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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

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Sanctuary- Chapter 9

WARNINGS: language and smut. NSFW.

Tagging: @alievans007, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud

She straddles his lower back as he lays on his stomach in the middle of their bed; her fingers pressing into the tight and aching muscles in his right shoulder. The pain is moderate to severe tonight. A dull ache that starts in the base of his neck and travels the entire length of his arm, throbbing in the elbow and pins and needles in the fingers. Scar tissue from the various surgeries he’d needed after Dhaka wrapping and twisting around ligaments and nerves and causing on going issues. The worst is his right shoulder; a reconstructive surgery to piece everything back together repeated shoulder separations had led to increased mobility issues. The scar running over both the front and back deltoid muscles and along the top of his shoulder to the nape of his neck. Surgeons had been able to save and improve mobility but had warned that there’d be permanent and progressive consequences, tightening and shortening of muscles and ligaments, bursitis, arthritis. The list went on. Long term physio, massage, drugs. Umpteen things prescribed or suggested that made him feel a hell of a lot older than his forty years.

“Ovi wants to bring that girl over tomorrow,” Esme says, as she uses both thumbs to get into that tough spot right under his shoulder blade.

In the last five years she’s grown accustomed to every inch of his body; whether it be providing relief for therapy for painful joints in muscles or when they made love. Those fingers acquainting themselves with every muscle, memorizing the way they twisted and bulged, how they moved under her touch. She knew every spot that either ached or turn him on, able to intricately trace the outline of every tattoo and scar. There was a time where the memories those scars held were too painful to relive; she couldn’t see them, let alone touch them, without being reminded of the horrific events in Dhaka. Now the trauma had subsided, and she no longer had to look away or pull her hands back. The events were still fresh in her mind, but she was able to block them out. There was something bittersweet about those scars now. The ones that he’d gained while in Dhaka. A reminder of how she’d almost lost him but how he’d fought back and they’d both been given a second chance.

“Why?” Tyler asks, both forearms under the pillow his cheek rests against.

“I guess he thinks this is going to be something long term and serious and he wants us to meet her. He seems pretty crazy about her. I don’t remember him being this bad over any of the girls he dated in high school.”

“I wonder if he’s going to cough up his V card sooner rather than later.”

“You have an unsettling obsession with his virginity,” she teases, and he turns his face into the middle and lets loose a string of profanity when she gets up under the shoulder blade and presses a hard as she can. His entire body going rigid; toes digging into the mattress. “And no,” she says, as she releases the pressure. “That was not meant as punishment for said virginity obsession.”

“It’s not an obsession,” he lifts his head from the pillow and removes one arm from under it, resting his chin on it. A pained grimace on his face, sweat beading across his forehead and gathering at his hairline and temples. “I’m just curious. She’s an older woman, he’s a virgin. He’s lucky when you think about it. She’s probably got all kinds of experience.”

“Or she could be relatively inexperienced like I was when we first met.”

“The things you knew how to do and you were comfortable letting me do? You weren’t that inexperienced.”

“You are the third and the last. Three guys? That’s not a lot.”

“Well the other two must have been really good teachers. I should send them thank you cards. Fuck,” he groans, as she runs her knuckles along the entire length of his right shoulder blade. “You’re savage for a little thing.”

“How do you know it wasn’t you who the good teacher?” she suggests. “I mean, there wasn’t else much to do for those five days and you are blessed with an incredible amount of patience and stamina. How do you know I didn’t just let you do all the work and show me how things are done?”

“Because I was there and I know that isn’t true. There were things you knew and that you did willingly and I never even had to say a word.”

“Maybe you’re just so hot I said ‘fuck it. I’ll let him do whatever he wants’.”

“Well, you did let me go where no other man has ever gone before. After only three days. So…”

“You really are a fifteen-year-old with raging hormones stuck in a grown man’s body,” she chides. “So you think he will? Cough it up to this girl?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did. What guy wouldn’t take it if it’s right there staring him in the face? I don’t know why we have to meet her though. Can’t he just fuck her and leave us out of it?”

“I don’t think this is strictly a having someone to fuck situation. I think he’s actually really into her. Haven’t you noticed the way his entire face lights up when he talks about her?” Her fingers and thumbs move up to the top of his shoulder, firmly pressing along the scar.

