Escaping Death
Bahor Rahim

© Bahor Rahim, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-7628-9

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Papa Joe’s wife became quite ill by evening. As usual, she was at home at that time, cooking dinner. Feeling weak and frightened, she stopped and moved to a corner of the room, where she lay down on an old sofa. Her body was burning.

‘Maybe I overheated in the sun? Or maybe… could this be it?’ she thought.

She had been feeling increasingly fatigued for several days. Her strength was fading, but Fatmata had attributed the weakness to the heat and assumed it would pass. Each day, she needed more rest, but despite that, she continued her housework – slower than ever.

That morning, she had got up later than usual. Her husband had already gone to work, and her children were at college. She felt guilty for not preparing breakfast for them. Her family cared for her and didn’t wake her, assuming she was simply tired from working in the vegetable garden the day before.

Although she felt extremely weak, she managed to get out of bed, gather her remaining strength, and start preparing dinner. She could only manage something simple – boiled rice, fried fish, perhaps a salad from the garden. She was sure it would be ready before her husband and sons returned. Her husband, Papa Joe, worked as a driver for a UN organisation in Sierra Leone.

Papa Joe, too, had noticed changes in his wife over the past few days, but he dismissed them as ‘women’s matters’ that would, as usual, soon pass. However, as her condition worsened day by day, he began to consider taking her to the city hospital.

‘What’s wrong with you, Fatmata?’ he asked, fear etched across his face as he returned from work. ‘Are you ill?’

She sat silently on the old sofa, too weak to answer. Her eyes were clouded, and Papa Joe’s voice sounded distant.

‘Yes,’ Fatmata whispered. ‘I think I’m ill.’

Papa Joe’s face turned to stone, and he quickly grew pale. He knew the city had already reported cases of a disease that drained people’s strength, sucked their blood, and carried them off to the ancestors. He was terrified. Everything inside him trembled. But his fear was not only for his wife – it was also for the cruel attitude of society, which persecuted victims of the deadly scourge called Ebola.

Everyone knew there was no cure for Ebola. When a neighbour fell ill with the dreadful disease, not only the sick person but the entire family was usually expelled from the neighbourhood – even children and the elderly. The house would be boarded up and declared cursed.

To avoid this fate, the sick often fled the city with their families – usually under cover of darkness – before anyone realised what had happened. They would hide deep in the bush or up in the mountains, awaiting their fate. But even surviving Ebola didn’t guarantee a return home. It was believed that recovery came through evil spirits and ‘black forces’, and that such a person should be deprived of life. Survivors were seen as messengers of death, come to claim more souls for the triumph of the kingdom of darkness.

Therefore, each neighbour considered it their duty to warn others of the survivors’ arrival, and the local shaman would bless the ritual killing. Survivors of Ebola were hunted down.

Although the last haemorrhagic fever epidemic was not on the same scale as the coronavirus, it was still horrific. The years 2014—2015 were disastrous for West African countries. Although the infection had been present for some time, its spread in Sierra Leone peaked in mid-2014. People were consumed by it, and the recovery rate was minimal.

The disease was transmitted through contact, so people avoided physical interaction as much as possible. Yet they still had to survive, so spontaneous street markets sprang up – mainly selling fruits and vegetables from meagre local harvests or imported goods of uncertain origin. When military or police spotted gatherings at these informal markets, they would immediately disperse both sellers and buyers.

Shops remained open, but everyone was required to wash their hands with bleach and have their temperature checked before entering. Since most of the population lived in poverty, only foreigners or members of the local elite could afford to shop in supermarkets or malls.

Thermometers became unwitting enemies. If you were sitting in a car under the sun, your body temperature could rise artificially, and a laser thermometer might falsely register a fever. As a result, you could be detained at a checkpoint. That’s why passengers in cars, buses, and shared taxis tried to sit on the shaded side. All travellers were screened for fever when entering any populated area. If there was any suspicion, they could be forcibly taken to a medical facility and quarantined for twenty-one days under confusing and opaque conditions.

At the start of the epidemic, fear gripped the entire country. No one wanted to investigate the actual cause of a fever – it was easier to send the person into forced isolation.

Some foreigners made it a practice always to carry a personal thermometer, usually digital and not always accurate. Still, it allowed them to assess their condition and avoid potential trouble. Carrying gloves also became common. If you travelled frequently and couldn’t sanitise your hands after visiting suspicious places, wearing gloves before entry and discarding them afterwards offered at least an illusion of safety. Of course, safety was relative – you could still catch the virus and pass it on.

In addition to organisations opening medical facilities and supporting the Ministry of Health in fighting the infection, clinical groups conducted scientific research. They collected blood from survivors and sent it to various laboratories abroad to assist in vaccine development. Since there was no cure for the fever, and some patients recovered from critical conditions, researchers were eager to understand the biological mechanisms behind such recoveries. Survivors’ blood was considered extremely valuable.

These individuals became key sources of information on the disease’s behaviour, and research organisations were willing to pay for their blood.

Although the methods of transmission were known, some remote villages continued to eat bushmeat – often raw or undercooked. Studies showed that bats, which formed part of some tribal diets, were disease carriers. Despite efforts by humanitarian organisations to warn local tribes against consuming raw meat, the warnings were largely ignored. Ebola had reached one of its worst peaks in the region’s long history.

