A strong woman in a man's world rules from the bedroom

Mrs Conneh was busy, said the fat man in a loose shirt. "Come back tomorrow," he told me. It was mid-morning and Monrovia's clammy heat was already rising fast. I cracked. I had been here too often.

The Big Man's (or, less frequently, Woman's) waiting room is a perennial hazard of journalism in Africa. They are all the same. You are shown into a large room with soft chairs and dimmed lights. Most are already occupied by other supplicants; some are nodding to sleep, others are half-comatose. The wallpaper is peeling. It is too hot.

An assistant motions you to a seat, then utters the dreaded words: "You just wait."

But this time I lost it with Mrs Conneh's corpulent aide. I pouted. I shouted. It was my second day of waiting. He relented, disappearing into a back room. He returned after several minutes. He said: "The chairwoman is dressing. She will see you shortly."

Aisha Conneh is a strong woman in a man's world. Her husband, Sekou Damate Conneh, is the leader of Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy (Lurd), the main rebel group that helped to unseat Charles Taylor, the former president.

It was not a glorious liberation. Indiscriminate rebel shelling hit many more civilians than soldiers. About 2,000 people died.

Mrs Conneh sat out the war in neighbouring Guinea, which supplied weapons and rear bases to Lurd. While her husband was off fighting, the "First Lady of Lurd" was building a close relationship with Lansana Conte, Guinea's ailing dictator. She was commonly described as his personal spiritual adviser or even fortune-teller, who dealt in diamonds on the side.

Marital discord has now struck the Conneh household. Since returning to Monrovia last month, Mrs Conneh has denounced her husband and declared herself as the one true leader of Lurd. Mr Conneh, needless to say, is furious.

Our interview finally took place in her bedroom. Mrs Conneh sat bare-footed while an aide combed her hair, gold rings adorning her fingers. Her two-month-old daughter snoozed on the bed beside her. A Guinean soldier waited in the hall. She went straight to the point: "My husband is not the chairman. I am. I am the boss lady. That's all I have to say."

Moments later her aides were shooing me out with the interview hardly started. But reprieve came when a group of men filed in. One, it turned out, was Mrs Conneh's brother, Kamara. A few weeks ago he was almost kidnapped by a Lurd commander, known as General Iron Jacket, as part of the row. United Nations peace-keepers intervened to save him.

The bedroom was getting crowded. I took a digital photo and showed it to Mrs Conneh. She smiled and ordered me to eat. Soon we were tucking into a plate of fried bananas as she held a noisy conversation in the Mandingo language with the men. For my patience, I was awarded a few more questions.

Her relationship with President Conte had been misrepresented, she insisted. "Liberia was at war, I was just a refugee. He took me as one of his adopted daughters." Then she excused herself.

On the other side of town, her husband sat fuming in his air-conditioned office. Dozens of supporters waited outside the riverside villa, as did a clutch of Nigerian peace-keepers. He said his wife was the pawn of scheming political opponents. "She is just an uneducated housewife," he said. "She was promised $1m (£550,000) for doing this."

Others in the Lurd top ranks, almost all of whom have stuck by Mr Conneh, say they are unconcerned. Sekou Fofana said: "It's a palaver, a matter of policy differences."

But for Liberians savouring the first proper peace in years, any talk of a split is troubling. Thanks to the world's largest UN mission, a fragile normality has returned to Monrovia. Motorists slalom around checkpoints manned by soldiers from Nigeria, Ghana and Benin. A white tank is parked outside the parliament building. Bullet-riddled signs are being replaced. One of the new ones says: "Time is running out for Liberia."

Many churches have reopened. Liberians place great faith in the Bible, which offers at least some explanation for their misery. A sticker in a taxi that I hired said: "No Food for Lazy Man (2 Thes. 3:10)."

One day we passed a handpainted sign advertising the "Jacques Klein Entertainment Centre", named after the American in charge of the UN mission. Inside, Mamadee Sheriff, the owner, was selling sodas and sandwiches. The devout Muslims had never met Mr Klein, he admitted, but he symbolised stability so "he is my friend". Mr Sheriff said the business with the Connehs worried him because factional splits had scuppered previous peace deals. "We are afraid the same might happen again," he said. "In the name of Allah, let us remain in peace."