The Ebola War

By John W Egan and Bakar Mansaray

A dozen years ago, as the war in Sierra Leone was ending and their Small Girl Unit destroyed, Angel-of-Death and No-Mercy escaped from the rebels who had forced them to fight and commit atrocities. These former child-soldiers became Angel and Mercy, young women with careers, but without histories or families. Their hidden past and hopeful future begin to unravel when they are called upon to help contain the Ebola outbreak. As the Ebola Crisis deepens, Angel and Mercy will confront other threats that are just as deadly as the virus they were sent to stop.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John W Egan
• Release date: May 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780995847422

John W Egan

After several careers and adventures, I have settled in Ottawa, Canada to write.

Book preview

From May 2014 to March 2016, Ebola killed around 4,000 Sierra Leoneans. More than 10,000 Ebola survivors have been left with chronic and debilitating post-viral health problems, while over 12,000 children became Ebola orphans. Many more Sierra Leoneans were traumatized by the threat of this illness and the losses that it inflicted on their friends and families. In one way or another, the entire population was under a prolonged attack by the Ebola virus.

In the midst of this struggle are Angel and Mercy. As their hopes and dreams are about to come true, the Ebola outbreak disrupts everything as they are each ordered to help stop it.

As the crisis unfolds, old enemies and new foes emerge. Angel and Mercy must once again fight those who would harm them, as well as the hemorrhagic fever that threatens everyone. They survived the Civil War, but can they survive the Ebola War?

Maps

Notes

Acronyms

AMISOM African Union Mission in Somalia

ETU Ebola Treatment Unit

LEOBATT Sierra Leone Battalion (in the Africa Union Mission in Somalia)

MOHS Ministry of Health and Sanitation

NERC National Ebola Response Centre

PPE personal protective equipment

RSLAF Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Forces

SLA Sierra Leone Army

SLP Sierra Leone Police

SSF Santé Sans Frais (Health Without Cost)

UNMEER United Nations Mission for Ebola Emergency Response

Krio Words

chop food/eat

fambul family

han hand, as in the name Cut-Han

kushe O hello

pikin small child

Salone Sierra Leone

tenkey ya thank you

wahala trouble, conflict, fight, squabble, argument

Krio Expressions

Ah de go ya goodbye

how de bode? how are you doing?

de bode fine I am well

bo we go see o see you later

how de go de go? how is it going?

Chapter One: Accra

*** 15 July—Late Afternoon ***

Mercy cracked the door ajar and scanned the faces in the hallway. There was no one out there who would know her. She swung the door open and dashed from the surgeon’s office as fleet as a gazelle. As she turned the first corner, she slowed her pace to match those around her.

A tear trickled down her cheek as she absorbed what the surgeon had told her. She berated herself. Why did I wait so long? He said that I am an excellent candidate for the surgery.

An increasing number of hospital staff joined those already in the hall. She glanced at them and cautioned herself, No one can see me here, or start asking questions.

To reduce these risks, she had asked to see Dr. Badoe as his last appointment of the day. She knew the corridors would be filled with nurses and technicians as they conceded to the coercion of the clock and headed home. Mercy wore the white smock and trousers of the staff and students at the Korle Bu Teaching Hospital. Her unbuttoned smock revealed a dark-blue top while her trouser cuffs were folded over her gray hiking shoes; typical attire for the women who worked here.

Some of the men gave her a quick glance, others a prolonged eyeing, but none paid her any attention beyond her face and figure. A few of them might have noticed the blue identity card clipped to her smock, which identified her as a resident. Staff largely ignored residents, especially one as slim and small as herself.

The combination of petite form and short hair made her seem younger than her twenty-three years; she looked more like a first-year intern than a sixth-year graduate. Her lustrous black hair began as a taper-cut at the top of her neck, then transformed into small, flat curls, which grew larger and longer as they reached the top of her head. The long curls there were combed forward and braided into a waterfall of thin ringlets that hung over her eyes. It took her little time and effort to maintain this style, commonly referred to as low maintenance by the other women residents. Moreover, these bangs let her see without having to exchange eye contact, especially with men who sought it.

