Pramudith D. Rupasinghe's Blog: Pramudith D Rupasinghe, page 2
February 11, 2017
French Translation of Behind the Eclipse
Initiated a piece of work that a very less number of authors can experience in their life, Translating my own book into another language is exciting but gives a quite fulfilling feeling. Started the French Translation of 'Behind the Eclipse'.
January 7, 2017
Sample reads- Behind the Eclipse
Great mountains and cooler climate even in the peak of dry season hinted me that I was in the native paradise. Suddenly, Kumba, Oldman, my mother, my father and my uncle who disappeared in the bush encroached my wandering mind. I knew Old man was gone, but the others, I assumed, were no longer among the living. The fact that I was unable to say goodbye to them properly bothered me a lot. Many times, my father and mother appeared in my dreams and talked to me in a language that I could not understand. They behaved as if they were from a different tribe. They were in different clothes, not in Kissi traditional clothes or white man`s costumes and had some strange marks like scratches or cuts on their faces, but they smiled happily. Whenever I saw those dreams, I thought it should be the language, traditions, and clothing in heaven that the Reverend Maurice taught me about. I felt delighted because they had gone to heaven which looked like a better place even though they were not able to join our ancestors. As we moved further, I noticed clusters of Kissi-huts fragmented in open areas which proved me that my assumptions could be wrong. An irresistible urge to go back and join them struck me. I banged the back glass of the truck as hard as I could, but it looked like no one heard because the roaring sound of the engine and the road noise had made all the other things inaudible. I wanted to jump out of the truck, but when I looked at how the red soil was passing before my very eyes as fast as Lofa was moving away from me, I was fear-struck. It was a rapid journey across my past that triggered my memories in a panorama of incidents, associated with different sorts of human feelings which ranged from simple happiness to profound sadness, from heights of hopefulness to precipices of despair.
‘Past is a blend of memories that enriches the story, and present is the very product of the past with choices left in one`s hand to light up the future.’
That was the most admired and inspiring quote among what Oldman used to say. I loved it until this point probably because of its complicatedness and the ambiguity, but the moment I started seeing my past unfolding before my very eyes, I realised what he had meant.
The eyes that remained dried throughout the time in Monrovia seemed to have felt the healing power of nature. I cried silently hiding behind the roaring noise of the moving truck that was completely insensitive to pains and happiness which this piece of earth had given to my life. I was being taken to another unknown place about where I did not have a clue whether there would be light or darkness in the store of future. But it looked like we were left with no other choice to make.
When the kissi-huts disappeared into the wild, I wiped my tears. This time, it made me realise no separation was permanent. I determined to come back to Kissi village one day again.
When we reached the border, it was almost six in the evening, and the darkness had already started to dominate the bush, and there were thousands of silhouettes moving across the frontier.
Guinea was never a new place to me. My grandmother often used to go with Oldman to visit her relatives in Guinea. I had crossed the border with my father a few times to participate in funerals of our distant relatives who lived in Guinea. But we had never crossed the border as refugees. We used to carry several bags made out of African palm leaves full of bush meat and cassava when we visited the relatives across the border, and we were always welcomed as wealthy Liberian parents. Today, I was crossing the border on a trunk of a truck carrying my clothes gifted by strangers; with my hopes shattered, ambitions vanished and with a partially acquired and partly imposed culture where my true identity was threatened like the other refugees who had just lost everything they had overnight caused by the war.
I could not forget how the mornings in Kissi-village in Lofa started fresh with the symphonies of Pepper bird and the rising sun over the mountains. Life was simple every day but stable as we knew our routine better than ourselves. Each person had a role to play designated by his family; in a larger context, by the community which was recognised and appreciated when it was well executed. Our ambitions did not raise higher than the Lofa mountains which were the territory of Lomas. The depth of our dreams did end at the bottom of Lofa river, and our perception of a paradise was limited to the bush from where we got everything for life. I constantly felt the urge to return to the village: to meet my people, to talk to them, to dine with them and, probably, I might get news about what happened to Kumba. But behind the dust cloud that blinded everyone who got contacts with Guinea-Liberia border had disappeared by several miles.
The journey that made me leave Kissi-village to find medicine for my father who was dying with the Bush-curse had already taken me to several destinations exposing me to diverse cultures and transforming me into a different person who was still struggling to find where he belonged to. Contrarily, I had travelled through diverse cultures and acquired various skills and knowledge; discovering new vistas and horizons, adhered to new disciplines of life of ‘God.’ Consequently, I had some underlaying confidence about my future that was ‘in the hands of God,’ as the Reverend Maurice said. I decided to stick with the only choice which was to follow the Reverend Maurice.
