As a Monrovia boy—born and raised on McDonald and Benson Streets—I grew up knowing the rhythm of the city, the heartbeat of a people full of hope, culture, ambition, and pride. Back then, Monrovia wasn’t just a capital—it was our own version of New York.
By: Rufus S. Berry II, MBA, contributing writer
We were privileged. We had six movie theaters right in the heart of town—Crown Hill Cinema located next to the Post Office and just a block from the YMCA, followed by Walker, Roxy, Gabriel, and Rivoli on Broad Street, and Shella Cinema on Carey Street. We had options, excitement, and variety. The cinema experience alone made us feel global.
At night, Broad Street lit up with shimmering lights reflecting off glass storefronts, making window-shopping a magical affair. You could admire displays in the evening and come back the next day to make your purchase. Life was that vibrant.
Back then, Roberts International Airport (RIA) was a symbol of prestige, managed by the legendary Pan Am—America’s aviation pride—and served by more than ten international airlines. RIA was a gateway to the world, and Liberia felt cosmopolitan.
Our beloved Monrovia had two prestigious universities—University of Liberia (LU) and the Cuttington University College (CUC). Education was everything. Our youth were driven by academic excellence and spirited competition, especially in Junior and Senior Varsity basketball tournaments at the YMCA, the Sports Commission, and the American Cooperative School (ACS) and the annual Ricks Olympics – Back in the day, this prestigious Baptist institution proudly sponsored and hosted the annual Ricks Olympics—an event that brought together schools from all across Liberia to its scenic campus in Virginia.
Everything centered around academics, from high school talent shows and debate contests to scholastic exhibitions that celebrated intellect and creativity – and not forgetting students exchange. The student exchange program fostered cultural and educational ties by bringing U.S. high school students to Liberia and sending Liberian students to the United States. In both countries, students were warmly welcomed and hosted by volunteer families. Yes, Liberia was once a nation held in high regard and deeply respected on the global stage
Monrovia’s nightlife was legendary. You could catch a taxi at 4 a.m. and be dropped safely in front of your house or your neighborhood. Entertainment was world-class—James Brown performed live in Liberia, Muhammad Ali stayed at the government guest house (now the PPCC headquarters), and Cool and the Gang once paraded down Broad Street with their tour guide Barney Doe.
The U.S.-based basketball team Sports Ambassadors came to town and wiped the floor with our local teams. We witnessed greatness when NBA legend David Thompson—our very own Michael Jordan of the time—visited the YMCA. As a young scorekeeper, I watched in awe as he performed a perfect 360-degree dunk. Monrovia was alive, cultured, and full of promise.
And then—April 14, 1979.
That date remains etched in the Liberian conscience. It marks one of the most consequential civil uprisings in our nation’s modern history: the Rice Riots.
Organized by the Progressive Alliance of Liberia (PAL) under the bold leadership of Gabriel Baccus Matthews, what was meant to be a peaceful protest quickly devolved into chaos. The spark? A government proposal to increase the price of a 100-pound bag of rice from $22 to $26. The justification, as offered by the administration of President William R. Tolbert Jr., was to encourage local rice farming and reduce dependence on imports. But the people didn’t buy it.
Many viewed the move as a ploy to enrich the ruling elite—particularly the Tolbert family, known for their vast rice farms. In hindsight, perhaps Tolbert’s policy mirrored the protectionist ideals of later leaders like Trump, who championed tariffs to boost local industries. But unlike Trump, Tolbert’s administration lacked one essential tool: public relations. The people were not engaged, not educated on the policy’s intent, and not brought along on the journey.
What began as peaceful civil action erupted into widespread rioting—shops looted, buildings torched, lives lost. Dozens were killed, hundreds arrested, and Monrovia, the city of dreams, was scarred. The Rice Riots ripped through the illusion of stability, exposing the deep socioeconomic chasm between the ruling elite and the struggling masses.
It was the beginning of the end for the Tolbert government. Just one year later, on April 12, 1980, Master Sergeant Samuel K. Doe led a bloody military coup, toppling the Americo-Liberian dominance that had lasted for over a century. The Republic would never be the same again.
Yet for those of us who lived and loved that old Monrovia, April 14 is not just about unrest. It’s a bittersweet reminder of what was and what could have been. We mourn the loss of that thriving middle class, the moral compass of our youth when telling the truth was expected, not exceptional. We long for that Monrovia where a government elementary school—the Monrovia Demonstration School under the leadership of the late Rebecca J. N. Wilson—stood as a shining example of academic excellence.
We remember a time when Monrovia was not just a city, but an experience. A spirit. A dream in motion.
April 14 is not just history. It’s a mirror. And in it, we see the past, the wounds, the resilience—and the urgent need to learn, to grow, and to rebuild.
Liberia will rise again. And as our national anthem so powerfully declares—‘With God above our rights to prove’—we shall ultimately prevail.
