Escaping Death

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.