The circumstances and mode of Fatmata’s infection remained unknown. No one questioned the source of infections anymore.

Early in the epidemic, efforts were made to identify the initial patient, trace the chain of contacts, and isolate potential carriers promptly. But eventually, these efforts ceased – there was simply no time or capacity for full-scale epidemiological investigations. As for the predictive models forecasting the epidemic’s progression, they often failed. The disease would reappear in places where it had supposedly been eradicated.

At that time, there was no cure for Ebola. Treatment focused solely on managing symptoms: antipyretics were administered for fever, and large doses of hormones were injected to control inflammation. However, this approach addressed only the symptoms, not the cause. No antibiotic or antiviral drug existed that was effective against the Ebola pathogen. Before the COVID-19 pandemic, the antiviral drug market was far less developed than it is today. Yet even now, it remains unclear why some people survived. These survivors were pursued by laboratories eager for blood samples – and by locals who believed they carried dark forces.

In villages, people had food reserves and could survive by tending vegetable gardens or fishing. In extreme cases, they relied on whatever the bush provided. Cities, however, suffered far more. Small local traders went bankrupt due to the collapse of daily sales, while larger shops remained open. The Lebanese community owned and operated nearly all the major outlets – grocery stores, auto repair shops, and a variety of services. Although their businesses were affected, they still managed to trade steadily and even grow by raising prices.

The capital, Freetown, is beautifully situated on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. Soviet specialists had built much of its infrastructure in the 1970s, and old-timers claimed the city once even had a streetcar. Electricity – considered a luxury – came from a small hydroelectric plant that only operated at full capacity during the rainy season when the rivers were high. In the dry season, most residents relied on generators, which rumbled day and night in the homes of the wealthy, as well as in hotels and stores.

Air conditioners depended on central electricity, so when the power failed, people had to endure unbearable heat and humidity. My body felt as if submerged in a tub of hot water, drenched in sweat. Yet strangely, once my clothes were completely soaked, I felt lighter – almost cooler. It’s probably no coincidence that desert dwellers never go without clothing. Even in extreme heat, they wear thick garments to encourage sweating and cooling. Sweat, when spread across the skin, evaporates and helps maintain a stable microclimate, reducing body temperature and allowing survival.

Not long ago, in 2002, the country had emerged from a decade-long civil war, and its scars were still visible. On the streets, you would see middle-aged people missing an arm or a leg. Some locals, trying to avoid fighting for any side, had even amputated their own limbs. Fatmata, Papa Joe, and all their older relatives remembered the horrors of war. They were grateful just to live – even in poor houses with simple utensils – and enjoy life’s small pleasures in peace, free from violence and fear.

To them, as to many others across the country, Ebola was an unexpected assault – like a war, but one no longer waged between people. This enemy was invisible, creeping in unnoticed, and cruelly taking lives.

Like all women in the country, Fatmata went to the bazaar. She had to take care of her family – her children, her husband, her household, and her vegetable garden. Fatmata and Papa Joe lived on the outskirts of town. Her husband would leave for work early in the morning and return by seven in the evening. That was the routine every day, except for holidays and weekends. At the bazaar, Fatmata socialised with traders, haggled, or talked about daily life problems. As the years passed, Fatmata remained happy and content with her family. It seemed she still loved her husband with the same pure love she had felt as a young girl, who believed she had found her dream come true.

Fatmata couldn’t pinpoint when she contracted the disease. Each day blurred into the next, and none stood out as special or memorable. She began to feel weak. Even minor tasks exhausted her. She no longer wanted to listen to the radio, watch the news, or enjoy her favourite shows while waiting for Papa Joe to return from work. She only forced herself to prepare food for her husband and children, who also came home in the evening from their school in the city centre. On top of that, even the slightest touch began to leave bruises on her skin.

But on this day, she felt especially unwell. Fatmata was so exhausted that her eyes were inflamed and nearly impossible to open. That morning, she had already noticed how swollen they were. And when she bent down to pick up the dishes she had dropped, her head throbbed painfully. Fatmata was deeply frightened – not so much by the illness anymore, but by her neighbours: what would they say if they discovered she might be infected with a deadly disease?

She cooked dinner, set the table, and sat on the old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the room, waiting for Papa Joe to arrive. She could hear her heartbeat and the sound of his footsteps as he entered the house.

Chapter 2: The Plan

Stepping into the room, Papa Joe immediately sensed that something was wrong. The children weren’t home yet, even though school should have ended by now. A strange odour – like rotting flesh – lingered in the air. People say the body emits a distinct smell when an infection sets in.

Horror gripped Papa Joe. He walked over to the kitchen table, dimly lit by a small lamp, and then turned to the dark corner of the room where the old sofa stood. Fatmata was lying on her side, her head resting on her arm. She looked immobilised.

He stood there for several minutes, either trying to assess the situation or paralysed by the growing realisation of what he feared. He and Fatmata had both suspected something was wrong for days, but neither had wanted to say it aloud. They had tried to push away dark thoughts in every possible way. Papa Joe had believed the disease wouldn’t reach his home or his family.