“You honestly don’t think I pay attention to that kind of shit do you? I’m a guy. Guys do not pay attention to that kind of stuff.”

“He’s totally crazy about her. It’s so obvious. Pay attention next time. I’ll ask about her tomorrow at breakfast. Just watch how he reacts. What he does with his face. You do it sometimes too. When you look at me.”

“Am I drunk when I do it?”

“I’m going to seriously smother in you sleep. Don’t be such a smart ass. I know you hate talking about feelings and all that sappy stuff. But I know you feel that stuff. You don’t have to admit it, baby. I know you better than you know yourself sometimes.”

It’s true. There were times she could just look at him and know what he was thinking or feelings. Easily finishing his sentences. Or giving words to the thoughts in his mind that he couldn’t find an adequate way to express.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet her,” he says, forehead against the pillow, teeth digging into his bottom lip as she narrows in on the troublesome spot on the base of his neck.

“Because he wants us to. Because we’re his family and he wants her to meet his family.”

“It’s going be weird explaining all of that. I hope he’s not going to throw me under the bus and leave it to me to answer her questions.”

“Just tell her what we’ve told everyone else who asks,” her hands move down onto his spine, pressing into each vertebra. “His parents were friends of ours who died in a car accident and we were named his guardians in their will.”

“That story isn’t going to hold up forever. One day or another, the truth will come out. It always does.”

‘Well don’t let her be the one you tell it to. The last thing we need is to traumatize her and have her sue us for emotional pain and suffering. Can you imagine hearing a story like that? It sounds screwed up to me and I lived it. Imagine how messed up it would be to her? We’ll just have a nice quiet dinner like a normal family.”

“Like we’re normal. Have you met our kids?”

“Good point. Your spawns do have a tendency to get a little rowdy.”

“My spawns,” he snorts. “Because I’m the only one responsible for why they’re here.”

“You had your five minutes of fun, didn’t you?”

“You and I have very different experiences of the times our kids were conceived. Were you even in the room when it happened? Because five minutes? Times that by like twenty.”

“Oh, you wish! You may have the stamina of a God but that’s even too much for you. I love you and you’re a great fuck, but let’s be realistic.”

“Better than your ex?”

She laughs. “You’ve been wondering that all day, haven’t you?”

“Not all day but…” he closes his eyes and inhales sharply when she finally reaches the tailbone. Applying pressure as her hands move across the small of his back and over to his hips. “…I did think about it.”

“I can’t believe you’d even think it was a valid question. You are way at the head of the line on the best lover list. Second place is way back there. And it isn’t him, so…” she leans sideways to grab the bottle of pain relief cream lying on the mattress beside him. Grimacing when she opens the lid and sniffs. “…do I seriously have to sleep in the same room as you tonight? How offended would you be if I told you to sleep on the couch?”

“Very fucking offended.”

“This is not a smell I want next to me all night,” she holds the bottle up to his nose, and he coughs and gags. “Almost as bad as that sewer back in Dhaka.”

“Nothing will ever be as bad as that sewer back in Dhaka. But that does smell like shit. Just leave it.”

“The doctor said it’s the best one to use.”

“Who cares. I’ll put it on after you fall asleep. Then I’ll put a clothespin over your nose so you won’t wake up when the smell hits you.”

“You’re very stubborn,” she says.

“You tell me that every day at least five times a day. And that’s every day for the last five years.”

“So then stop being an enormous pain in my ass.”

“Never,” he declares. “Get up for a second.”

She pushes herself up onto her knees, allowing him to roll onto his back. “You okay?” she asks, noticing the grimace on his face.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he places his hands on her hips and settles her back down on his stomach. “Thank you, babe. That feels a lot better.”

“I don’t ever want to hear you say I never do anything nice for you,” she teases, as she leans down to kiss him and then settles her face in between his neck and his shoulder. A hand coming up to comb through the longer strands of his hair as he wraps both arms around her.

“So you’re being serious?” he asks after several minutes. “About this list of yours?”

“You can not be serious right now.”

“I’m just curious. You said you had a list and that I was first on it.”