It was almost a few hours after we crossed the border and the truck stopped near a white colour building that I quickly identified as a church. The Reverend Maurice got down the truck first and started to walk towards the huge arch like the door of the church. Before he reached the door, a lantern light came out with a creaky sound. Then a man in a white robe came out followed by two young men in country clothes. The man in white robes looked like a priest. The Reverend Maurice kept on talking with him as if his fury had already been left abundant at the border of Liberia.
‘Past is a blend of memories that enriches the story, and present is the very product of the past with choices left in one`s hand to light up the future.’
That was the most admired and inspiring quote among what Oldman used to say. I loved it until this point probably because of its complicatedness and the ambiguity, but the moment I started seeing my past unfolding before my very eyes, I realised what he had meant.
The eyes that remained dried throughout the time in Monrovia seemed to have felt the healing power of nature. I cried silently hiding behind the roaring noise of the moving truck that was completely insensitive to pains and happiness which this piece of earth had given to my life. I was being taken to another unknown place about where I did not have a clue whether there would be light or darkness in the store of future. But it looked like we were left with no other choice to make.
When the kissi-huts disappeared into the wild, I wiped my tears. This time, it made me realise no separation was permanent. I determined to come back to Kissi village one day again.
When we reached the border, it was almost six in the evening, and the darkness had already started to dominate the bush, and there were thousands of silhouettes moving across the frontier.
Guinea was never a new place to me. My grandmother often used to go with Oldman to visit her relatives in Guinea. I had crossed the border with my father a few times to participate in funerals of our distant relatives who lived in Guinea. But we had never crossed the border as refugees. We used to carry several bags made out of African palm leaves full of bush meat and cassava when we visited the relatives across the border, and we were always welcomed as wealthy Liberian parents. Today, I was crossing the border on a trunk of a truck carrying my clothes gifted by strangers; with my hopes shattered, ambitions vanished and with a partially acquired and partly imposed culture where my true identity was threatened like the other refugees who had just lost everything they had overnight caused by the war.
I could not forget how the mornings in Kissi-village in Lofa started fresh with the symphonies of Pepper bird and the rising sun over the mountains. Life was simple every day but stable as we knew our routine better than ourselves. Each person had a role to play designated by his family; in a larger context, by the community which was recognised and appreciated when it was well executed. Our ambitions did not raise higher than the Lofa mountains which were the territory of Lomas. The depth of our dreams did end at the bottom of Lofa river, and our perception of a paradise was limited to the bush from where we got everything for life. I constantly felt the urge to return to the village: to meet my people, to talk to them, to dine with them and, probably, I might get news about what happened to Kumba. But behind the dust cloud that blinded everyone who got contacts with Guinea-Liberia border had disappeared by several miles.
The journey that made me leave Kissi-village to find medicine for my father who was dying with the Bush-curse had already taken me to several destinations exposing me to diverse cultures and transforming me into a different person who was still struggling to find where he belonged to. Contrarily, I had travelled through diverse cultures and acquired various skills and knowledge; discovering new vistas and horizons, adhered to new disciplines of life of ‘God.’ Consequently, I had some underlaying confidence about my future that was ‘in the hands of God,’ as the Reverend Maurice said. I decided to stick with the only choice which was to follow the Reverend Maurice.
It was almost a few hours after we crossed the border and the truck stopped near a white colour building that I quickly identified as a church. The Reverend Maurice got down the truck first and started to walk towards the huge arch like the door of the church. Before he reached the door, a lantern light came out with a creaky sound. Then a man in a white robe came out followed by two young men in country clothes. The man in white robes looked like a priest. The Reverend Maurice kept on talking with him as if his fury had already been left abundant at the border of Liberia.
January 4, 2017
Author updates
I am getting ready for the reprint of 'Footprints in Obscurity' with reviews and more endorsements; the book will be launched at mid September 2017. Besides that the most exciting endeavor for coming 360 something days is my Novetta collection. Taking a break from long semi-fictions for this year, I have decided to focus on a shorter semi-fiction collection to reach out more readers. Besides that the some one full length Novel ( Semi-fciton) is at horizon for late 2017...
December 12, 2016
Something consciously chosen for something would better suit for something else...
