A POV by Rocheford T. Gardiner
When I was a little boy growing up here in Harper, I used to spend my afternoons gripped by a peculiar kind of fascination. I would wait on the balcony of my grandparents’ house to catch a glimpse of that small Land Rover fire engine—the only one the county owned at the time. To my young eyes, it was a symbol of hope and protection, a sturdy machine that promised we were safe. I remember the way the light hit its red paint, a singular sentinel against the threat of ruin.
How far we have fallen
Today, as I stood at Airfield Junction, the only thing I saw reflected in the eyes of my neighbors was the orange glow of a catastrophe we were powerless to stop. For the second time in a little over two months, our city is mourning. The news will tell you that four shops were leveled to the ground. It will tell you that the district is plunged into darkness because the power lines have melted. But it cannot fully capture the hollow feeling in my chest knowing that today; the Fire Brigade doesn’t even own a fire extinguisher, let alone that Land Rover of my youth.
It was chaos in its purest, ugliest form. While the flames—suspected to be caused by an electrical fault—tore through the crowded commercial zone, a different kind of darkness took hold. As some of us rushed to throw buckets of water against a literal inferno, others used the smoke as a veil for exploitation. They looted the neighboring shops, stripping away the livelihoods that the fire hadn’t yet reached. It is a bitter pill to swallow: to be betrayed by the elements and your fellow man in the same hour.
We watched the “Tinderbox” of Airfield Junction live up to its name. We have allowed our primary business hub to become a death trap of overcrowding, makeshift wood shelters, and stored petroleum. We have cooking gas sitting next to steel containers of fuel in a place with no emergency alleys and no utility corridors. We are building a funeral pyre and calling it progress.
The frustration on the ground is boiling over. I heard one trader shout over the crackle of the embers, “We only hear the authorities talk about fire trucks when something is already burning! Once the smoke clears, the promises vanish.”
He’s right. Just over two months ago, on November 8th, we stood in this same spot and watched a home turn to ash. We are still waiting for a report on that fire. We are still waiting for the Liberia National Fire Service (LNFS) to be given the tools to do their jobs.
There were no deaths this time, thank God. But as I look at the charred remains of our city’s economy and the severed power lines dangling like useless vines, I can’t help but think of that little Land Rover. We used to have a plan. We used to have a symbol of safety. Now, in the face of tragedy, Maryland County has been left with nothing but the smoke of broken promises and the silence of an empty station. We are waiting for a lethal disaster to strike, and we are meeting it with empty hands.