At work, everyone followed strict safety protocols: hands were always washed, there was no physical contact, car interiors were disinfected with chlorine solution, and no more than two passengers were allowed in the back seat. Everyone’s temperature was taken before boarding.

Papa Joe had followed all the instructions faithfully and felt confident. But he had overlooked one crucial point – his wife. Fatmata went to the market, where she interacted with many people. He hadn’t considered how women often greet each other with hugs or kisses among close friends. Though he had told Fatmata to avoid contact, she hadn’t followed his advice. And now, it was here – the very disease that took lives. There was no longer any doubt.

Papa Joe slowly approached his wife. She was breathing heavily, sweat pouring from her forehead. Fatmata raised her head and looked at him, her eyes swollen and inflamed. Even speaking caused her pain. The infection was tearing her apart from within. She was utterly exhausted, yet when she saw her husband, she tried to get up to set the table. But she didn’t have the strength. She collapsed back onto the sofa.

A few days earlier, when she had already begun feeling seriously unwell, Fatmata had wondered – could it be tuberculosis? As a child, she had watched her grandmother suffer from TB – always tired, sweating profusely, and eventually dying. Suspecting she might be infected, Fatmata had considered sending the children to their grandmother’s house. Papa Joe’s mother lived nearby and had long wanted to spend time with her fast-growing grandchildren.

Fatmata called the boys and told them their grandmother’s birthday was coming up, and they were invited to a party. Of course, they grumbled and tried to come up with excuses not to go. But she insisted, and eventually they agreed. Today, they were meant to start packing their things for the weekend visit.

‘Fatmata,’ Papa Joe said slowly, almost in a whisper, ‘how are you feeling?’

Fatmata replied, barely audible, ‘I’m very sick, Papa Joe. I think I’m dying.’

Terror overwhelmed Papa Joe – not only because he might lose his wife, but because of the persecution that could fall upon his entire family if people found out Fatmata had died of Ebola. He stood there frozen, paralysed with fear, unsure what to do

                                        * * *

Once upon a time, long ago, a joyful, well-dressed young man was walking through the town’s narrow streets. He was on his way home after attending a service at the main church. On the way, he stopped at a shop selling his favourite childhood cakes to buy some sweets for himself and his mother.

There was a small queue at the counter, and he stood behind a girl at the end.

‘Are you the last one?’ he asked.

She turned around and replied with a broad smile,

‘Yeah.’ (chuckles)

It was as if lightning had struck him – he stood frozen.

‘My name’s Papa Joe. What’s yours?’ he asked.

She looked into his eyes and laughed.

‘Papa Joe? You’re a dad already?’

She kept laughing, then paused, though the smile still lingered on her face.

‘Is that even a thing, Dad?’

He stepped back slightly. He had never thought his nickname—‘Daddy’—would be taken so lightly. But it had been his name since birth. He’d inherited the name Joe from his great-grandfather, his grandmother’s father, who had affectionately called him ‘Papa’ since he was a baby. No one in the family ever dared contradict the grandmother, so to please her, even his friends had started calling him Papa Joe. He had grown used to the name, but now he stood dumbfounded in front of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

‘Yes, my name is Papa Joe,’ he said, slightly shaky.

Unable to understand what he was feeling, Papa Joe couldn’t control himself. He stammered, stuttered, wanted to cough, and paused longer than usual before replying. The lightning that had struck him had a name: youthful love at first sight.

‘Where are you from?’ Papa Joe asked. ‘How come I’ve never seen you around here before?’

After a brief silence, she laughed again and said,

‘You just weren’t paying attention to me.’

As she said it, the girl blushed slightly and turned away, just as her turn at the counter came up.

Papa Joe’s chest was burning, his mind a jumble. His thoughts tangled – should he wait at the counter or run after the girl, who was now walking away with a bag of sweets in her hands?

Papa Joe made up his mind – and ran after her.

                                        * * *

Fatmata flatly refused to go to the hospital. She knew that even there, there was no salvation – most of the hospitalised patients died. But she knew a healer in the mountains of Kenema Province who treated people with all kinds of illnesses. He could cure her too. He healed both body and spirit. He was respected and feared by all. It was said he could fight evil spirits. After his treatment, even those who had Ebola – the disease of evil spirits – could return to the people without harming anyone.

People believed the sick survived only because of the evil spirits that inhabited the bodies of those who recovered from Ebola. Self-serving shamans, seeing the profit to be made, began to offer treatment and protection from these spirits – for money – to both the dying and the recovered. Despite the availability of modern medicine in the country, people continued to believe in the power of shamans without question. Some would die of uncomplicated appendicitis, simply because they delayed visiting a clinic. The power of tradition and belief outweighed the power of evidence-based medicine.

Fatmata told Papa Joe about her concerns, insisting on going to the healer rather than the hospital. She tried to be as convincing as possible, describing her fear of hospitalisation. After listening carefully, Papa Joe agreed with her arguments. Yet deep down, he realised it was probably the wrong decision – to flee the city, to run from doctors who offered at least a chance of survival, thanks to the achievements of modern medicine. To abandon that out of fear of persecution by his own tribe seemed foolish.

