Entitlement

On Saturday, my mother’s phone rang. I heard her say, “OK” and hang up. Three minutes later I heard “Pohk-Pohk!” at the back gate: our security guard was awaiting the breakfast we had, evidently, promised her.

My mom’s beau, Pierre, keeps a mess of Liberian dollars in the glove compartment. I saw him dip into this stash three times that afternoon without actually purchasing anything.

Incident #1 involved the same security guard who, when asked how she was, replied, “OK, but nahting here,” which means, “I didn’t bring anything for lunch, which has somehow become your problem.” Pierre handed her 100 Liberian dollars and pulled out of the gate.

Incident #2 was a payment of 10 Liberian dollars to each of 10 rapscallions who had sacrificed a sandal apiece to watch (with joy) as our Jeep rolled over their shoes. Mom jested that they’d earned remuneration. Pierre took her seriously and, like a shopping mall Santa, had the boys line up for face-time and treats.

Incident #3 was the strangest by far. We’d pulled over to admire a carpenter’s handiwork when a cop reached his unsolicited hand into the passenger window and across my mother to shake Pierre’s hand; Pierre obliged. I’m still not sure they’d ever met but it doesn’t matter because the cop said to Pierre, “Saturday dry, oh.” This means, “I’m out of cash and my wife expects me to return with groceries.” Pierre sighed and tossed him a bill.

Some in the Liberian upper-class kvetch that this is a nation of dependents, of people who expect a salary for doing nothing and kickbacks for doing their jobs. But perhaps the accusation could be lobbed at the upper-class, too.

Finally, I had to ask, “Why are we giving away money?”

Mom said, “Because we have it.”

“And?”

“Because now we're entitled to a favor.”

The whole thing gnaws at me.