I met him at an area known as the Gap in the Liberians refugees Settlement in Buduburam, Ghana, where mostly young men go to drink cheap liquor, smoke marijuana, and to argue about the UNHCR’s cessation clause for Liberian Refugees, as its draws nearer. I have gone to conduct an interview with a dissatisfied refugee known as Pa Newton, a 65 year old Liberian who has spent more than 20 years of his life in exile, and feels he should be resettle to the United States. Pa Newton now owns one of the joints in the Gap - a three bed room unfinished mud brick structure-where several young men have gathered to go through the routine of the morning hours- smoking, drinking, and argueing.
As we sat among the noisy customers in the open air piazza, chatting very low, trying not to be heard or disrupted by their piecing voices, something else disrupted our conversation.
“Meow, meow.”
We both heard the soft meows coming from the doorway of the unfinished structure and raised our heads together just in time to capture the most amazing sight in the group.The little fella crept into the opened air piazza of Pa Newton’s Joint much to everyone‘s astonishment. He was just a week old, I guessed, and a handful, but carried himself as though he was a grown tiger in the midst of hostile men. Bold and courageous as any of his species, a wee little cat came creeping softly through the legs of frantic adults to seek refuge in the corner of one of the empty rooms.
“Look at the baby cat!” Someone from the group of adults remarked sharply.
“It’s a witch! Get away you witch cat!” a stuff shirt youth exclaimed, and stomped his feet to frighten the little fella away.
But the little fella, a survivor, and a living witness to a gruesome act of animals right's violation, only managed an unpleasant meow, and darted across the short distance to his refuge corner under a tall brush of grass in the empty rooms.
“I knew I heard something like cat crying around my house last night,” Pa Newton presumed.
“Somebody must have killed a cat this morning; I woke up from a noise around two AM, and noticed it was the cry of a cat being hit,” one customer affirmed strongly.
“Yeah, it’s true, last night someone was running behind cat right under my window, so I think it’s the mother cat,” another confirmed unsympathetically.
“Then the other kittens must have gotten missing, or taken, too. Who knows?” Pa Newton suggested.
“Those are so so witch cats them, so they need to die!” screamed Mr. Macho.
I got from beside Pa Newton, and went after the little fella. I found him curled under a brush of grass that grew in the dirt in the room. He was trembling, either from cold, or fright, but his curious gray eyes watched every move I made toward him.
Pa Newton came over and joined me. “He’s weak from hunger,” he observed with sympathy.
“I don’t think he’s gonna make it,” I predicted, considering his frail and thin frame.
“If he does he can stay here, and no one will bother him,” Pa Newton promised.
Much to the annoyance of those who believed that the kitten was a witch, and should be kicked out, the little fella was allowed to have the brush in the corner all to himself.
I was glad, yet worry about the little fella’s survival, as the afternoon approached. With the cloud dressed in gloomy gray, prepared for a rain storm, everyone least expected the little fella to make it through the night in a roofless building that usually gets flooded during heavy arain.
At night fall the cloud burst forth open in a heavy down pour of rain. As i leid awake in bed my heart went out to the poor little fella, whose story is as similar to those of the many Liberian refugees. Both have gone through similar unfortunate ordeal, by watching their families murdered by armed men, but managed to survive. Except, that the little fella’s family was apparently murdered, and eaten by hungry refugees. As I lied in bed listening to the heavy drops beat upon the roof, with the storm violently jerking at it to tear it down, I began to wonder if the little fella would make it by day break.
The storm continued violently through the night and seized only at the break of dawn. Early that morning, I got out of bed and ran to Pa Newton’s Gap to find out what may have happened to the kitten through the rain storm. But Pa Newton had beaten me to the task, however, by three or four minutes. When I arrived, I met him searching for the little fella from room to room, and joined him.
“Did you check good under the tall grass in the room he went into yesterday?” I asked with concern.
Pa Newton looked at me doubtfully at first before answering.”I check the room but…” he stuttered in thoughtfulness.
A feeling of melancholy gripped me at the thought of the little fella getting drown in the heavy down pour, and so decided to check the room up again. To our outmost surprise, just as the kitten heard our steps he uncurled himself from under the brush of grass and came creeping forward. He sat up and licked clean his wet fur before greeting us.
“Mew,” he let out softly, as if he meant, ‘Good morning gentlemen, I’m fine, thank you’, and gave his little frail body a full stretch and shake.
“He survived!” I said triumphantly, trying to get close to gave him a pet on the back, which he resisted by raising his back in a defensive ach, and then japing me with a left hook. Pa Newton and I burst into laughter. “His survival instinct is really sharp,” I observed.
“A natural born predator; I think I have a job for him at home,” Pa Newton asserted excitedly. “The rats are giving me hard time. He will be of great help and service to me.”
“Sure,” I agreed, glad that the little fella has, not just found a home at last, but a job as well as a new family.
