POET;S PAGE: Normalizing The Abnormal–A Civic Poem For Liberia

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Canto I – The Lone Star Watches

By Dr. J. Kerkula Foeday
My Weekly Poetic Reflection, Issue 19, Wednesday, July 29, 2026

Liberia will not be transformed merely by changing presidents, governments, or parties. Liberia will be transformed the day Liberians refuse to normalize what their conscience knows is wrong.

The price of a nation is eternal vigilance.
The price of liberty is an awakened conscience.

Before the first drum summoned a village,
Before the first court opened its doors,
Before the first ballot found a waiting hand,
The Atlantic was already here.
Patient.
Listening.
Remembering.

It remembers the dreams
That arrived upon its restless waves.
It remembers the chains
That rattled beneath its winds.
It remembers every promise
Spoken to the dawn.

The Atlantic never forgets.
Nor does the Lone Star.
Every evening it rises above us …
Silent.
Faithful.
Watching.

It watched the Republic
Take its first breath.
It watched our fathers
Write hope into parchment.
It watched our mothers
Carry tomorrow
upon weary backs.
It watched children recite
“The Love of Liberty…”
Believing every word.
The Lone Star has watched us for generations.
Not as a judge.
Not as an enemy.
But as a witness.
A witness cannot alter what it sees.
It can only remember.
And memory,
When ignored,
Becomes history.

A nation does not collapse
Because enemies stand outside its gates.
A nation begins to disappear
When truth is asked to wait outside.
House by house,
Excuse by excuse,
Silence by silence,
The Republic learns
How to betray itself.
No trumpet sounds.
No earthquake comes.
No mountain falls.
Only conscience,
Quietly,
Packs its belongings and leaves.

Justice once lived among us
Like an old woman
Beneath a Kapok Tree.
She asked no one’s last name.
She feared no one’s title.
Her eyes focused only on the truth.
She carried no party’s colors.
She bowed before no office.
She recognized only right and wrong.
The people called her “Justice.”

But somewhere along our journey,
Someone whispered,
“Truth can wait.”
Another answered,
“Only this one.”
Another said,
“It is politics.”
Another smiled,
“That is how
things are done here.”
And another,
Looking away,
Said nothing.

The whisper continued and became a habit.
The habit became a culture.
The culture became a nation
Forgetting its own reflection.

The Constitution did not change.
Its words remained faithful.
Its pages did not betray us.
It was we
Who learned to read them
With selective eyes.
The law continued speaking.
Only our ears changed.

In the Palava Hut,
Our ancestors understood
That truth must be spoken
Even when it wounded pride.
For a wound cleaned by truth
Heals.
A wound covered by lies
Festers.

Yet we have become masters
Of beautiful bandages
Covering
infected wounds.
We paint the walls,
While termites feast
Inside the beams.
The house still stands.
Visitors applaud.
Only those who live within
Hear the quiet cracking.

The Lone Star still watches.
The Atlantic still remembers.
The Kapok Tree still stands.
The Palava Hut still waits for honest voices.
Only we have changed.

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