Her mahogany eyes continued to study every face, watch every movement, and catch every detail. It was a habit of survival, a legacy of her years as a child rebel. Her habitual scrutiny of others had caused her trouble when she began secondary school at the age of twelve. Everything her sister, Angel, taught her had allowed her to skip primary school. Mercy’s ability to remember and use everything she was taught let her complete six years of secondary school in five. Her teachers interpreted her achievements and watchfulness as arrogance. A few even claimed that she emitted a hostile glare. The veil of dreadlocks over her eyes had partially solved that problem. All that could be seen now of her heart-shaped face were her broad nose, full lips, and small, round chin.

The doors at the end of the hall opened to the low afternoon sun, which burst brightly in her eyes. She skirted around the cars in the parking lot and crossed the street to another car park. As she exited this lot, she turned left and kept to the side of the tree-lined road to make her way to the medical students’ hostel. This path was not only shorter, but the trees and buildings kept the sun out of her eyes.

This path, however, did not protect her from the cacophony of bells summoning Christians to evening mass in a nearby church, or from the passionate chants of a muezzin in an adjoining mosque. These dissonant sounds rose above the continuous honking and rumbling of traffic to fill the ears of people in the neighborhood every morning, midday, and evening. Each time the voice of the muezzin rose while the bells tolled, the disharmony brought confusion into the minds of the indecisive faithful. For some, it was as if they were being asked to make a choice between Heaven and Hell.

For Mercy, it was pointless. Unlike Angel, she did not believe there was a God who wanted to hear prayers said one way or another, or who responded to any of them. She did not pray, but challenged, If You are there, how could You let so many people suffer so much in the war? How could Angel and I have been forced to hurt and kill people? How could big men be allowed to rape small girls? As these questions were always unanswered, she addressed the silence with her usual, final questions: Where were You then? Where are You now?

The nearly horizontal sunlight blinded her again as she stepped out of the shadow; the push of its heat and the brilliance that penetrated her closed eyelids scorched away her dark thoughts. The late appointment with Dr. Badoe had not left her time to eat at the Med Diner tonight. Instead, she patronized Nana Afua, the petty trader who sold her favorite Ghanaian food, banku and tilapia. Made from fermented corn and cassava dough, the banku complemented the spicy, grilled tilapia, and the handful of hot pepper, diced tomatoes, and onions that completed this meal. As her stomach grumbled, she was pleased once again that Nana Afua’s was the nearest stall to the hostel and always open late. Mmm, she thought. Enough for supper and breakfast.

The food she purchased reminded her of the issue at hand: her surgery. As she was to become a fellow doctor, Dr. Badoe had offered to operate on her and Angel at a discounted cost, even though they would be foreign patients. She knew Angel also wanted to get rid of the insignia on her chest that read RUF, which identified her as having been a rebel fighter of the Revolutionary United Front. The same rebel-emblazoned scar also stood out on Mercy’s chest. Seeing it dehumanized Mercy in her own eyes as well as any other Sierra Leonean’s.

Keeping those three ragged, yellow letters hidden on her dark skin all these years had required both Mercy and Angel to maintain constant vigilance and cover, but that effort kept their painful legacy at the forefront of their thoughts. These infamous letters left them stranded on the threshold of that war’s history. At least they did not have the other scandalous tattoo of the rebellion: that of the scorpion.

Tying these thoughts to present issues, she wondered when they would have enough money for the surgery. Another question came to mind. Will Angel think the risk of this surgery being discovered outweighs taking this chance at liberation? This was a Ghanaian surgical program designed to remove the branding scars of child rebels from across Africa while keeping their past and this surgery secret from others; in their case, here in Accra and back home in Sierra Leone.

