All of Mohamed’s friends knew what sort of mother he had. If you called looking for him and she didn’t already know you, she would pepper you with questions: What’s your name? Who are your parents? How do you know my son? If she thought you were a positive influence, she’d invite you over all the time. She’d ask about your family, your after-school job. And, of course, she’d always feed you. Sometimes there would be so many boys over she’d hand them each a bowl of food, then send them into the hall to eat since there were too many to squeeze into the living room.

That’s a touching passage from  Jennifer Gonnerman‘s piece Machete in New York magazine. Gonnerman’s sparse prose tells the tragic narrative of a young man who escaped civil war in Sierra Leone only to become victim to crimes just as brutal in the Bronx. Kudos to New York magazine for giving Gonnerman’s piece the breathing space it needs. It’s definitely worth a read, and the comments at the end of the story from people who were clearly friends of Mohamed are very moving.

Last night at dinner with a couple of friends including a great Ugandan journalist now studying at Columbia, we discussed just how hilarious President Museveni of Uganda is when rapping. Hilarious enough to post here?? YES SEVO!

Here’s a translation of the lyrics from the New Vision, via the Reuters blog:

The stick I cut strayed into Igara where Ntambiko reigns / Ntambiko gave me a knife which I gave to millet harvesters / who gave me millet that I gave to a hen / which gave me an egg that I gave to children / who gave me a monkey that I gave to the king / who gave me a cow that I used to marry my wife / She gave me a child I called Mugarura who raided back what belonged to me and my fathers.

All of it, or almost all of it at least. Some members may resume ministerial duties, and some may not. My facebook news feed is filled with comments like, “Da ol ma angry ooo,” complete with many thumbs up. Too soo to say what this will mean, but it’s good to see drastic measures being taken.

Liberians, like most people, love their phones. A popular song played pretty much on repeat is “Put your number on my phone.”

Liberians also love having their photo taken while miming talking on the phone. As soon as I asked people to take their photos, they’d reach for their phone.  This is such a common phenomenon in a place where phones are status symbols that one of these days I hope to put together a collection of portraits of Liberians talking on the phone.

This isn’t at all a phenomenon limited to my work. For example, here’s a screen shot for the Consulate General of Liberia that features a lovely lady on the phone.

Right before I left Liberia, I was snapping photos in an area called Red Light for everyone’s favorite blogger/professor Chris Blattman (more on that later). The area is a busy and chaotic market. I really wanted to get up on the top of a tall building to do some longer exposures to show the hustle and bustle. The tallest building around was a bank. I talked to the security guards and they said I could go on the roof to take a couple of shots. But not before I took their snap!

My favorite is the guy with both the walkie-talkie and the phone. Love love love it.

And here’s the final shot I got. Unfortunately there are no noticeable phones in this photo.