Behind the Eclipse: The Unheard from the West African Ebola Crisis . . .

By Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

Tamba, later known as George, unveils his jaw-dropping story of surviving Ebola, which is an experience of virtual rebirth. It is astounding to know how he maintains his stamina to continue his journey along the rugged pathway of life as an Ebola survivor for the sake of the two sons left with him after the tragic death of his wife, Aminatta, and the daughter of Kumba, his first love.

This semifiction stretches the full length through the West African Ebola Crisis, revealing the unheard to its readers while challenging the belief that Ebola is new to West Africa.

Ultimately, Tamba wins his battle of life, and he says, I want my story to be heard by the entire world. Life is a battle, which one has to fight even when in the jaws of defeat, and one cant be selfish to give it up as it is for those whom we love and care for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Dec 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482887549

Pramudith D. Rupasinghe

Pramudith D. Rupasinghe was born in Gampaha, a small township near the Sri Lankan commercial capital—Colombo. His multidisciplinary academic excellence and competence in French, English, and Russian have opened his horizons to travel across the world as a humanitarian diplomat. He is a leisure traveler, a freelance writer, and a wildlife photographer who travelled across Africa, Asia, and Europe for the last one and a half decades. He worked with United Nations and with the Red Cross and Crescent Movement for the last fifteen years in different parts of the world.

Book preview

01

I still remember the days when Oldman was strong; he used to go to the bush almost every day to set his snare for bushmeat. When he returned home, he used to bring a monkey, cane rat, porcupine, a python or at least a big rodent. Cleaning was my grandmother’s speciality and the other wives of my grandfather used to support her. He had eleven wives; all were old friends of my grandmother. She often said that without their support, her life would not have been the same. The day he did not return from the bush was a full moon and everyone except my grandmother was silent in their huts. All of his wives were pleading to the moon to send him back home from where he had been hiding. My grandmother started boiling palm oil when the moon mounted right on her head. It was midnight, and she started whispering something which I later learnt that those were ‘phrases of power’ from the secret societies. Once the oil started bubbling, she added some herbs which one old woman had brought home when the villagers got to know that Oldman was missing in the bush. She took the pot out of the fire and took it to an open area in the front yard of the cluster of our mud huts. The wives, pleading to the moon at the doorsteps of their huts, started to move towards my grandmother silently with very careful steps still looking at the moon. I was looking at them though I did not have a clue about what was going on. I had a very strange feeling about Oldman. My instinct hinted me that we would not see him again. All the wives made a circle around the pot and sat on knees bending towards the inside of the pot as if they were trying to find something inside the boiling oil. A silence that was mystic swallowed the surroundings when an old lady brought a rooster into the cycle of women. They passed the rooster from hand to hand and finally to my grandmother who cut its neck and poured the blood into the pot of boiling oil. Then they kept on watching as if they were waiting for something to happen inside the pot. After a while, the other wives of Oldman started to move back to their mud huts where there were several dozens of children waiting for them. They walked in a melancholic way: they stepped as if they were lifeless, faces looking down while no one said anything. The pale moonlight added dead rays to their slow movements giving them a ghostly look.

After a while, some men came with firebrands made out of palm and coconut leaves and went into the bush leaving an old lady and my grandmother near the pot. I could not remember anyone except my younger brother sleeping that night. Everybody was expecting something they dared not verbalise; something they did not want to hear which they tried to suppress with hope: the hope that Oldman would return alive. The silence reigned between my grandmother, and the other wives of Oldman was a sign of hope and despair: a silence of faith and incertitude. It was like a bridge between life and death.

‘Whoop, whoop,’ an owl was desperately calling for a mate. Its whooping crossed the empty air, hit the dumb Lofa mountains and echoed unheard. It whooped till the bats started returning from the clearing skies with the maiden rays of the rising sun and stopped. My grandmother returned to the hut as though she gave up waiting. When a drop of hot tears from my mother’s eyes fell on my hand, I heard the clapping sound of the wings of the owl that was flying to his hideout after a long hopeless night of waiting for the answer from the beloved. Though the sun brought light at dawn over the Lofa mountains, the villagers returned with no news about Oldman which not only our huts, but also the whole village felt was the beginning of a long dark time.

‘We found nothing,’ one said aloud.

‘We will go in again, Oldman should be somewhere,’ another raised his voice with hope.