Her room was on the third floor of B Block. She entered it and put the plastic bag of food down on the counter, beside her shoulder bag. She clung to the shoulder bag wherever she went as if she had made a suicide pact with it. Slinging its strap over her shoulder felt like the strap of the assault rifle that she had once carried. Thoughts of her rifle gave her that satisfying sensation of security, as did the butcher’s knife she kept inside it. They had protected her against those who would have harmed her.

She took off her hospital smock, but still felt warm in her sleeveless blue blouse. The curtains filtered the last rays of the sun that reached up from the dark horizon and the first cool breeze of evening that penetrated the window screen. She turned on the desk lamp and reached under the bed for the metal locker, to take out her laptop. After it powered up, she logged on, opened the video-call app, and clicked on the icon of an angel. She glanced at her watch. Two minutes to spare, she murmured to herself, as if she were singing a solemn, secret song that others must not hear.

The bubbling, popping sounds from the speaker of her laptop filtered into her subconscious. Her call was ringing at the other end.

An image popped onto her laptop’s screen. It was not one of the images of the war, which crept into her inner eye when she least expected it; the faces of her victims that usually flashed in her mind. This image was real, and it jumped and spun as someone moved the camera at the other end. Outside the camera’s view, a bare light bulb glowed on the tent canvas that danced across the screen.

Eee, Mercy! Na u? Kushe O! I was waiting for your call. The screen settled on the face of her elder sister, Angel. The light cast impenetrable shadows over her eyes and lips until a camouflage-sleeved arm reached past the camera lens. A soft light from behind the camera flickered to life as Angel’s arm retracted from the screen. Can you see me better now? Angel asked.

Yes. Mercy brushed aside the hair from her eyes to let Angel see her better, too.

Angel’s dark sienna eyes, rounded forehead, and round tip of her broad nose had inspired their friend, AK, to describe Angel as a Royal Beauty, which Mercy agreed was accurate. AK had described Mercy as the Shy Beauty, which Mercy hoped was true, but not enough to attract the leering looks of men. Angel’s hair was pulled back and threaded into locks drawn together into a ponytail. The locks hung to the collar of her shirt, the way she had always kept her hair. And as usual over the past year, Angel was dressed in her green camouflage uniform, with the three pips of a captain on the epaulet of each shoulder. The bright green beret of the African Union peacekeepers was rolled and tucked under one epaulet.

How de bode? Mercy greeted Angel. Anything exciting this week?

De bode fine. It has been slow, slow in Kismayo again. That is good for the people here, but bad for our soldiers. They are bored. They have time to worry about their pay, their families, and when they will go home.

So, you still do not know when you are coming home?

No, Angel said and quickly changed the subject by asking, How de go de go for you?

The Emergency Room was busy as always, but nothing new or exciting. I cannot wait for this internship to end! I am learning nothing new here now. I think about home all the time, and my new job.

You have two weeks more at Korle Bu, and then you will be in Sierra Leone.

Yes. After six years, I will be home for good; not just for a visit. All that I will be missing is you not being home, too. We have not been together in two years.

At least we get to see each other online each week, Angel said encouragingly.

Mercy’s eyebrows furrowed with disappointment and her mouth pursed in thought. She returned to the topic that Angel had avoided. She was aware that the Republic of Sierra Leone Armed Forces, RSLAF’s contingent in AMISOM, the Africa Union Mission in Somalia, had eight hundred soldiers. Angel had told her they were organized and operated as an infantry battalion, which was called LEOBATT 1. A battalion meant it could operate despite losing people, as had the rebel battalion she and Angel were trapped in, long ago.

Mercy fixed on her sister’s eyes to gauge her reaction when she challenged her, Why must everyone in your battalion stay there? Why does your commander refuse to send anyone home early?

If the Colonel cannot go home, then no one can go. Angel raised her eyes upwards and sighed as if she was tired at having to repeat this explanation. Even those with sick or dead family members have been told that they must stay here. It is—

I know, Mercy interrupted. It is how the Army works.

It is, Angel confirmed and stated the Krio expression, All man de pan in yone wahala. In other words, everyone has their own troubles. Angel changed the subject again by asking, Do you have any news from Dr. Khan about your new job?