“Are you honestly self conscious over my ex? Really? You of all people? You’re the last guy I’d ever expect that from.”

“I’m not being self conscious. I’m just curious.”

“Baby, you are at the top of every list I’ve had since I was sixteen and I first started dating.”

“Are these lists written down somewhere or…”

“Tyler…seriously…” she laughs against the side of his throat. “…you have absolutely nothing to be self conscious about. You are in an entirely different league than my ex in every possible way. It’s the man versus the boys. Let’s leave it at that. There isn’t any other man like you out there. I promise.”

That answer seems to satisfy him, and he drops a kiss on the top of her head.

‘What about your lists?” she inquires.

“I don’t have lists. I don’t do weird shit like that.”

“It doesn’t mean you don’t keep mental notes. Where would I be on your list?”

“I already told you. You give the best head I’ve ever had. I would have travelled from Australia to Colorado just for that.”

“What about the other stuff?”

“What other stuff?”

She sighs in exasperation.

“What do you want me to say? That you’re the best I’ve ever had and I’ve totally forgotten about every other woman that came before you?”

“I swear to God if you put me at the bottom of the list…”

Tyler laughs, and wrapping an arm around her waist, sits up and effortlessly tosses her down onto her back. “There is no list. I don’t think about things like that. I just know that you give the best head I’ve ever had and sex with you is incredible. Every time. I don’t compare it to other people. Why do I need to? None of them matter any more.”

“You’re being very diplomatic about this,” she frowns, but then sighs when his lips find the side of her neck.

His beard is rough against her skin, his breath warm, lips and tongue moist as they travel along her jaw and move up to her ear. His hand heavy on her stomach; pushing up the bottom of her simple tank top to expose an inch of flesh, fingertips gliding across her skin. And she shivers when the tip of his tongue traces the outer edge of her ear and his teeth gently sink into the lobe.

“What about Nik?” she asks.

“Who’s Nik?”

“I’m being serious,” she grabs a hold of his hair and yanks his head back, so he’s looking at her. “What about her? Am I at least better than her?”

“Who am I married to?”

“You had a chance to marry her? What…?”

“Stop…” he kisses her, chuckling against her lips. “…there is no one else but you. No one else I ever think about. There’s no one else I want other than you. So please…” he resumes the teasing and the torturing on her ear and her neck. “…stop…”

She opens her mouth to speak, then clamps it shut when his fingers make short work of the small bow holding tight the waist band of her bottoms. His mouth covering hers in a deep, hungry kiss as his hand slides down the front of her pyjama pants and dips between her legs. One hand in his hair and the other tightly gripping his shoulder as his tongue pushing its way past her teeth and seeking out hers. The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Needy. And she cries out into his mouth when he slips two fingers inside of her.

“Are you going to stop asking me questions now?” he asks, as he pulls back to study her face. Her pupils wide, her face flushed, hair falling across her forehead. “No more questions?”

She shakes her head, then lifts her head to kiss him. She curls an arm around his neck and pulls him into her; his free hand moving to support his weight, palm down on the mattress. Arching her back and pressing her hips flush against his palm as his fingers move inside of her. Slow, deep strokes that has all of her nerve endings on fire.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he watches her. The way her eyes darken and her breathing picks up pace; hips rising and falling to match every move that his fingers make. Bringing his thumb in contact with her clit, softly rubbing at the hardened nub until she’s got a hold of his hair once again and she’s yanking him down into another kiss. Effectively muffling the noises that come tumbling out of her mouth.

He continues to kiss her; soft, gentle pecks interspersed with longer moments of closed mouth upon closed mouth. Waiting until her body stops shuddering and her breath returns to normal before removing his hand between her legs. Eyes locked on hers as he licks her fluid off of his fingers.

“You’re evil,” she declares.

“In the best possible ways, yeah?”

She nods and reaches for him, a hand cupping his erection through his boxer briefs. Long and hot and hard underneath that cool, smooth cotton. The tip of her tongue sliding along her lower lip as she strokes him through the fabric, her grip tight, applying just the right amount of pressure. Until he’s swallowing noisily and his own breathing picks up his pace. Frowning when he suddenly pushes her hand away and then leans across the bed to grab a condom from the nightstand.