But Papa Joe was deeply rooted in the culture and traditions of his native land. His emotional state and faith in healing were stronger than reason. He stopped the flow of his thoughts for a moment and formed a plan to save Fatmata. Yes, he called it a rescue – not a flight, not a reckless gamble with his wife’s life. And that illusion became decisive in his final choice. After all, one could always hope for the favour of the universe – what people call luck.

Papa Joe hatched a plan to escape the city. That same evening, after finding Fatmata barely alive on their old couch, he stepped into the yard, looked around, and walked over to his neighbour’s house. Papa Joe often dropped by, especially when there was city news to share. Their interests were varied, but politics always took centre stage.

Trying to appear calm, Papa Joe called out loudly at the gate.

After a moment, the door opened, and the neighbour stepped onto the porch.

‘Ah, it’s you, Papa Joe,’ the neighbour said with a cheerful smile. ‘How are you?’

He hurried over to the gate to let him in.

‘That’s great,’ Papa Joe replied. ‘Do you have a minute?’

The neighbour was about to open the gate, but Papa Joe held up a hand.

‘I’m just here for a quick word. I wanted to ask a favour.’

‘Is something wrong?’ the neighbour asked, now looking concerned.

‘No, nothing serious. We’ve just decided to go out of town for the holidays as a family. If you don’t mind, could you keep an eye on our house?’

‘Oh, that’s a good one. Of course – don’t worry, I’ll keep watch,’ the man said and returned to his house with a wave.

Papa Joe didn’t return home immediately. He continued down the street as if taking an evening stroll, greeting passers-by along the way. He stopped for longer chats with a few of them, and each time mentioned the same thing: that he and his family were going out of town for the holidays. Everyone nodded in approval.

Once Papa Joe had completed his rounds and spread the story to as many people as he could, he returned home. Seeing Fatmata’s suffering face again made his heart ache. He loved her with all his soul and couldn’t imagine life without her.

But another thought haunted him – one he didn’t dare speak aloud. What would their neighbours do to his family if they discovered Fatmata was ill? How would they survive if she died?

He had witnessed it before – families expelled when someone died of Ebola or even when someone recovered. It made no difference. The police couldn’t stop it, because the police were afraid too – and so they did nothing.

Dark thoughts plagued him constantly, though he tried to push them away.

Soon, the children came home. They’d stayed out late playing football with friends and returned hungry. Papa Joe met them at the door with a smile, as if everything were normal.

‘Kids, you’ve been on your best behaviour lately, so your mum and I thought you could treat yourselves at the café today – get something yummy.’

The children froze in surprise. Their father rarely allowed such indulgences, and certainly not without a special occasion. But they didn’t question it for long. They took the money and, unsuspecting, ran off to the local café to order their favourite burgers.

Papa Joe now had a little time to think. His first step was to send the children to their grandmother’s house. Thankfully, mobile service was available in the area. He dialled her number.

‘Mum, the kids are cranky today. They miss you. I was wondering if they could come over straight away?’

‘Of course!’ she replied warmly. ‘I’d be happy to hug my grandchildren.’

Papa Joe walked over to his wife, gave her some water, and told her that everything would be all right – that he would take care of her. She couldn’t reply but only looked deeply into his eyes and nodded faintly. Fatmata knew the disease was contagious and feared she had become a source of infection, so she gently gestured for her husband not to kiss her.

After leaving the house, Papa Joe sat down on the steps of the terrace and reflected on what had happened. The years he had spent with Fatmata flashed before his eyes.

Had he loved his wife? He couldn’t live a day without her! Did she love him? She cared for him, worried about him, and had given birth to beautiful sons. Were they happy together? Without a doubt – yes! What was he truly afraid of: his wife’s death or something else? He feared that her death would bring suffering not only to himself but to the entire family.

                                        * * *

‘So, your name is Fatmata?’ Papa Joe asked timidly, trying to start a conversation with the beautiful girl. ‘May I walk you out?’

‘I don’t know,’ Fatmata replied, blushing slightly. ‘My parents might not understand you, Papa Joe,’ she added, her voice tinged with sadness.

Fatmata’s father was a very strict – sometimes even cruel – man. He “protected” his home and family to the extreme, as he put it, forbidding Fatmata from staying out late after school, let alone speaking to boys. He would punish her for misbehaviour by hitting her in the face or shouting so violently that she might faint. Both Fatmata and her mother lived in fear of him, as retaliation came swiftly. They had no opportunity to complain – this kind of family violence was considered a necessary, even important, part of child-rearing at the time.

Fatmata liked Papa Joe. She wanted to tell her parents how she felt, but she was afraid of her father – afraid he might beat, or even kill, the young man. Worse still, he might beat Fatmata’s mother, blaming her for raising their daughter poorly.

So, when Papa Joe offered to walk her home, she refused without hesitation. And she did so every time he asked – whether he met her at the shop, on the street, or on his way home from college.

Papa Joe suffered deeply from these rejections. He longed to be near the girl who was not only his first love, but – as life would later prove – his last.

                                        * * *

Papa Joe’s sons returned from the café, chatting excitedly about their day. They were heading towards the gate when their father stopped them.

‘Grandma’s missed you two and wants to see you today,’ Papa Joe began. ‘I know it’s unexpected, but I promised her you’d come. There’s a cab on the way to take you to her,’ he added firmly.