Dr. Khan has no time to call me. He oversees all patient care, research, and teaching at the Lassa Fever Centre. On my behalf, the SSF Manager in Freetown, Mr. Amara, gave his approval to Dr. Kahn’s request that my first job will be treating Lassa fever patients in the ward. And Mr. Amara did not make any demand in return for his good gesture. That is how SSF works.

Indeed, SSF and the Army work differently. Angel laughed. I have told you there is an SSF clinic here in Kismayo. Maybe I should go ask them if I can go home?

They both laughed, and then Angel teasingly suggested, Maybe I should ask them if you can be sent here, to Somalia.

I would go. U na me fambul. This Krio statement relating two persons as part of one family carried a deeper meaning.

Na true ya me small sister, we na fambul.

Our family is just us. You and me. Mercy sighed.

It is, for now, Angel hoped aloud and then asked her, Have you not met a young doctor, or any man who is equal to you?

A ray of hope came into Mercy’s heart, but it was a forlorn hope. Older men made her wary, while younger men bored her. She thought of the few men around her age who were attractive, kind, and interesting. As she undid another button on her blouse to feel cooler, she brushed the tips of the infamous RUF insignia below the opening. Their touch reminded her that she could not risk anyone, any man, seeing them. Ever.

She looked at Angel and managed a truthful lie, Not so far.

I am sorry to hear that, Angel told her. I have found no one either, but then there is less to choose from up here.

Bega-Bega noh de pik ehn chus, Mercy replied in Krio, a statement that means beggars have no choice. She said it with a grin, although the expression was not far from the truth for them. She wondered if their past had indeed made her a beggar, and if an operation could change that view of herself.

Oh, that is OK, Angel replied with a sad smile that said she was resigned to this circumstance for now. Men and marriage may seem far from us today, but I pray that it will work out for us one day.

Mercy raised a hand to hide her smile at Angel’s persistent belief that everything in their lives would work out in their favor. Before today’s news of the surgical solution, Angel’s cheerful optimism would have annoyed Mercy. But she had her own cheerful optimism now. She had faith in the surgery that would erase the capital letters that spelled out the ugliness of their past, and inhibited their hopes to marry and have children. Maybe Angel’s prayers had finally been answered—or at least that would be how Angel would see it after Mercy told her about the surgery. It was tempting to tell her about Dr. Badoe right now, but instead, she joked, Your sense of hope reminds me of the saying that even though you are being chased out of the marketplace, you are still trying to sell your wares.

Angel rubbed her cheeks and frowned as though a twitch of ache ran through her. Before Mercy could apologize for upsetting her, Angel smiled again and said with renewed faith and hope, We will have our own families one day.

Mercy was again tempted to tell Angel about the surgery, but not until she could also tell her how she would pay for them both. Instead, she said, Yes, maybe we will.

But first, we must go home, Angel said. Then we can turn our attention to starting our own families. I am to work at Defence Headquarters in Freetown when I return. You could ask to work in Freetown, too, with Dr. Buck. Her clinic is near our rooms at the home of AK’s parents.

Mercy recalled Dr. Buck letting her volunteer at Lumley Hospital after school and encouraging her to become a doctor, but with a shake of her head, she told Angel, I would be happy to work with Dr. Buck, but it would be ungrateful to Dr. Khan if I asked for that now. And you could be posted somewhere else before I arrived. We can see each other as long as we are both in Sierra Leone.

Oh! It is time for the next officer to make a call on this laptop, and he is here, Angel said. Someone has come to take his turn on the laptop. Call me again next week, same day, same time, me small sista. Ah de go ya!

OK. Bo we go see O!

The connection flickered and the screen went back to the home page of the video-call App. Mercy looked around her quiet room and out the window, at the lights in her noisy neighborhood. This dormitory had been her home for the last six years, but her bedroom looked barely occupied.