“No,” she says, as she takes hold of his wrist. “Don’t. Let’s have a baby, Tyler. One more.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods. “But I swear to God, if your super sperm does something crazy like another set of twins or worse, triplets, you won’t have to worry about a vasectomy because I will use a kitchen knife to cut your dick off myself. You’re a little too good at making babies.”

“Maybe,” he grins, as he sits back on his heels and grabbing a hold of her hips, pulls her towards him. “But they’re beautiful babies.”

She smiles. “They are. We did good, didn’t we.”

“Yeah. We did. We did real good.”

“Maybe the last one will be a girl,” she muses. “There’s way too much testosterone in this house.”

“Maybe,” he says, and hooks his fingers in the waist band over her pants and yanks them down in one swift movement. Batting her foot out of the way when she presses it against his crotch, toes rubbing against his cock. Placing a hand on either side of her head as he leans down to kiss her, capturing her bottom lip between his teeth before pushing his tongue into her mouth.

Her hands reach for the elastic band on his shorts and she hastily pushes them down over his hips and his ass. And he never breaks the kiss as one hand reaches behind him to shove the fabric down past his knees. Feeling her shudder against him and gasp into his mouth when he slips inside of her; groaning deep in his throat as he bottoms out inside of her.

“Fuck…” he breathes, forehead resting against hers. “…you feel so good. You always feel so good.”

She raises her head to kiss him; a brief peck on the lips before her mouth moves across his jaw and down onto his throat. Tongue travelling over the scar that serves as a permanent memory of when he’d nearly lost his life. Hands sliding across his shoulders and down onto his back, nails pressing into his flesh and breaking the skin as he moves inside of her. Long, smooth strokes that fill her completely.

No other man has ever been able to do the things he does. Or make her feel the way he can. The way he looks down at her with so much love and adoration in his eyes. The way each movement and each kiss lets her know just how worshipped she really is. His gaze never wavering; those blue eyes locked on hers, as if they’re burrowing into her very soul.

“I love you,” she breathes. “I love you so much.”

“I know,” he smiles. “I love you too.”

“Put a baby in me, Tyler. Put your baby in me.”

He blinks at both the honesty and power that comes with those words. And then it is as if every last shred of patience and resolve shatters. Slow love making turning frantic and aggressive, those large hands flipping her over onto her stomach and forcing her up onto her knees, slamming into her with brutal force. One hand on her hip and the other gripping the headboard as he furiously pounds into her. Surprised at how well she has always taken him. Even five years ago in that dirty Dhaka hotel room when he’d lost complete and utter control for the first time.

He reaches around to find her clit; stroking it as he drives into her again and again until she’s burying her face into a pillow to muffle her cries, his name repeatedly leaving her lips.

“Tell me when you’re going to come,” he says, as he drops his hand from the headboard and grabs her hair, yanking her head back, lips feasting on her neck. “Tell me.”

“I’m close…” she manages between ragged gasps. “…so close…”

He pulls her to her knees, so her back is pressed against his front; her hands reaching back to grab at his hair.

“Tell me,” he growls, and increases the pressure of his fingers. “Tell me.”

“Tyler…” she can barely get his name out. “…fuck…Tyler…”

“I want you to come,” he orders, and then removes his hand from between her legs and reaches between them to slip two fingers up her ass.

That’s all it takes. Her head falling back against him, his free hand clamping down over her mouth in order to hide the scream; sis name, profanities, unintelligible nonsense he can’t even begin to comprehend. And with two hard, strong stroke he’s coming as well; a long, loud groan erupting from somewhere deep inside his chest. And he wraps his arm around her waist to hold her painfully tight against him; making sure that not one drop of his cum manages to trickle out of her.

His trembling legs give out; vision white as he collapses onto his back, chest heaving as he attempts to regain some control over his senses. And he feels her move against him; the soft brush of her skin against his, her lips pressing a series of kisses across his chest and collarbone. Blindly he reaches for her, a hand falling on the back of her neck and bringing her head down to his shoulder.