With a strained smile, Papa Joe brought out the bags he’d packed while the children were at the café and placed them by the door. He had already called the taxi company and, despite the high cost, ordered a car to take them directly to his mother’s house.

‘What about school?’ the boys asked, trying to come up with reasons to stay. ‘What about our lessons?’

‘I’ve already spoken to your tutor and explained the situation,’ Papa Joe replied quickly. ‘He’s agreed to send your homework by email and won’t penalise you.’

Though surprised by this sudden plan – and reluctant to leave – they had no choice but to obey. With a deep sigh, the boys headed to the waiting cab.

When the youngest wanted to say goodbye to his mother, Papa Joe stopped him.

‘Mum hasn’t come back from the shop yet,’ he said. ‘She might stop by an old friend’s place to visit her – especially after being unwell.’

The boy sighed but accepted his father’s explanation and got into the cab. The car pulled away and carried the children to the neighbouring village, where Papa Joe’s parents lived.

Now, Papa Joe had to figure out how to get Fatmata out of the house unnoticed and take her to the mountains – away from the eyes of others. In the hills, he and Fatmata would seek out the very healer they believed could cure her of the Ebola virus.

                                        * * *

It had been months since Papa Joe first met Fatmata – the girl of his dreams. He thought about her constantly, day and night. Whenever he saw her at the shop, he would approach her, and they would chat sweetly about all sorts of things.

One day, he walked up to her and, without even saying hello, kissed her on the cheek – and then immediately on the lips. She blushed but said nothing, only glanced around and exhaled with relief when she saw none of her neighbours were nearby.

‘Fatmata,’ Papa Joe began, his voice trembling as he gently took her hand and led her out of the queue, ‘I want to marry you. Will you marry me?’ he whispered, timidly looking into her eyes.

Fatmata’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t answer at once – her voice had simply failed her.

Papa Joe, summoning his courage, spoke again.

‘Fatmata, will you marry me? I love you!’ he said, his cheeks flushing as he took her hands.

‘Yes,’ she replied softly.

‘Then I’ll send my mum to your house. She’ll speak to your parents and arrange everything.’

‘Papa Joe, I’m afraid my father won’t agree. I’ve been meaning to tell you for a long time… but I was scared you wouldn’t understand,’ Fatmata began hesitantly.

‘Please don’t scare me,’ Papa Joe said quickly. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone. My mum will handle it. Just tell me when she can come to visit.’

‘I’ll speak to my mum,’ Fatmata replied. ‘We’ll figure out how to tell my dad I want to get married, instead of running away from home. I’m tired of living with my father… but I don’t want to leave my mum either.’

                                        * * *

Papa Joe never smoked or drank alcohol, but in a moment like this, he felt a strong urge to light a cigarette – or drink something stronger. He loved his wife and children and saw no greater purpose in life than being with his family.

Doubts tormented him. On one hand, he wished Fatmata were under the care of doctors. But he also knew the hospital wouldn’t do much good – most of the patients, if not all, were dying, with only a few surviving.

On the other hand, he held out hope that the healer might save Fatmata and keep her alive. Besides, Papa Joe realised that if his wife were to die in the hospital, their family would be banished, and the house could be staked or even burned down. If Fatmata died in the mountains, under the healer’s care, her spirit might be healed – and would not bring dark forces back to their home. In that case, Papa Joe and his sons could be seen as ‘pure’, untouched by evil spirits from the other world, and the community would leave them alone.

For a time, Papa Joe felt calmer. He convinced himself they had made the right choice by taking Fatmata to the mountains.

Papa Joe returned to the room where his suffering wife lay.

‘Fatmata,’ he said softly, ‘I think you’re right. We should go to the mountain healer. He’s the only one who can help us. I just don’t know how we’ll get there… you know there are roadblocks.’

‘Papa Joe,’ Fatmata replied slowly, her voice weak and strained, ‘I believe in you. You’ll do the right thing.’

‘Fatmata, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said with a deep sigh. ‘It’s the disease. And I want to tell you… if I die, Papa Joe, you can find another woman.’

                                        * * *

Papa Joe’s mum planned to visit Fatmata’s family with her close friend. She was happy that her son had finally found the girl he wanted to marry. The women gathered a few gifts and caught a minibus to the other side of town, where Fatmata lived. The journey didn’t seem long – they chatted animatedly the whole way, discussing wedding plans with excitement.

When the bus stopped, Papa Joe’s mother and her companion made their way through the narrow streets under the scorching midday sun. Though Papa Joe had never visited his future wife’s house, he had written down the address carefully. Eventually, they found it.

‘Masters! Is anybody home?’ Papa Joe’s mother called loudly at the gate, knocking firmly.

‘Who’s there?’ came a voice from within.

‘My name is Farida. I’ve come to see you. May I come in? I’m not alone – my friend is with me.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘We’ve come to speak with you about your daughter,’ Farida replied, as a woman in her forties approached the gate.

‘About my daughter?’ the woman asked, as if to clarify.

‘Yes,’ said Farida.

‘All right, come in,’ Fatmata’s mother invited them. ‘But my daughter’s not at home, and her father hasn’t returned yet.’