‘He knew all wild animals, he should be safe somewhere,’ it was my mother who talked after a long silence.

‘Devils and witches are dominating the night and full moon,’ my grandmother’s voice followed my mother’s as if she was in denial of what she heard from my mother.

Everyone said that my mother and grandmother could not live under one roof. They had disagreements that often ended up in a quarrel which Oldman had to intervene. However, even he couldn’t resolve but he managed to stop the violence whenever it irrupted. But for sure, both of them loved Oldman and respected him. Whenever he said something, they both listened to him. Whenever he was not at home, the huts never used to be at peace. After each fight, my mother came to my father and complained which he never admitted that grandmother was wrong. At that time my father used to beat her; sometimes when I was in her hand. That was the scariest thing I had ever seen in my childhood. One day, he beat her till she fell and kicked her back many times. It was just because of her verbal aggression.

‘Last night dogs were barking plenty,’ it was another man from our village. Fallah who was famous for his talkativeness but he had gained fame for his unbelievable ability in forecasting too. Two days before a Black Mamba bite killed my uncle; he had visited him and told him to avoid the bush for one full moon. My uncle did not want to listen to him, but my grandmother was worried about what he had said and pleaded him not to go to the bush. The day he was brought home still and cold, my grandmother collapsed like a banana tree that could not bear the weight of its cluster. She said only one thing. ‘Fallah you are a witch, you knew this.’ His presence at the scene heightened the level of anxiety among everyone who had gathered there. Though many did not deny the belief that he was a witch, none of them dared to spell it out. Nonetheless, no one commented on what he said; probably because none of them wanted to accept what they had already been feeling.

‘O; He had left this on the log. I knew that it was the reason,’ Kumba came running out of her hut. She was the youngest wife of Oldman. She was not more than fifteen years - I was not pretty sure about her exact age since we did not use the Christian calendar those days. However, she was younger than most of the children and grandchildren of Oldman. He loved staying in her hut most of the nights and the night before he disappeared in the bush, he had been with Kumba.

Oldman always used to wear a charm for protection from evil spirits and witchcrafts since the time I could remember. He told that it was given by his grandfather: a well-renounced voodoo practitioner from Sierra-Leone who once kept a tribal leader transfixed for seven days.

‘Not a single Pied-crow is flying over his head,’ told Oldman one day while relating one story about his childhood. He always talked about his grandfather whom he used to call Buoma with a fear mixed respect. He had an incredibly profound faith in charms that had passed to him from Buoma; everyone else also believed that the charm was the sole protection that kept Oldman safe in the bush.

Seeing what Kumba was holding in her hand, my grandmother started her hysteric cry, and my mother nearly dropped my sister from her hand. The other wives of Oldman started crying aloud, and my grandmother who was on the ground started rolling and eating the soil as if there would only be soil for us to feed on. Amid an unprecedented flood of emotions, the old woman who brought the rooster approached my grandmother. Her tone was firm.

‘Let`s go to the river when the sun hides!’ It sounded more like an order than a request.

I saw my grandmother`s face looking up at the old woman; her tear-filled eyes were shining in the sunlight just like a diamond and she was trying to tell something that her mouth would not want to turn into words.

That evening, under the pale moonlight she moved with the other ladies towards the river and some of the men followed them. My mother was watching till the lights of the firebrands disappeared into the bush and started sobbing.

The silence that dominated the whole place was broken by the sobbing of my mother. Kumba was sitting still next my mother without uttering a single word. Her eyes too were full of tears and the broad smile she used to wear seemed lost with Oldman.

‘Sia... what might have happened to him...? Finally, Kumba raised her voice just like a new born goat trying to bleat. Her words were loaded with fear and uncertainty. Being a very young woman; her emotions were dominant over her wit. Also, I realised that she loved Oldman very much which did not mean that the others had not; they were mature women who had gone through many difficulties in life, unique to the time of our childhood, such as a death of infants, miscarriages and so on. Kumba was a fresh flower owned by a wealthy Oldman who was much older than her father. For some reason, I felt sorry for her.

‘We will wait and see, Oldman`s forefathers are in the bush; I believe in their souls. May they protect Oldman!’ My mother replied without looking at her face. Oldman used to say that Sia was a woman with wisdom and courage which my grandmother never liked to hear.