They lay like that. Cool breeze tumbling through the window and washing over their spent and sweaty bodies. Until she shivers against him and he sits up and reaches for the comforter at the end of the bed. Draping it over both of them as he once more gathers her in his arms and pulls her tight against him.

****

He awakens to tiny hands incessantly shaking him. Torn out of a dead sleep by the sensation of someone clutching him by the bicep and yanking his arm back and forth with as much strength as a little body will muster. He’d been dreaming about Dhaka; a confusing mash up of all five days. From those moments in the dirty hotel room where greedy, hungry hands tore at clothes, to the early morning hours when he’d dropped her off at the extraction point before heading to meet with Ovi’s captors, to when they’d hid out in the sewer and eventually found themselves rescued by Gaspar and brought to his house. The betrayal of one of his oldest friends. Ovi taking the man’s life.

It was all mixed together. His brain unable to make any sense of it. And he’d just been about to set foot on that bridge when he’d been startled out of his sleep. It was a relief; he hasn’t had a dream about Dhaka in nearly four years and it isn’t exactly a time in his life that he wants to visit. But the anxiety and nerves he’d felt even in the dream had been vivid; his heart hammers in his chest and sweat gathers at his temples and across his brow. He almost snaps; stuck in that hazy space between sleep and consciousness. When your body isn’t fully awake, but your nerves are firing on all cylinders. It is fight of flight at that point, and his system chooses fight; ready to reach out and grab hold of what his brain is telling him is a threat when that little voice manages to break through.

“Daddy…” a pitiful pleading, accompanied by more shaking. “Daddy…wake up…please wake up…”

His daughter stands at the side of the bed. Even in the moonlight he can see the tears that stream down her face. The way she struggles to draw in a breath.

“Millie…” he pushes himself up onto his elbow and reaches up to push her hair away from her face. “…what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“I had a bad dream. I was really scared. I made a mess. In my bed.”

She’d gone through a stage of horrible nightmares the first time he’d returned home from the job with a broken wrist, split lip, and busted nose. The bruises and the injuries had terrified her and had set off months of trauma and sleepless nights for everyone. And he’d spent weeks either curled up beside her in that tiny single bed or sleeping on the floor right next to it.

“It’s okay,” he swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and checking the time on his cell phone that sits charging on the nightstand. 2:33 am. He’s groggy; a side effect of the pain medication that he’d taken only two hours before. It had been the first sleep disturbance of the night; the deep-rooted pain that starts in his shoulder and just seems to spread from head to toe. “Let’s go,” he stands, thankfully that he’d had the right mind to actually put on a pair of shorts before going back to bed. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”

Sniffling noisily, she curls her entire hand around two of his fingers as they head out of the room.

He gives her a quick bath, a fresh change of pyjamas and then takes her downstairs with him to throw the dirty laundry in the wash. Not asking any questions; knowing from experience that when she’s ready to tell him about the dream, she will. Instead he makes her a bowl of oatmeal- her favourite comfort food- and they sit in the dark living room with the tv on but the volume on mute. And when she’s placated and calm once again, she tucks herself under his arm and cuddles into him; head against his ribs, a hand resting on his stomach. And he’s contemplating whether to pick her up and carry her upstairs or if they should just stay where they are when she finally speaks.

“I’m sorry, daddy.”

“For what?”

“For making a mess in my bed.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her, and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “We got it all cleaned up. No worries. Things happen.”

“It was a scary dream,” she sounds as if she may cry again, and he tightens his hold on her. “Really, really, really scary.”

“What was it about? Do you remember?”

“It was about you. You went away. Only this time you didn’t come back,” the tears start again, her entire body shaking with the force of them. And he picks her up and settles her against his chest; her stomach pressed against him, her head on his shoulder, both of her arms circling his neck.

“It’s okay,” he nuzzles her forehead with his nose, rubs her back in slow, smooth circles. “It was just a dream. Just a bad dream.”

“The bad guys got to you and they hurt you and you never came home,” she continues through her sobs. “And mommy was crying really bad. She was so sad because she missed you so much. And I cried too. I cried a lot.”

“Shhh,” he strokes her hair. “It’s okay. Try to calm down, okay? It was just a bad dream. I’m right here. I’m right here and I’m fine.”

