Silences of the lambs.

Every night before I turn in I smoke my last cigarette of the day on my balcony over looking the cross section where only an hour ago was crowded with people of all ages. The buzzing sound of the UNMIL generator replaced the loud voices of young men and only a few people are making their way to their destination for tonight.
When it’s time for Harper to sleep, the streets are empty and deserted. It’s the time I like Harper the best.
My shadow is dancing on the white painted wall behind me with every move towards the ashtray. I decided to light up another cigarette and enjoy the quiet of the night. From my balcony I look down at little shelters, badly lit with oil lamps and wonder how it must be to look up and see this person smoking her third cigarette in the dark.

Every night the same ritual takes over the streets of Harper. Out of every dark corner of the war destroyed ruin’s the exodus of sheep’s start. With hardly making any sound they move towards the centre of the crossing and assemble like a secret society in their white, black stained thin woollen fury coats. There is no sheep leader and it seems like every sheep has the same rights and privileges in this midnight gathering. They will stand until all members have arrived. After a few minutes they all will lie down at the same time as if the meeting was opened. Now and then a sheep will raise it’s voice and another sheep answers. Neither sequence nor structure was used in this solitaire communication. One time I noticed that one sheep looked up and locates this strange entity on the balcony surrounded by a mysterious cloud. Our eyes actually met in the dark. That moment I felt like an intruder sneaking inside their ‘sheep mason society” and being caught in a Da Vinci Code suspense.

I have been witnessing this phenomenon for quiet some time and could not find a reasonable explanation. Why, in the centre of the street when there are enough ruin’s to protect one selves from the cold at night. The local population were not cooperative in providing answers to my inquiries and in most cases people gave me strange looks whenever I mention this extraordinary.

From my balcony I became a full-participated member of my street image. Every night I am standing like Evita Peron at the balcony of my own Liberian Casa Rosada. Don’t cry for me Liberia with a herd of sheep’s as silent witnesses of my balcony scene. They kept their promise; I’ll keep my distance.