‘Saa does not need any more wives; you have a woman with ten human souls and ten bulls,’ once Oldman said. My father smiled and did not mention anything. He never said anything against the word of Oldman though he was known as the most stubborn among the sons of Oldman. I had seen Oldman spending more time talking to my father than his other sons. There was a strong bond between two of them. The others always said it was because my father was his first son; I later discovered that my father and Oldman had similar traits and values which kept them closer.

When the first call of Pepper bird was heard, I heard my father calling a couple of other men. My mother rushed behind them with a few pieces of smoked meat.

‘It will not be easy, take this with you,’ she had carefully put them into a hand-woven bag made of cow skin.

It was the first time the whole village stayed awake after the death of the old chief of the village.

‘We just returned from the river after the sacrifices for the demon,’ one of the men who went with the ladies told. Hearing the others coming back from the rituals for the devil, my mother hurried to the hut of Oldman where my grandmother had been. Even though they were like cobra to mongoose, they were always there for each other whenever one of them was going through a difficult time. This time both of them were hit by the same incident, and they both loved Oldman as their life. I learnt that my mother had reached the hut of Oldman when a hysteric cry broke out. It was my grandmother. Then I heard my mother. They cried as if they had never cried before and they would not want to cry again. In a few seconds, the other women led by the other wives of Oldman joined them. After a while, Kumba ran out and fell in the middle of the compound. She was weeping as if her life was over. I could not see Kumba crying. Her beautiful face which was ‘full’ as Oldman always said, had shrunk like a piece of dried meat. ‘Kumba..!’ I did not realise I had called her name, but she did not hear me. My feet knew where my heart wanted to go. I found myself among the grieving crowd that multiplied like rats. I also cried because the others were crying.

All of a sudden, I started feeling that I would not see Oldman again but when I thought of the stories about his adventures with the wild animals, demons, and witches, my instinct was still hinting that he could be alive somewhere.

‘Once, when I was going hunting, a leopard hit me,’ he told me one day when I was a small kid which I still remember. Then he showed me his left shoulder which was still carrying a huge scar of the attack of the big cat.

‘I turned against the direction from where the beast jumped on me; otherwise, your father would not have come to your grandmother`s belly,’ he added with a heroical laughter.

Oldman always gave me temptations about the bush. He never did farming as his brothers did. He exchanged bush meat to the harvest on a daily basis; therefore, we never ran out of food. But, neither my father nor any of his siblings had mastered hunting like Oldman even though they joined him on and off. During one rainy season, he went on hunting with one of my uncles and did not return till late night. But, that time, the men who went in search of him had found both of them unconscious in the bush. Both of them came back to life grace to Broh, the traditional healer who selflessly treated them over seven days. I could barely remember them lying on a wooden stretcher for days. Women were busy preparing food for those who were there to assist the healer. Oldman stood before my uncle, and he even helped the healer the following day. He said, ‘I was hit after my boy was hit and I chew some medicinal herbs.’ In its real sense, Oldman was a survivor, but this time I felt split. One part of mine said that Oldman could have been in the bush alive, but the chain of emotions and the reactions of the people in the family and the community had already given me a clue of his non-existence. That’s why I liked Broh who was also a bit more hopeful than the others had been. He was trying to prepare his last miracle. And when he summoned his voice to call for a few men, the waves of cries paused for a while. My mother came out wiping her eyes as if she determined to find Oldman dead or alive; I did not doubt her courage and determination because she had proved it many times to everyone in our village. Broh opened his old sack which was made out of country cloths—a heavy handwoven cotton cloth and pulled out different ingredients that he needed for his ritual. It was like the last soothsaying on Oldman.

‘All inside the huts!’ Broh yelled at curious children who thronged around him including me. I was thrown into our hut as if I was taken by a cyclone. The fear induced by the presence and the voice of Broh was incredible. His word was the final in any matter that went beyond the human control in our communities.