“What if the bad guys come after you? What if they come here to find you?”

“Millie, what bad guys? What are you talking about? What…?”

“I know what your job is, daddy. I know that you go and help people. That you get them away from bad guys.”

He frowns. “Who told you that? Was it mommy?”

“No,” she sniffles. “It was Ovi. I asked him what your job was, and he says that you rescue people. From bad guys.”

Tyler sighs heavily. And makes a mental note to kick the kid’s ass.

“What if they come here? I don’t want the bad guys coming here.”

“They won’t,” he promises. “The bad guys don’t know where I am. I always make sure of that. I always make sure they have no idea who I am or where I live. So they can’t find me. So they can’t find you and your brothers and your mommy. No one is going to come here.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. And when have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“Never.”

“Everything’s fine. There are no bad guys coming to find me. You guys are safe, okay? There’s nothing to worry about. Are you ready to go back upstairs?”

“Can I sleep with you and mommy? In the big bed?”

“Are you going to snore and hog all the covers?”

“No,” she giggles, and tightens her hold around his neck as he stands up, an arm across the small of her back to keep her in place. “You’re strong, daddy,” she says, as he climbs the stairs, floorboards creaking noisily on under his feet. “You’ve got big muscles.”

“It’s why your mom married me. The big muscles. And because I’m tall and I can reach the things on the high shelves.”

“I’m going to get married one day. And have twelve kids.”

He scowls. “I think I just aged fifteen years hearing you say that.”

Mac lifts his head as they step into the room. Ears back, eyes wide. Tail wagging when he sees his favourite little human.

“Cuddle up to mommy,” Tyler says, as he places his daughter in the bed. “Don’t wake her up. Just cuddle up to her.”

Millie does as she’s told, pushing herself across the bed and burying her face into her mother’s back.

He climbs in next to her, covering them both with the thick duvet and lying down on his side; arm stretched across both of them, his hand resting on his wife’s hip.

She stirs. Her voice barely above a whisper. “Tyler? Is everything okay? What…?”

“Millie had a bad dream,” he explains. “She’s here with us.”

“A bad dream? What? She hasn’t had one of those in forever.”

“Go back to sleep. She’s fine. It just scared the hell out of her. Try to go back to sleep,” he settles his cheek against his pillow and rubs her hip in slow, smooth circles. Until her breathing settles and evens out and he’s pretty sure she’s nodded off again.

And no matter how hard he tries, he can’t follow suit. Awake and on alert until the sun begins poking over the horizon.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #chris hemsworth character #sanctuary

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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Hundreds of Liberians marched through the streets of the capital city Monrovia late last week, clad in black and waving placards that read “No excuse for rape,” “Fix the system,” and “Shame on you Katie Meyler.”

The name on that last sign was the focus of the crowd’s anger. Katie Meyler is a young American woman who, until recently, ran a charity in Liberia called More Than Me, a nonprofit that took in and educated poor Liberian girls at high risk of sexual exploitation.

For years, Meyler was celebrated in the media and philanthropy world for More Than Me’s work. She raised more than $8 million, including almost $600,000 from the US government, and opened 19 schools responsible for more than 4,000 students. But a ProPublica investigation published October 11 found that amid that success, the girls her charity was supposed to be protecting were being raped by the man who helped found it.

That man, Macintosh Johnson, had AIDS when he died in 2014. One of the girls who ended up testifying against him in court tested positive for HIV.

In a statement following the ProPublica report, More Than Me said: “We are deeply, profoundly sorry. To all the girls who were raped by Macintosh Johnson in 2014 and before: we failed you. We gave Johnson power that he exploited to abuse children.”

MTM’s Liberian advisory board recommended an independent investigation, and in a letter to the board, Meyler wrote that stepping “aside while the investigation is underway will further the goal of a thorough and impartial review.” She added that she was “confident that the results from this investigation will outline the best way forward for More Than Me.”

Looking back, Meyler’s trajectory is staggering. She went from being a 26-year-old intern at an evangelical charity during her first trip to Liberia in 2006 to receiving $1 million in 2012 to start her own school from the American Giving Awards, sponsored by JPMorgan Chase. By 2014, the Ebola outbreak would hit Liberia and Meyler would be named one of Time magazine’s People of the Year for her role in the response.