Alone in this tiny apartment, she reached for the only possession she treasured: her little plastic white girl with red hair and a missing arm. She spoke to her doll: Oh, Fatima, how will I get enough money to be able to tell Angel that we can get rid of these scars?

Mercy had once thought of making an arm for Fatima, but that would change who Fatima was—who she had always been: Mercy’s one-armed doll. She set Fatima back on the edge of the desktop and told her, Angel and I are not the same as you: we do not want to stay as we are. That was the real problem, she thought. We will change. Will we drift apart if one or both of us find a husband and have a family? Who will we become?

That worrisome question led her back to another question that she had often asked herself: Should I look for my parents, my old family? Mercy had never talked to Angel about doing this, for the same reason she hesitated to tell her about the surgeries: the fear of losing Angel.

Chapter Two: Kismayo

*** 21 July—Late Afternoon ***

Angel was aware that men were attracted to her. So, she wondered if Captain Gibril Bangura was paying attention to what she was explaining about the map of Jubbaland, or was he busy mapping her body with his eyes, despite the baggy combat uniform that masked her figure? She and Gibril had come to know each other over the years, working in offices, studying on courses, and when she had taken over his job on her last deployment. She knew him to be in the habit of gazing at women’s figures, and he knew she did not want him doing that to her.

Like a bolt of lightning that struck out of nowhere, she spun away from the map and fixed Gibril with a challenging glare.

Although they had worked together only intermittently over the years, she was comfortable in his company. His hands had never touched her, nor had his tongue ever uttered anything offending. Moreover, they could make each other laugh, no matter how sad they felt. They had found themselves in vulnerable moments and neither of them had tried to take advantage of the other. He had become her friend once she got to know him, and he accepted that she would never be romantically interested in him. She had hoped that this was still their relationship.

Gibril smiled back at her glare. He squinted at the wax pencil markings on the map’s plastic covering and said, So, al-Shabaab has shifted its activities to the west and north. There have been no attacks near the airport and not much activity in our area for the last four months.

Yes. Angel sighed, relieved he had grasped what she had shown him. She waved at the few red markings on the map and summarized, Just those foot patrols and that one convoy of trucks. That is all we have seen since March.

So where was the closest al-Shabaab activity this month? he inquired in a tone that suggested a professional curiosity and not apprehension.

She pointed at the opposite wall and stabbed her finger twice to indicate a much longer distance. Baraawe. Halfway up the coast to Mogadishu. Three hundred kilometers from here.

Hmm. Really? Then the only thing you are tracking here are refugees, NGOs, and AMISOM troops.

Yes. We look after the thirty-kilometer radius around the airport. The Kenyans look after what happens in Kismayo itself. The activity we are tracking now is the refugee camps being built between the airport and Kismayo. She picked up several photographs from the folding table that was her desk and told him, These aerial photos were taken two weeks ago. The highlights show you where the new shelters have been built. Three hundred since June.

The situation here is not as complicated as it was in the Sudan. His soft, low voice told her that their operations in the Darfur region of Sudan hounded his spirit as much as they did hers.

U bin lef big mess fo me, she said as a small, sad jest. The situation she had inherited from him back then was not his fault. First, there were the numerous atrocities inflicted on the Nubians by the Sudanese government and its militias. Second, there were the global politics that prevented any effective intervention by the combined African Union and UN force they were serving. By then, the Sudanese head of state behind those atrocities was already wanted by the International Criminal Court for crimes against humanity, like other warlords in Liberia and Sierra Leone.

A decade earlier, during those dark days, Gibril and Angel had witnessed the suffering of the Nubians. Sudan was similar to the deplorable conditions back home in Sierra Leone during the war, but it had been much more disgusting for her than for him. She had been forced to commit uncountable atrocities as a child soldier for the RUF.

Her frustration and disappointment at the flawed peacekeeping mission, and at the carnage she had witnessed in Sudan and Sierra Leone, were always difficult to disclose to others. Coincidentally, Major Ryan, the Canadian who had helped Angel conceal her RUF