I could not resist my urge to see what was going on. But I was afraid to be noticed as I could not forget what once Oldman told me that Broh could see things through the walls and he could walk around unnoticed. When the drums started beating louder, and Broh`s voice had reached its climax, he sounded like he had been strangled. It grew sharper and louder, and my fear had already overrun with curiosity. I crept patiently to the small opening in the hut left for ventilation like a mamba that was creeping into a birds nest. Through the crowd that was anxiously waiting to hear the last word which would determine hope or despair, I saw Broh on the floor moving his head like a tree top which caught in the raging winds that hit the Lofa mountains in rainy seasons, swirling faster than a beheaded cockroach. After a while, he stopped still. I was wondering whether he died. The way he was turning his head was scary. He stood partially like a chimpanzee, turned towards the bush, whistled at the top of his voice and ran vigorously into the bush. The men followed him, and women surrounded my grandmother as if to give her reassurance. It was a beginning of another waiting-a hopeful one seeking a relieving ending.

02

After a long night, half of another day had already come to an end with the fast descending sun as if it had already given up waiting. Despite grandmother who was sobbing, all the other women were silent, including Kumba whom Oldman was fond of like an ant to sugar. We were already back to play as if nothing had happened.

With the cold breeze from the bush,‘Ohyo yooo, Ohyo yooo…,’ and the drum beating with the whistles started mixing into the air from very far deep in the bush. The sound of singing, drumming and whistling reached us from time to time only when the breeze was a bit stronger.

‘Looks like there is news,’ one of the women said as if to warn that Oldman had been found dead or alive.

‘Oyoo, Oyoo…,’ was a bit closer and consistently we started hearing the drum beating.

‘They are over the hills,’ Kumba said in a voice full of anxiety mixed with restlessness, probably induced by the uncertainty and fear. It was evident that she was searching for good news since she would be the most unsecured as she was an almond chewed by an old man that no young man would want to put in his mouth. Besides that, she had stayed enough with him for his seeds to be germinated in her newly matured womb.

As the beating of drums and whistling got closer, grandmother stood up all in haste and rushed towards the pathway that led to the bush singing and clapping with the usual dance. So did the other women. It was a moment of joy to know that Oldman was alive. But, no one had a clue of his condition because the men had not still reached the village. The beating of drums and the whistling had already convinced everyone that Oldman was breathing. Grandmother and the other women were praying for the souls of our ancestors and the Creator.

Worshiping ancestors used to be the most dominant element of Kissi belief system. We believed that our ancestors were the intermediates between the villagers and the Creator. At times of difficulty and hopelessness, we prayed for them and when we were happy we thanked them. Usually sacrificing animals in the river and in the bush for ancestors remained one of the rituals widely practised as a gesture of thanking. Besides that, whenever someone saw a dead relative in dreams, sacrifices followed. The fact that Oldman was alive was a reason for feasting not for our family but the whole village, though we did not still know whether he had all his limbs intact; he could utter a word, or he could stand. Emotions and their very nature of fluctuation were the key driving forces of our simple lives in the village. They ruled the life. They were as colourful as the rainbow which showed that there was something except the monotony of the bright blue skies and cold-blooded gloominess on rainy days. We knew that as the sun shone after every pouring rain, every cry and tear deserved a smile and a current of happiness. It would never rain until the end of time and so would the sun.

Those who were crying for hours a few hours ago in the sorrow of the perceived departure of Oldman were rejoicing the clues about his existence. All of a sudden, as herds returned in the evening, the group of men who went in search of Oldman, appeared from the bush. It was visible in the distance that they were carrying him on a wooden stretcher that we used to make by using fresh wood sticks whenever we had to carry a patient who couldn’t move.

As two armies were approaching each other in a valley, women and children started moving vigorously towards the men who were carrying the stretcher and merged into one group. I was waiting on the way with my grandmother who was already too weak mostly because of emotional draining.

‘My man, my man, my man, oooooooo…,’ she was murmuring over and over again just like a little child who was struggling to talk by repeating the sounds that were often heard.

With each foot the crowd was taking towards us, our pulse rate started increasing and when the horror of reality was revealed by the sight of Oldman who was lying immobile like a fallen tree, women, and my grandmother started crying louder than they were mourning a while ago. ‘Death has different forms.’ It was Oldman who said one day, referring to one of the neighbours who got completely paralysed after he had fallen from a tree. Seeing Oldman lying on the stretcher almost like a dead body; hardly breathing with blood everywhere, reminded me of his words.

‘Elephant,’ I heard from the crowd.

‘Both legs are trampled,’ another added.

Men were happy about finding him alive. Their drumming and whistling were no longer heard since the mourning of the women was heard over everything else.

‘And one hand too,’ my uncle said in a very desperate tone as though he had already given up hopes on Oldman.