It’s shocking now that no one seemed to question, at least publicly, whether a young American woman with no experience in education or health was qualified to be running a school and a medical center serving thousands of Liberians. But if you’ve spent time in Africa in proximity to the Western charity machine Meyler was a product of, then it’s not shocking at all.

I was a young, white American woman living in Kenya during her rise to fame, and I was often asked, both in the US and in Kenya, whether I was going to start my own NGO, despite the fact that I was a journalist with little experience or interest in the nonprofit world. Such questions evinced a presumption of my innate moral fiber — not to mention a complacency in the belief that any white Westerner was capable of starting an NGO, regardless of qualification or mission.

I have no doubt that at 26 years old, I could have gotten funding to start my own NGO, even though I had no experience in nonprofits. I knew many other young Americans who got funded. If people tell you enough times that you’re qualified to do something, sometimes you start to believe them.

In a 2012 Atlantic piece, Teju Cole called the phenomenon the “White Savior Industrial Complex.” It is “a liberated space in which the usual rules do not apply: a nobody from America or Europe can go to Africa and become a godlike savior or, at the very least, have his or her emotional needs satisfied.”

We should be upset by Meyler’s story. But we should be more upset with what her story is emblematic of: a Western charity machine, propped up by an eager media, that valorizes inexperienced American do-gooders and that values heartwarming stories over impact.

In a tale that would become central to Meyler’s narrative, spun dozens of times in speeches across the US, Meyler herself questioned whether she was qualified to start her own NGO. But a friend told her, “Get over yourself! It’s not about you!” and that tough-love pep talk quashed her doubt.

Meyler would have done well to heed her own alarm bells. In retrospect, the cracks in Myler’s organization were glaring. If she had tried to do the same thing in the US, it never would have gotten off the ground.

Myler had no experience in education or management herself, and the board she recruited only compounded the incompetence. According to ProPublica, it included an Italian prince who sold cosmetics on the Home Shopping Network; his wife, who was a friend of Meyler’s and ran a perfume company; a Liberian American who had a fair-trade clothing business; and an American whose startup organized entrepreneurship trips to Africa for young Americans. The Liberian American was the only one who lived in Liberia even part time. None of them had experience running a school or working with vulnerable children.

The school was staffed mostly by American teaching fellows and, barring one position, no teaching experience was required when it started hiring. The first principal was a 31-year-old high school English teacher with no administrative experience. These low standards, particularly for staffers, might sound surprising, but in my experience they’re not actually uncommon for charities started by foreigners in Africa.

Warning signs cropped up quickly: The charity’s country director wrote a memo in the early months documenting her concerns about girls being taken from their homes without guardian consent and spending the night at staff houses, including Meyler’s and Johnson’s. Money was going missing.

Then there was Meyler’s foray into Ebola relief. When West Africa was hit by a widespread outbreak of Ebola in 2014, Meyler started organizing Ebola-relief efforts in Liberia: complex work that requires high levels of expertise and is better left to the professionals.

According to the ProPublica investigation, MTM never received approval to have an Ebola care facility. In the early days of the outbreak the school itself didn’t even have accreditation from the Ministry of Education. One Ministry of Health official said at the time that Meyler appeared to have a “pattern of disregard for laws.” But that didn’t stop the media from hailing her do-gooding efforts.

Taken together, the levels of negligence at More Than Me are shocking. But Meyler’s story is emblematic of a larger rot within a sector of American philanthropy: the fetishization of young and inexperienced do-gooders setting out to change developing countries, regardless of whether they are qualified to do so.

For evidence of the trend, you don’t need to look farther than some recent scandals that rocked international philanthropy.

Greg Mortenson was a mountain climber who, after failing to summit K2, the world’s second highest mountain, promised a Pakistani villager he met on his descent that he’d return to build a school for girls. He went on to found the Central Asia Institute, which by 2010 reported that it had built more than 171 schools that provided education to more than 64,000 children, including 54,000 girls.

