Cassius Clay aka Moses Togbah

Moses Togbah lived in his sister's house across the way from mine. Mine was a bit more luxurious with cement floors and an outhouse in the enclosed yard at the back. Moses' house had dirt floors. I don't know what his family did for a bathroom.

He was a master at making toys with wheels from scrap pieces of wire and liked to call himself 'Cassius Clay'. That was his strong name but, Moses Togbah wasn't strong.

Every day Moses would come to my house and sit for hours on one of the wooden benches in my 10'x10' living room to watch me type. I was the next best thing to Disneyland in Jorwah village. Some days, as I typed away on my Olivetti typewriter, onlookers -men and women of all ages, filed into my living room like moviegoers looking for seats in the Odeon theater. They chatted quietly among themselves. Most didn't speak English and my knowledge of the Kpelle language was useless but language wasn't required. We were hanging out together.

This stream of visitors persisted for several months, long enough for me to notice that Moses wasn't doing well. His skin was greying. He was wasting away.

Dr. Damiani, an Italian man who kept very much to himself, took care of the health needs of the people in the village. He wouldn't or couldn't tell me what was wrong with Moses. When Moses no longer had the strength to find his way to my living room, he slept on the floor in his sister's house, a sister who didn't care about him, until he passed.

RIP my dear Cassius Clay.