The two women followed her into the hall, where she brought out coffee for each guest. Once they were seated around the table, and had taken their first sips, Farida began the conversation.

‘You know, I’m Papa Joe’s mum. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

‘My daughter once mentioned that young man, but I didn’t ask much. What’s going on?’

‘I didn’t know myself until last night,’ Farida explained. ‘But I saw the look in my son’s eyes – and I understood he was in love. It turns out he’s been seeing your daughter for months. Today, Papa Joe sent me to speak with you – he wants to ask for Fatmata’s hand in marriage.’

‘Oh!’ Fatmata’s mother exclaimed, her face suddenly pale. ‘I don’t even know what to say. But I think Fatmata has just arrived. She’s in her final year at college,’ she added proudly.

‘Good girl!’ Farida said warmly.

‘Fatmata, my daughter – come and greet our guests. This is Papa Joe’s mum. She’s come to marry you!’ she added with a smile. ‘Tell me – do you know Papa Joe?’

‘Yes,’ Fatmata replied modestly, eyes cast down.

‘That’s his mum, and that’s her close friend,’ her mother explained. ‘They’ve come to ask for your hand. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ Fatmata said softly, barely audible, before dashing off to her room at the back of the house.

‘She agrees,’ her mother repeated with a smile. ‘She agrees. My husband will be home in the evening – I’ll speak to him then.’

                                        * * *

Papa Joe had spent a long time thinking about how to get his sick wife out of town without being stopped at one of the sanitary checkpoints. If the post’s medical officer saw Fatmata, he would detain her immediately. The guards would take her away at gunpoint, without listening to any explanations. And anyone nearby would be quarantined as well.

After sitting on the porch for a while, Papa Joe came up with a plan to get Fatmata to the mountains.

It was around seven in the evening. Papa Joe walked over to his shed and pulled out a bicycle from the corner. He’d used it once before, though more often he travelled by shuttle – a van arranged by the office to pick up and drop off employees each day.

He checked the bike carefully to make sure it was still in working order. Then he turned back towards the house, let out a sigh, and looked at Fatmata.

He slowly approached her and said softly,

‘Fatmata, my dear, I’m going to work now. I want to request a car and take some time off. You and I – we’ll go to those mountain places. Do you remember?’

Fatmata looked at him with weary, pitying eyes. She couldn’t speak, but she nodded faintly in agreement.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ Papa Joe promised. ‘And we’ll ride together far into the mountains – where that man will save you.’

Brushing away a tear, he turned and walked out of the house.

                                        * * *

‘How could you agree to this?!’ Fatmata’s father shouted. ‘You’re still very young – you need to learn!’

He turned to his wife and raised his hand to strike her, but as he looked into her eyes, he froze.

‘Father…’ Fatmata began, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t willing to listen.

She ran to her room, sobbing. Even there, she could hear him shouting at her mother, not giving her a chance to speak or defend herself. There was a sharp cry, then a slap, and the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. Their father had struck her mother, who now lay unconscious.

Fatmata rushed out of her room, knelt beside her mother and lifted her head. Her mother opened her eyes slightly and whispered,

‘Run.’

Fatmata, shaking with sobs, looked at her father, who stood there, breathing heavily. Slowly, he stepped towards her.

‘Fatmata, my daughter,’ he said in a trembling, gentle voice, ‘I’ve always carried you in my arms – and I still would. You must understand, you still have a lot to learn. What do you lack? I’ve done everything for you – and always will. Why do you want that boy? What has he done for you?’

‘What do you mean, Papa?’ Fatmata wept. ‘What more do you want from me?’

‘I love you, Fatmata, and I don’t want you to ruin your life,’ he said firmly.

‘But you raised me, Daddy, and now it’s time for me to start a family of my own!’ she pleaded.

‘But you’re still so young,’ he insisted. ‘It’s too early to think about marriage. I can provide for you for many years. That boy – he can’t even support a family!’

His voice grew harsh. He moved closer to where his wife lay and his daughter sat, cradling her mother’s head in her lap. Fatmata gently stroked her mother’s hair, crying softly.

‘Daughter, think how happy we are here in this house,’ her father said, his voice softening again as he tried to convince himself. ‘Think – this could all be yours. I’ll do anything to keep you here.’

‘Fatmata,’ her mother whispered faintly, ‘leave this place… go to Papa Joe.’

And with that, she lost consciousness again.

                                        * * *

Papa Joe rode his bicycle towards town. It took him about forty minutes to reach the office. It was summer, and although it was evening, the sun was still high in the sky.

Time, however, seemed to pass unbearably slowly. Papa Joe felt as though the bicycle wasn’t moving at all, despite pedalling as hard as he could. On the way, his mind remained fixed on Fatmata. He was terrified of losing her. For years, they had lived in harmony – soul to soul. She had given him wonderful sons, and together, they had been truly happy.

At last, Papa Joe arrived outside the office. He left his bicycle by the door and knocked. After a pause, the guard opened the door and, recognising him, let him in.

‘Ah, Papa Joe – good evening! What brings you here at this hour?’ asked the head of the night guard, a man named Ahmed. ‘Has something happened?’