He fundraised by speaking to audiences at churches, schools, and philanthropic dinners across the United States, much in the same way that Meyler did, and chronicled his story in the best-selling book Three Cups of Tea. He was also written up in glowing terms by publications like the New York Times and NPR, and given millions of dollars to continue his work.

His was an incredible story — and a lot of it was a lie. Multiple investigations revealed not only that Mortenson lied about his origin story but that he had allegedly misspent millions of the organization’s dollars.

An even more notorious recent example was the Invisible Children NGO, which came to public view through its viral campaign in 2012 to “Stop Kony.” The organization was founded in 2004 by a group of young American filmmakers who wanted to stop Joseph Kony’s brutal Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) in Northern Uganda.

The video was viewed more than 100 million times in one week, becoming at the time the most viral video ever. It helped the organization raise more than $30 million and had a profound impact on US foreign policy in the region. One of the founders claimed the organization had lowered the number of internally displaced people (IDP) in Uganda by 98 percent.

But the film dangerously oversimplified events in the region, including the fact that Kony probably wasn’t even in Uganda at the time. And the organization’s impact is questionable (it certainly wasn’t responsible for slashing the number of IDPs to that degree). Donors accused the organization of misleading them by spending money on advocacy rather than actually helping LRA victims as their video claimed. Invisible Children denied this. According to the CEO, they spent all of the money raised by the video in 18-24 months.

These are just a couple of the more prominent examples. Meyler and More Than Me now take their place alongside them.

The fallout over the ProPublica investigation continues to roil Liberia. The government has launched an investigation into the charity and the Minister of Gender, Children and Social Protection Williametta Saydee Tarr said the government would be requesting Meyler’s cell phone records.

Meyler has temporarily resigned as CEO and the board chair has also resigned.

While Liberians work to unravel how More Than Me went so wrong, the rest of us would do well to examine the larger system that Meyler was a product of. In a 2010 article, New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof dubbed the trend the “DIY Foreign-Aid Revolution.” He wrote that “it’s not only presidents and United Nations officials who chip away at global challenges. Passionate individuals with great ideas can do the same, especially in the age of the Internet and social media.”

But where some see a parade of goodness making the world a better place, others perceive more problematic scenarios. Journalist Courtney Martin refers to “the reductive seduction of other people’s problems,” in an essay in which she points out that it would be absurd for a Ugandan college student who saw a mass shooting in the US to decide to go to the United States to get gun legislation passed. Meyler being tasked with fixing girls’ education in Liberia was no less absurd.

Robtel Neajai Pailey, a Liberian academic, is more blunt: Meyler “reveals our warped tendencies to glorify foreigners for swooping into poor countries under the guise of doing good.”

For all the problems that she brought, Meyler (and the dozens of others like her) isn’t malicious. She and many others like her are driven by a genuine desire to help. But altruism that isn’t fortified by rigor or metrics can lead to disastrous results.

It’s the same impulse behind voluntourism, the widespread practice of Westerners traveling to developing countries to see the world and do some good by volunteering in orphanages or building schools while on vacation. (The practice is actually where Meyler got her start, when she fundraised in high school to send herself to Central America to volunteer with street children.)

Jacob Kushner, writing in The New York Times Magazine about the practice, argues: “Unsatisfying as it may be, we ought to acknowledge the truth that we, as amateurs, often don’t have much to offer. Perhaps we ought to abandon the assumption that we, simply by being privileged enough to travel the world, are somehow qualified to help ease the world’s ills.”

Those are wise words, but they can be hard to heed when the White Savior Industrial Complex is constantly churning out new avatars. There’s a slew of awards, fellowships, TED Talks, and funds directed at people like Meyler. Many American readers are eager for simplistic stories with a relatable hero (read: white and middle class) and media organizations are slow to fact check international stories — particularly of the feel-good variety. (Marc Gunther, in a piece published Monday, went through the major sources of the millions of dollars in funds that flowed More Than Me’s way.)

There’s a lot of anger directed at Katie Meyler right now, and rightfully so. But we’d do well to zoom out a bit. Katie Meyler created More Than Me, but the white savior industrial complex created her — and there’s a lot more of us complicit in that than we’d like to admit.

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Original Source -> How the “white-savior industrial complex” failed Liberia’s girls

via The Conservative Brief

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