The Bright Lights of Borrowed Power
By Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr.
In Monrovia, night does not arrive quietly. It begins with the sound of engines.
Generators across the neighborhood cough awake, one after another. The first starts somewhere down the street—a rough mechanical growl breaking the evening silence. Then another joins it. Soon, the entire neighborhood hums with a restless, collective energy. Lights flicker on behind zinc windows and wooden doors. Shops glow along the roadside; a small video club drags its television outside so neighborhood boys can watch football. Across the street, a woman fries fish beneath a single bulb strung between two poles.
From a distance, the city looks alive—electric and bright. But anyone who lives here knows the truth: these lights do not belong to the city. They belong to the generators. Every light that shines tonight depends on a single, fragile question: How much fuel is left in the tank?
Before the generators begin their nightly chorus, Monrovia belongs to the dark. As the sun slips behind the Atlantic, the city pauses. Streetlights are hollow ornaments; the electrical grid—when it exists at all—cannot be trusted. Houses sit quietly as the sky deepens from blue to black. Children rush through the last moments of daylight, finishing their games before the shadows claim the yards.
Then, someone pulls a starter cord. The machine roars, sputters, and catches. The sound spreads through the neighborhood like a chain reaction. The city awakens again—not through distant power stations, but through hundreds of small engines burning gasoline in alleyways and behind shops.
It is a strange kind of orchestra. These generators do not hum in harmony; they roar, cough, and rattle, each producing its own uneven rhythm. Together, their noise forms a thick mechanical blanket. Conversations grow louder to compete with it. Radios are turned up. Life continues beneath the constant growl of borrowed power.
For those who depend on these machines, electricity is a carefully managed resource, measured in liters. A shopkeeper may run his generator for three hours—just long enough to sell cold drinks and charge a few phones. A family might wait until the darkness feels heaviest before starting theirs. Light is not a right; it is something rented from the night.
The moment a generator stops, darkness rushes back. You can hear it happen. One machine stutters and falls silent; a house goes dark. Another shuts down further down the street. Gradually, the mechanical chorus thins until only a few stubborn engines remain. Then, the night returns to its natural quiet.
Yet, in the glow of a single bulb, entire worlds unfold. Students gather at small tables, notebooks spread beneath wavering light. Tailors work late, guiding fabric through sewing machines powered by extension cords snaking through the dirt. Under generator light, Monrovia becomes a city of improvisation. Wires stretch between houses like spiderwebs. A neighbor asks to charge a phone; another runs a small fan from a borrowed cord. The electricity may be temporary, but the community it creates is remarkably steady.
Of course, the light also reveals the city’s inequalities. Some homes glow with several bulbs, their generators strong and well-maintained. Others manage only a single flickering light before the fuel runs out. Light becomes a quiet symbol of who has enough and who must wait for tomorrow.
Still, there is something strangely beautiful about Monrovia after dark. The city breathes differently. Music drifts from bars, and conversations spill into the streets where neighbors gather to escape the heat trapped inside zinc houses. Above it all, the generators continue their steady roar. They sound almost like determination—each machine a small declaration that life will continue despite its limits.
Sometimes, late at night, when the last generator has run dry, the city falls silent. Without the engines, the darkness deepens. Stars appear above the Atlantic, and the faint sound of waves drifts inland. The bright lights disappear, and what remains is the human city beneath them—people resting, preparing to wake again and repeat the same careful dance.
Morning will come, and the generators will sleep through the daylight. But when evening returns, the cords will be pulled. The lights will flicker back to life. Once more, Monrovia will glow—not with the city’s power, but with the stubborn brilliance of people who refuse to let the dark have the final word.
THE END
Author Bio: Marvin Garbeh Davis, Sr. is a Liberian writer and poet whose work interrogates the intersections of memory, labor, and the human condition. Drawing from the lived histories of rubber plantations and river communities, his writing bears witness to the shifting landscapes and political complexities of post-war Liberia. His prose and nonfiction have appeared in Barrelhouse, Deadlands, Full Bleed, and Kalahari Review. He lives with his wife Angea in Monrovia, Liberia.