‘No, it’s all right, Ahmed. I just came to prepare the car – I’ve got a long journey early in the morning. I was called and told to be ready for tomorrow.’

‘I see. Come on in,’ Ahmed nodded, closing the gate behind him.

Papa Joe’s heart was pounding so hard and fast he worried the guards might hear it if he lingered too long. He quickly made his way to the Land Cruiser in the car park. He started the engine and checked the fuel gauge – full. Then he grabbed a couple of empty boxes and a tarp from the garage and threw them into the boot.

After a while, Papa Joe began to calm down. Regaining control of himself, he took another careful look at the vehicle, turned off the engine, pocketed the keys, and made his way to the exit.

                                        * * *

Young Fatmata ran away from home, leaving her mother lying on the floor. Her father shouted after her but did not follow – he simply returned inside. For a long time, his voice echoed in her ears:

‘Fatmata, I love you! Don’t go! All of this will be yours!’

Fatmata’s mind burned with thoughts as she ran. She felt awful – ashamed for leaving her mother in such a serious condition. But she had obeyed her mother’s plea: to run from her father and go to Papa Joe.

She was gasping from a mix of sobbing and running. Her heart pounded and wouldn’t calm down, even when she finally stopped. Dropping to her knees, she broke into louder sobs. There, on her knees in the dusty road, she stayed until her mind slowly returned to her.

She clenched her will like a fist and stood up. Turning around, as if for the last time, she looked back at her street from the hilltop on the edge of town. Then she faced forward, casting one last glance into the distance – until she disappeared from view, swallowed by the high hill that separated Fatmata’s old neighbourhood from her future life.

                                        * * *

Fatmata’s father’s cruelty knew no bounds. Her mother could do nothing about it. Fatmata had no grandparents on her mother’s side – her mother was an orphan and had nowhere to go. Before her parents married, her father had carefully concealed his true character. He had likely married Fatmata’s mother for his own obsessive reasons. He surrounded her with everything she had lacked in her life as an orphan: care, material comfort, and emotional support. So, when Fatmata’s father proposed, her mother agreed, even though she did not love him.

For a while, the young family seemed to live an idyllic life. But over time, Fatmata’s mother began to notice sparks of cruelty in her husband. He started shouting and arguing over nothing. Then, one day, he hit her. Of course, he apologised afterwards and brought gifts. But slowly, the violence became part of their daily life.

Fatmata’s mother endured it, especially once her daughter was born. Each time she was beaten, she tried not to cry. She would only beg her husband not to strike her in the face, so the neighbours – and her daughter – wouldn’t see.

When her father came home in the evenings, after dinner, the women would quietly withdraw from the living room, where the head of the family sat. He drank beer and sometimes something stronger. When drunk, he would switch the television to a sports channel and shout at the screen during matches.

Days, weeks, and years passed. The cruelty of the man became part of her mother’s body and soul. One day, she came to church with bruises. When the pastor asked what had happened, he was stunned by the truth. No one in town could have imagined that such a soft-spoken man was a domestic tyrant.

Twenty years of life with him eventually dulled Fatmata’s mother’s resistance. But her patience shattered when she noticed how her husband had begun to look at their daughter. Once, she saw him pull Fatmata into a sudden embrace, his eyes flashing with animal desire. The girl had just turned nineteen. Her mother rushed to her side and pulled her away, and from that moment on, she never left her daughter alone with him again.

When Papa Joe’s mother and her friend came to match Fatmata, her mother was overjoyed. She finally had a chance to give her daughter away in marriage – away from this home and into the care of a kind and loving man.

When Fatmata had first told her about Papa Joe – what he was like, how he looked at her with eyes full of love – her mother smiled. But she still wanted to be sure of her daughter’s choice. One day, she quietly followed Fatmata to see Papa Joe with her own eyes.

When she saw the two of them walking hand in hand, she knew instantly it was fate. Deeply moved, she looked up at the clouds and thanked God for her daughter’s happiness.

Fatmata’s mother had long been waiting for the matchmakers. She was ready to give her daughter away as quickly as possible – anything to get her away from her father, who had been harassing her more and more. Though his attempts had been unsuccessful, the mother never left Fatmata’s side. At night, she locked the door to her daughter’s room, knowing it couldn’t truly stop him – especially when he was drunk – but hoping it would serve as a psychological barrier.

One day, after Fatmata met Papa Joe again, he noticed her eyes were red. When he asked what was wrong, she burst into tears and told him what was happening at home. She said her father constantly swore at and beat her mother, blaming her for raising a ‘disobedient daughter’.

Papa Joe was devastated. A deep sadness came over him, and he finally resolved to propose. Fatmata was ready to accept – but then she remembered her mother. If she left, there was a real risk her father would unleash his rage on her mother, perhaps even kill her.

Fatmata couldn’t bring herself to tell Papa Joe about her father’s predatory behaviour. She kept that pain to herself. She didn’t know how he would react if he knew the full truth – but even what she did say was enough. The next day, Papa Joe went to his mother and asked her to arrange the wedding as soon as possible.

                                        * * *

Papa Joe had the car ready for an early departure. The petrol tank was full, and he had set aside three twenty-litre canisters so he wouldn’t need to stop until they reached the mountains. He didn’t hang the key in the usual driver’s room but took it with him.

