Viola… Wonnah… why did you leave us so soon? We loved you and still needed you. This was your time to eat from the fingers of your brothers and sisters. Even though you were the last of us, you were the first to go ahead. Have you seen our Mom? She is there with you. Ever since you left her broken hearted, she never recovered until she joined you just few months after your untimely home-going.
Seven years ago in 2004, a flower was plucked out of our garden. That was the most beautiful, most adorable, and most cherished. You were that flower, our beloved sister, Viola Wonnah Jerue.
Our Mom, who you predeceased, gave you the name that we all loved—Wonnah, which when translated from the Krahn dialect, means “Hear My Own”. She gave this name after the death of your elder sister, Tchien-nynoh, who did not reach her second birthday. Your name was our mother’s way of asking God to hear her prayers and give her another child.
When you came, you were the darling and daddy’s girl. I remember when our father used to tie a lappa (an African waist scarf) across his shoulders and carry you to our farm about five hours of trekking. Everyone wanted the best for you. Besides, your beauty was a wonderful catch; everyone laughed at your smiles. You gave so freely like no amount of money was too much to let go, like no material things were so important to give away.
Oh, Viola, how we loved you so much. But when sickness tied your feet and hands, and shut your mouth, blurred your beauty and made you bed ridden, none of us were around. We were all far away and could not send you to hospital until our Father hurried from the village to look after you.
Daddy told me you said: “I don’t want to go…” He thought you did not want to go with him to the village. But you were telling him that you were not going to make it; that you had lost the battle to sickness—a mysterious illness; that you would not see us again before you went to our forefathers. You were not ready; you were still full of life; you wanted to live just another day but, no, death had chained you.
We will never forget you. The sore is still in our hearts. We cannot imagine that when God has blessed us so richly, you are not around to have a taste of it. We missed you then, we miss you now, and we will forever miss you, “Poolu” (sweetheart), as Mom used to call you; “Gopee” (dearest one), as Dad used to call you.
That is why I dedicated this book to you. When I was writing the last chapter of this book I remembered when you told me in Abidjan, Ivory Coast: “Brother, I want you to know book and get doctor degree…” As I write this dedicatory homage, the tears are streaming down my cheeks again. I promised to send you to school until you graduated from college but you did not wait for me. Why? Why…? How could you break my heart? I wanted to tell you that where you left your book-bag in my room in Monrovia, it was still hanging there waiting for your return. When I received the news that you were gone, my heart was torn apart. We love you but God loves you best. Rest in perfect peace till we meet again, Poolu!