‘He has been thrown to the bush after being trampled, man couldn’t even talk; we tracked him down following the elephant dung.’

He was one of the closest friends of my father who was also a known hunter. He knew the bush very well. Sometimes, Oldman used to go with him.

They carried Oldman into the hut, placed him in the open veranda with his stretcher and everyone except Kumba and grandmother allowed Broh to reach the patient. Kumba was crying like a child. Grandmother was not second to her as if to show who loved Oldman the most. The other wives were silent but with fresh tears in their red eyes that were already tired of waiting and crying. Broh walked in with heavy steps and in a serious mood. He kept on looking at Oldman for a few seconds. He was pensive while Oldman was silent. It was the first time I saw Broh in such a serious mood. He was loud and a kind of pompous character. He talked about his miraculous healing ability which was given to him by his forefathers. He often saw himself just below the Creator and everyone in the village except one man who was outcasted, feared him a lot more than respected. Some said that he used to kill a child girl for sacrifices every three months to maintain his powers. That was why he used to go Low-country where a lot of secret rituals were done in utter isolation. The Pajibor people from Maryland county were noted for witchcraft. Broh used to go there often and return with a bag full of stuff for rituals that only a few knew what it was.

President Tubman had identified that Liberia had been split into various clans that practised different rituals and believed in secret societies. Hence, he introduced a programme called ‘Unification programme’ through which most of the clans and the tribes were able to move out from their secret cells and mix. There were a few Pajibor and Wreh families from Maryland in Lofa. Broh was one of them. He took Kissi wives and became more attached to our village than to the little settlement where their families had been living. But he never gave up his tradition but instead brought it to our village and made many people believe in it.

‘Bring my sack!’ He ordered the man who had come to support him.

Everyone was curious about what would be next. Muttering between people made it look like the old man`s life was in a critical condition.

‘He is almost dead.’

‘I guess the man is hardly breathing,’ one woman added to what someone abruptly said.

‘May the Creator spare his life!’ One of the best friends of my grandmother said aloud.

‘Here is your sack,’ the man who was supporting Broh said in a very loyal and submissive voice handing over the sack of medicine to Broh. His fear induced by respect not only for Broh but also for the old sack which was made out of cow skin was very well manifested in his every gesture and word. He dared not lift his head or straighten his backbone before Broh. So did many of our villages except my father and a few of his friends who were known as hardheaded among the community members.

Broh sat near Oldman and checked his pulse keeping his fingers on the neck. He wrinkled his forehead and looked at my father. His glance brought my father to him sooner than he used to go to the kitchen when he was hungry. Even though some people did not believe or had different opinions against the magical healing of Broh, they too often had an unconscious fear of his crafts. One day, a friend of my uncle who always had something to tell against Broh came shivering and perspiring with fear having heard that Broh had threatened him to make him transfixed for one month in the bush and take his sight and voice away for the lifetime. Broh was always a sign of hope for his followers and cause of unnerving fear for his enemies.

My grandfather and Broh had an unusual relationship. They used to argue whenever they met. Then they almost fought verbally and finally they laughed. Whenever Broh was passing our huts, he did not forget to stop to have a word with Oldman. They used to talk for hours, and no one in the family asked what they discussed. Those were senior and leadership discussions that remained secrets and off zones for the rest of us. The Tamarind tree in front of Oldman`s hut might know all that they talked about, and it had already started dying as if it did not want to leave a single trace of secret discussions between Oldman and Broh.

‘You all, go back to huts!’ It was my father.

Only a few males including the supporter of Broh, my uncles, and a few neighbours, stayed back and others headed back to the huts. The whole night my mother did not sleep. She was sitting on the doorstep looking at the busy hut of Oldman. I was beside her expecting the first Pepper bird to sing. Despite the mysterious sounds of the bush owls and creaky wild rats, Pepper bird did not sing. It did not sing for a long time, almost for half the whole dry season.

When Oldman started to move his limbs, nearly six full moons had passed from the day he was brought in on the wooden stretcher. Grandmother had grown older than she used to be when Oldman walked by himself the last time. And Kumba was no longer a fragile young woman; she was carrying an unborn baby whose father was iffy. Our lives had changed unexpectedly. My mother, who was the only woman of my father, had started feeling jealous of Kumba because she had already