By Dr. Syrulwa Somah | lihede2003@yahoo.com  
 For the farmers, the market women, and the children of Liberia at home and in the diaspora._  
 Listen, my people!  
 Pour small water on the ground for the ancestors, then gather around the fire. I have a story that was not given to me by book, but by mouth. By ancestors' mouth drumming.  
 Hmm!  
 Long, long time, before the white man drew his map, before the first war, before even the oldest cotton tree in Bong County was a seed, there was a stone in the deep, deep forest where no woman had ever farmed.  
 This was not a common stone that you use to crack palm nuts.  
 The old people, the true old people who knew things, called it BENBEN.  
 Benben was the stone that sharpened farming cutlasses without surface to stone contact.  
 Eh! You doubt it? Stay there. Those who doubted it died grinding.  
 There was a young man in that time. Let us call him Flomo. Flomo could be you. Flomo could be me. Flomo could be Liberia herself.  
 Flomo's cutlass was dull. Not small dull - DEAD dull. He had been cutting hard bush from cock crow till sunset. His arms were shaking. His sweat made the handle slippery. He beat the bush, but the bush beat him back.  
 He sat under the cotton tree and his tears fell on his dull blade.  
 "Oh, my ancestors! I am tired of grinding! When will my cutlass be sharp again?"  
 As soon as his tears touched the iron, he heard it.  
 Gum! Gum! Gum!  
 Not a drum beaten by hand. A drum beaten by MOUTH.  
 Ancestors Mouth Drumming!  
 Gum-gum! Geh-gum! Gum-gum! Geh-gum!  
 The sound pulled his feet. He followed it past the river where the women wash clothes, past the burial ground where his grandfather slept, into a clearing where no grass ever grew. Because the ground there was too holy.  
 And there it stood.  
 Benben. Black and shining like the night sky after rain. Big like a house, small like a fist, both at the same time. It was humming. Hmmmmmm.  
 And around it, they were sitting. The Ancestors. You could not count them. Old men with beards white like cotton. Old women with lappa tied strong. Warriors with marks on their faces. Their eyes were closed, but their mouths were open, drumming.  
 Gum-gum! Geh-gum!  
 Flomo fell on his knees. He was afraid to speak.  
 Then the Oldest One spoke, without opening his eyes. His voice was like dry season leaves burning.  
 "Flomo, small son, why do you bring us a tired cutlass?"  
 Flomo said, "Big Papa, my family will hunger. The bush is hard. My cutlass cannot cut."  
 The Oldest One smiled. "Who told you that steel must touch stone to become sharp? That is the white man's lie. That is grinding. Grinding makes sparks, but it also makes the cutlass small. Grind too much and you will have no cutlass left."  
 "Bring it here," the ancestor said. "But DO NOT TOUCH THE STONE."  
 Flomo crawled forward. He held his dull, shameful, useless cutlass near Benben. There was a space. A small space between the stone and the steel. A space as thin as a mosquito's wing.  
 That space was the whole secret!  
 WOOOOOOONG!  
 The air in that small space caught fire! Not fire you see, but fire you feel! The Benben hummed louder - HMMMMMM!- and the cutlass answered - WIIIIING!  Without touching! Without grinding! Without suffering! The dull blade became sharp!  
 So sharp, Flomo could hear it breathing! So sharp, it could cut a falling feather into two feathers before it reached the ground! So sharp, it could cut yesterday from tomorrow!  
 Flomo shouted, "My cutlass! My cutlass!"  
 The ancestors stopped their mouth drumming. Silence fell.  
 The Oldest One said, "You foolish child. We did not sharpen your cutlass. Your cutlass was BORN sharp from the blacksmith's fire. The bush made it forget. Benben only made it REMEMBER."  
 He pointed his staff at Flomo's chest.  
 "SO IT IS WITH YOU, LIBERIA!"  
 "You think you are dull because war cut you. You think you are dull because Ebola beat you. You think you are dull because you had to run and become refugee in Guinea, in Ghana, in America."  
 "You are not dull! You are only forgetful!"  
 "You have been grinding yourself on hard life, thinking pain will make you sharp. No! Pain only makes you small!"  
 "Come near to Benben. Come near to us. Sit in our presence. Let our mouth drumming enter your ear. We will make you remember who you were before the world told you who you are - WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING YOU!"  
 Flomo ran back to his village. He cleared his entire farm in one afternoon. The old men said, "This is not Flomo's cutlass. This is a spirit's cutlass."  
 He told them, "No, it is still my same old dull cutlass. I only took it to Benben."  
 That day, half the village believed him. They carried their dull cutlasses, their dull hearts, their dull hopes, and brought them near Benben. They all became sharp again without grinding.  
 The other half did not believe. They said, "We must grind! We must suffer! No pain, no gain!" They stayed grinding their cutlasses from morning to night. Sparks flying. Noise making. They ground their cutlasses until there was nothing left but a small piece of iron. They died with small cutlasses in their hands.  
 My people, I have finished telling my story.  
 Now I ask you, Liberia:  
 Where is your cutlass?  
 Are you still grinding? Are you still thinking that if you suffer more, America will respect you? That if you cry more, the world will help you?  
 Stop grinding.  
 The Benben is still there. It has always been there. In the forest of your own heart.  
 Tonight, when Monrovia is quiet and the generator is off, listen.  
 Gum! Gum! Gum! Geh-gum!  
 Do you hear it? That is not music. That is your grandfather calling you to become sharp again.  
 Bring your dull life near. Just near. Don't touch. Just remember.  
 And you will cut through any bush this country puts before you.  
 I have told my story. Let those who have ears, and a dull cutlass, hear it.  
 Old Kpelle Proverb: "The cutlass that forgets its own mouth, the stone will lend it a mouth to speak."  
Compose