Escaping Death

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: