By Omari Jackson
Ah, Mr. F. Shelton Gonkerwon! A name that bounces off the lips like a cassava leaf stew bubbling on a coal pot—fragrant, bold, and unmistakably Liberian. A man whose devotion to Nimba County glows brighter than a solar lamp on NEPA-free nights. Gonkerwon is no ordinary citizen. He is a poet-warrior, a literary insurgent armed not with bullets but with blistering metaphors. This is a writer l have known since 1985.
Picture him now: not storming a battlefield with a helmet and rifle, but marching forward with a notebook in one hand and a feathered pen in the other. His war cry? A perfectly structured sonnet capable of making the most corrupt official reach for a tissue—or an exit strategy. Gonkerwon doesn’t throw punches; he launches couplets. His enemies don’t bleed; they blush with shame when caught in the crossfire of his righteous rhymes.
In the heat of bureaucratic battle, when the opposition hides behind vague development plans and recycled slogans, it is Gonkerwon who rises:
“Captain!” yells a trembling aide. “The councilmen are dodging accountability behind PowerPoint slides!”
“Then deploy ‘The Elegy of Misused Budgets,’” Gonkerwon commands, pushing up his spectacles. “Follow with ‘The Stanza of Stalled Roads’—and if they still resist, unleash the full force of ‘Nimba’s Glorious Tomorrow,’ written in heroic verse!”
This is a man who dreams in blueprints and rhymes in policy reform. To him, “accountability” is not just a buzzword—it’s the refrain of every stanza he crafts. He envisions a Nimba where progress isn’t promised in vague terms but delivered with the precision of a well-punctuated line.
And when the ink runs dry? Fear not. Gonkerwon doesn’t panic—he petitions the Ministry of Information and Cultural Affairs and Tourism for an emergency poetry resupply. For him, the pen is not just mightier than the sword; it’s the only thing worth wielding.
Should misappropriation rear its ugly head, you can be sure he’s somewhere drafting “The Epic of the Vanishing Village Clinic Fund,” annotated with references and receipts. If development stalls, expect a sonnet titled “Ode to the Unfinished Pit Latrine,” with stanzas sharp enough to pierce the heart of public indifference.
F. Shelton Gonkerwon is no mere man—he’s a literary whirlwind, a sonnet-slinging sentinel standing guard over Nimba’s hopes. A soldier of syntax. A general of justice. A bard for the bewildered.
So let the ink flow, let the rhymes thunder, and let no pothole go unpoemed. Liberia needs Gonkerwon’s verses like jollof rice needs spice. Long may he scribble, and may someone—please—gift him a lifetime supply of notebooks. The nation awaits its next stanza.