‘Oh, padi,’ Papa Joe said to the guard, ‘I’ve got the car ready for tomorrow. I’ll be here early – about six in the morning – to pick it up and head to the chief. He’s travelling far, to Kenema Province. So, I apologise in advance if I wake you up,’ he added with a smile.

‘We don’t sleep at all,’ the guard replied. ‘But did you tell the admin? We’re just the guards – we don’t know your arrangements.’

‘Of course I did,’ Papa Joe said, smiling as warmly as possible.

‘All right, then it’s fine,’ the guard agreed, opening the iron gate to let Papa Joe out.

‘That worked out great,’ Papa Joe thought, as he got on his bike and rode back home.

His heart was still pounding. He worried about every word he had said. The sun had nearly slipped beyond the horizon; it was getting dark. Papa Joe pedalled harder to get home as quickly as possible.

Half an hour later, he stood at his doorstep. He leaned his bicycle against the wall and slowly entered the room where Fatmata lay. Despite her exhaustion and illness, she had prepared dinner. Fatmata loved her husband and children deeply and was devoted to her family. She took joy in cooking, cleaning, and keeping the home warm and welcoming. Her husband and sons adored her – for her love, her care, and her unwavering loyalty. Fatmata had long dreamed of a family to dedicate her life to, of a husband who would always be by her side. That dream had come true – she had everything she ever wanted, and she was happy.

When Papa Joe saw dinner on the table, he was confused. He hadn’t expected that, despite her weakness, Fatmata would summon the strength to cook for him. She was sitting – or rather reclining – in an armchair, leaning back. When Papa Joe walked in, she lifted her head and asked softly,

‘Honey, are you here?’

‘Yes, my love – it’s me,’ Papa Joe answered instantly.

‘Sit down and eat. I made everything just the way you like it,’ she said, motioning to the table. ‘I’m sorry… I don’t have much of an appetite myself,’ she added, trying to smile.

Papa Joe walked over and sat down. It was already dark outside, so he turned on the light. ‘The boys must have eaten by now,’ he thought, and the image of their smiling faces and his mum’s hugs brought him some relief. He picked up his fork and began eating.

‘Fatmata,’ he said, chewing slowly, ‘I’ve worked out how we can go up into the mountains. There’s a healer there who can cure you.’

Fatmata asked weakly, ‘But there are many roadblocks… how will we get past them?’

‘I’ve got permission from work to use the car,’ Papa Joe said. ‘You know our vehicles get priority. We’ll be able to reach the mountains without stops or inspections.’

‘Were you allowed to take leave? How did you arrange that with the office?’

‘Don’t worry, darling. I sorted the leave and the vehicle with my supervisor. He was fine with it. Everything’s sorted,’ Papa Joe said as calmly as he could. ‘I’ll bring the car round in the morning, and we’ll drive to the mountains. You’ll recover there. Then we’ll come back, and everything will go back to normal,’ he said, trying to reassure her.

He attempted a smile and kept eating, though each bite was difficult to swallow, laced with the bitterness of possibly losing his beloved wife. He looked at Fatmata – frail, exhausted – and wished with all his heart that he could help her.

Would a hospital be a better choice than a healer in the mountains? he thought.

But he had no faith the hospital could cure her. And if she died in the hospital, the whole family would be cast out, their home likely burned. If she died in the mountains, maybe no one would know. Maybe the healer could bring her spiritual peace. Then Papa Joe and the boys could be accepted again by the community. At least they wouldn’t be seen as cursed.

With these thoughts, Papa Joe swallowed another bite and drank some water. Then he walked over to Fatmata, picked her up gently, and carried her to the bed. She was either asleep or slipping away. He pulled a blanket over her, more out of habit than need – her body was burning hot. Papa Joe left the light on and quietly stepped out of the room. He set his alarm for four o’clock, sat on the couch, and immediately fell into the deep, exhausted sleep of a man at his limit.

                                        * * *

Papa Joe woke abruptly, as though someone had shaken him. It was just before four o’clock. He didn’t wait for the alarm clock to ring. Jumping up from the couch, he hurried into the bedroom. As he approached the bed where he had left Fatmata, he saw her lying with her eyes wide open. For a moment, he feared she wasn’t breathing. But as he drew closer, Fatmata slowly turned her head and said:

‘Good morning, darling.’

‘Good morning, Fatmata,’ Papa Joe replied. ‘I’m going to the office to get the car. I’ll be back soon, and then we’ll head to the mountains. The healer will cure you, and we’ll return home together.’

‘Okay,’ Fatmata whispered and closed her eyes.

Papa Joe fetched some water and gathered what little food he had left at home, placing it beside Fatmata’s bed. Before leaving the room, he looked at her once more, then stepped outside. His bicycle was waiting against the wall. Papa Joe mounted it and rode towards the town centre, where the office and the car awaited him.

By five o’clock, he had reached the office. This time, he cycled straight to the front gate and knocked. The same guard opened the wicket door and greeted him casually:

‘Oh, it’s you again.’

He swung open the iron gate. As soon as Papa Joe entered the courtyard, the guard closed it again and returned to his booth, hoping to catch a few more hours of rest before his next shift.

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