. Aaron delivered by heeding the artist’s call and embracing his talent. Just as important, he recognized the responsibility it placed on him. Aaron Fallah Brown, artist, refused to let his direction be determined by a culture stymied by ambivalence.  He would leave his mark on the society he loved and labored for instead. The Revelation Magazine was banned by the government in 1975.  Five years later, in 1980, the military seized control of Liberia. At the close of Liberia’s 14-year civil war, following exile in the U.S., Aaron prepared for a trip to his beloved country. He planned to continue doing what he did best.  He also hoped to make his presence felt politically, now that his consciousness had been enhanced by the breadth and depth of all he had experienced and had come to understand. Things did not go well with Aaron’s plans. It was sad to learn of his untimely passing and the circumstances that surrounded his death.  But it was comforting to know that Aaron’s home going was a celebration of his artistic accomplishments and the simple life he lived.  Had he been possessed of material wealth as well, it might have made “not one bit of a difference,” as one of his co-editors, Albert Porte loved to say. In life, as in death, no one mistook Aaron for anything other than what he was. Aaron will not be forgotten. Aye Yah Aaron  Aye yah Aaron! Yes! Aye yah for true, my people; I heard many “aye yahs” for you, Aaron, my friend—a long time ago: They just had to have been said— Long before you breezed into our lives, Breathing life into our work.  Your bold, masterful strokes That to the cynics seemed little more than Splotches of paint flung carelessly against the canvas? Your usual giving—of yourself—etched with precision and artistry from your fingertips. And as your strength and sustenance dwindled, You hung on, drawing on that inner strength  Only He could give. Finally, when you quietly set down Your trusted brush, you had—with your life—  Your wealth—painted your masterpiece: The soul of your people, Painted from the inside out— Against the canvas of your life!        Copyright © 2007 Keith Neville Asumuyaya Best Keith Neville Asumuyaya Best