Chewed Up: Collector Amanda Leads Extortion At Freeport

Containers at the Freeport of Monrovia, Liberia

By Gibson W. Jerue
Giant letters scream across the concrete walls of the Freeport of Monrovia with an inscription – Gate Way To The Economy! This is the busiest seaport in the Republic of Liberia, and it is said every mouth here must have something to chew every day that passes by. It brings together different categories of people – rogues, think about red collar, blue collar and black rogues, some dressed in rag-tag, others in business suits, and there are others who wear government custom officers' uniforms. The central motive for people who come to this port is to hustle in a “water dry, fish eats fish” fashion. And the fish that refuses to eat another, it would be eaten mercilessly.

This is where both Liberians and aliens do business. Like someone told me recently from the vicinity of the Freeport, “Liberia is running on one leg…,” a clear indication that Liberia is still not normal, graft, corruption and dishonesty still choke the country. So to capsule what transpires at the Freeport daily, it is the bread basket of the nation. But the Freeport is something else: It is the “hell-gate to extortion” unleashed against Liberians and aliens alike. As the economic flood gate opens for the country, portion of the money that milks the largesse of the extremely corrupt Sirleaf administration and officials was largely extorted from the very Liberians who traveled overseas and have worked hard to returned home and help rebuild their country.

President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf comes to the United States and pretends her administration is encouraging all Liberians to return home and rebuild their country. The message is plausible and enticing. There are two things that happen: one mouth invites you and the mouth is open wide at the Freeport to chew you up in a “cut throat-no-blood” style.

For some reasons, I have been cautious these days of how I talk about corruption in Liberia until recently when my wife went through hell at the Freeport of Monrovia and at other government agencies. She had gone to Liberia to carry out projects – finishing touches on our house and take three of our vehicles in preparation for my return to restart my media business. In a 40-ft High Cube container was our old Nissan pickup, Toyota pickup and 2002 Ford Explorer, in addition to an old Ford Contour belonging to my wife’s friend. There were also mineral bottle water, some bags of rice, flour, and other materials that my wife was going to use while she was in Monrovia for one-and-half months. We also put in there some used clothes for people we had promised. Other things included transistor radio, flowers for decoration, all intended to actually prepare for our return and live to some standard before the hustle starts.

We were singing the old song, “home, sweet home, here I am…embrace me with love…unsuspecting to a rude awakening of an entrenched graft and corruption unimaginable. And the chief tormentor was the chief collector at the Freeport of Monrovia, identified as Amanda – Amanda Roberts, I am told. She is probably the point woman to torment unsuspecting preys. For Amanda, all those coming from America are renegades and she believes striking them with her venom was the best option to teach them a piece lesson never to forget. This time, my wife was the catch of the day. And with her last name Jerue, she was probably the witches' supper.

As my wife enters Amanda’s office at the Freeport, it was a full blown conclusion that she would be shredded into pieces, stripping her of every dime she had in her purse. Amanda has two weapons – a purported ten percent tariff and another ten percent punitive tariff for vehicles ten years or older. And if your vehicle was twenty years older, you will dig the ground to find diamond before Amanda releases her claws from your flesh. My wife was a victim of both. But nothing so frustrating and agonizing than a fellow Liberian looking you in the face levying unsubstanting tariffs for one item, not once but twice in whooping sums with the clear motive to strangulate you. My wife has described her encounter with Amanda in ways that I could term as "hanging over the devil's inglenook”. Watch out for part two.