Jaycee Kesh Akinsanya is a man who defies easy labels. At first glance, he�s a well-dressed man with an easy smile that radiates welcome and warmth.

But Akinsanya has lived an extraordinary life, beginning with his early years in civil-war-torn Liberia, his flight with his family to the United States from the west African country, his studies as a monk with the Hare Krishnas, modeling work and self discovery before landing with his partner on an organic farm near Whitewater.

Much of his life�s story is detailed in his new book, �War, Momma, and Me: A Mother�s Steadfast Love During Civil Unrest.�

Akinsanya stands in the light, throwing a stick for his Great Dane named Neil Diamond, who makes wild loops around the house built by an acquaintance�s uncle.

It�s a Thursday morning, and Akinsanya points out different beds planted with vegetables, herbs, fruit trees � and a stand of elderberry bushes he�s cultivating.

Jaycee Kesh Akinsanya sits next to his book, "War, Momma, and Me: A Mother's Steadfast Love During Civil Unrest," on June 7 in his home in Whitewater.KASSI JACKSON

�Some daisies came up in my garden,� he said. �They were a surprise. Super cool.�

He sells his produce at Natural Health Organic Foods in Cape Girardeau, he said, and he also has a business engraving metal plaques.

�I�m basically always here,� he said, gesturing broadly at the land and house.

Off to one side, a small shed houses some guineas and ducks. Their waste can be composted into fertilizer for the crops, he said, but he keeps them out of the vegetable garden.

�They�ll trample it,� he said, shaking his head.

A giant white cloud of fluff and dog, a Great Pyrenees named Polly, hangs out between the house and shed, watching carefully.

The garden beds are built with walkways between and are raised beds to help with soil amendment and weed control, Akinsanya said.

Akinsanya�s peaceful existence is a sharp contrast to his early life in Liberia, where civil war broke out in 1989, after a military coup in 1980 caused unrest for years.

Akinsanya grew up with his mother, brother and one sister. His mother worked for the government, he said, meaning their existence was relatively stable, and she was able to shield him from much of the deprivations of war.

�For me, it was fun,� he said. �I was 11. I didn�t know about war.�

The fighting was far from the city of Monrovia, where he lived with his family. He learned several life skills, he said, including how to dry food and fill water barrels from the well half a mile away from their house.

�I had responsibility,� he said, laughing over the memory of buying candy for himself with a bit of money left over from buying food for the family.

But by the end of July 1989, it �got nasty,� he said.

Akinsanya�s tone remained level as he described a massacre of people holed up in his school, since classes weren�t in session, as it was summer.

�Hundreds of people died,� he said.

Akinsanya spoke of child soldiers and rebels hiding in the trees, making noises to mimic birds and other wildlife to communicate.

�I didn�t know any of that was happening,� he said. �I didn�t know the intensity.�

He did know about the dusk-to-dawn curfew, he said, and when it changed to 6 a.m. to 3 p.m., he noticed more and more civilians evacuating from the war zone, more tension.

�Mom would always say, �Relax your mental tension,�� he said.

That she could say that in the middle of a war zone, while she had to be concerned for her children, is �just who she was,� he said.

In October 1992, he started classes at a Catholic all-boys� school in Liberia run by an order of nuns, the Adorers of the Blood of Christ.

Charles Taylor, leader of the National Patriotic Front of Liberia that began the uprising against the government in 1989, started another fight after the school year started, Akinsanya said.

�School abruptly stopped,� he said.

During the fighting, some sisters from the order were killed, he said, and shortly after he relocated to Whitewater, Akinsanya discovered the order�s convent was a short drive away, in Ruma, Illinois.

So he visited.

�It was one of the most amazing � it was really beautiful closure [after their deaths],� he said.

There was more fighting, Akinsanya said, and for three years, the family persisted before finally fleeing to the United States in 1995.

His father was a United States citizen, he said, so when there was a ceasefire, his father filed for him on an IR-2 (Child of a U.S. Citizen) visa, and he came to America.

�Luckily I left then, because a few months later, another war broke out,� Akinsanya said.

He said he received his naturalization recently, applying in 2017 at the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services field office in St. Louis.

At the office, his identity was verified through biometrics, and then he was interviewed.

Naturalization came later, at the courthouse in St. Louis, he said.

What stands out to him from that time was how much of the trauma he was shielded from.

�My mom was not traumatized. Why should I be?� he said.

After a few years living with his mother, he moved on his own to Seattle where, he said, �I blossomed.�

He did some modeling work for Nike while there, he said, and met some Hindu monks.

After that, he said, he found himself asking, �Where do I fit?�

He needed a space to not be anything, he said.

�I ended up in Tucson,� he said.

While there, he met his partner � and another person who alerted them to a house and piece of land in Whitewater, owned by an uncle who wasn�t living there.

Akinsanya said he�d already applied as an intern at more than 40 farms, and been turned down by every single one.

This opportunity was one he couldn�t pass up, he said.

Akinsanya said his mother died in September.

�She loved the farm,� he said.

His father died in 2016, he said.

It was hard, he said, but �life fixed itself.�

His book was his way of grieving, he said.

�Writing the book was very healing instead of traumatic,� he said. �Because I didn�t have to come up with ideas, as is done for fiction; I was just going back into my memories and recalling my life, and in a way having a mental conversation with my mom about all that we went through, and how we came out of the other side, and what became of me.�

Akinsanya said his grief was filled with �thank-you-moms,� and that�s what the book reflects.

�It�s a sort of, �because we went through such hard times that life threw at us, I am able to look deeper at life decisions now, and that�s thanks to how you as a mother handled it � your attitude through it all.��

mniederkorn@semissourian.com

(573) 388-3630