When I first got my foot on the red soil in Africa, I thought of documenting my documenting my journey in the unknown continent. But I did not have an idea how and what to write. But there were some clues about potential titles that had crept into my mind from nowhere. It was late 2010; a thought was born. 'I better interview an ex-child soldier somewhere in Africa', I thought. I wanted to highlight the light in the darkness of a victim of forced recruitment in conflicts as I knew pretty well how many young lives were destroyed by LTTE, shattering thousands of dreams of young children in their own ethnicity in North and East of Sri Lanka.
'Let's start with the Democratic Republic of Congo or Liberia', it was my self-talk. However, I ended up conducting dozens of interviews of with ex-combatants tents from Liberia, DRC and Sierra-Leone which provided an in-depth idea about the civil conflicts in Africa as well as child soldiers in general. I discovered the pathetic reality of drugged child soldiers who shot at any moving thing. But that book was never materialised despite its title 'Behind the Eclipse' which I wrote down on the last page of my notebook. And I included some of the stories of combatants in my book 'Footprints in Obscurity.' —published in 2015; that covered 29 countries in the continent.
In 2015 I started my semi-fiction on a life of an Ebola survivor, and till I complete the manuscript, I did not have a title for it. I wanted to highlight human resilience that we are born with which we do not often realise. The story of Tamba was my struggle to find the positivity in life even when at the jaws of death.
The day I put the 'full-stop' to the last sentence of the Epilogue of the story of Tamba- the Ebola survivor in Liberia, I wanted to make a note in my notebook. 'Mission completed without a title'. There was only last page left. I started writing 'Mission com...' The at the left top corner of the book 'Behind the Eclipse' with the date 16th Nov 2010 was there. I simply could not take my eyes off.
'No doubt about this, this should be the title for Thamba`s story.'
'Let's start with the Democratic Republic of Congo or Liberia', it was my self-talk. However, I ended up conducting dozens of interviews of with ex-combatants tents from Liberia, DRC and Sierra-Leone which provided an in-depth idea about the civil conflicts in Africa as well as child soldiers in general. I discovered the pathetic reality of drugged child soldiers who shot at any moving thing. But that book was never materialised despite its title 'Behind the Eclipse' which I wrote down on the last page of my notebook. And I included some of the stories of combatants in my book 'Footprints in Obscurity.' —published in 2015; that covered 29 countries in the continent.
In 2015 I started my semi-fiction on a life of an Ebola survivor, and till I complete the manuscript, I did not have a title for it. I wanted to highlight human resilience that we are born with which we do not often realise. The story of Tamba was my struggle to find the positivity in life even when at the jaws of death.
The day I put the 'full-stop' to the last sentence of the Epilogue of the story of Tamba- the Ebola survivor in Liberia, I wanted to make a note in my notebook. 'Mission completed without a title'. There was only last page left. I started writing 'Mission com...' The at the left top corner of the book 'Behind the Eclipse' with the date 16th Nov 2010 was there. I simply could not take my eyes off.
'No doubt about this, this should be the title for Thamba`s story.'
November 30, 2016
Genre of my books
When the interviewers ask me what is the genre of your books, I always find myself between 'fiction' and "non-fiction'. All of my books are real stories; they are about incidents that occurred somewhere on this earth which I witnessed or experienced. However when you construct a story, it is vital to apply delicate technics that support the story to be appealing with a rich literal taste that majority of readers could appreciate and finally digest. Otherwise, the messages that the author tries to convey will be limited to a certain selected group of readers. Therefore, I happened to add fictional roles and some incidents into a real story to make it an easily digestible read and finally to give an outlook of a piece of literature than a report or a documentary. As a result of that genre, SEMI-FICTION came out. The next time when you ask what is the genre of my books; you will hear 'it is a Semi-Fiction.'
November 26, 2016
IT IS AMAZING TO DISCOVER THE KNOWLEDGE CENTRED IN KISSI PEOPLE ABOUT EBOLA EVEN BEFORE EBOLA WAS DISCOVERED IN 1976
‘If more than three monkeys die in seven Suns, fourth one wants to take humans with them.’ It was a famous Kissi saying that my grandfather used to tell. He used to say, ‘the wild almonds which slip between the teeth of a flying bereaved bat make those who pick widows and widowers.’ What old people used to say matched perfectly with the messages dissemination used for prevention of Ebola in modern days. And also exhumed a relic about how different tribes used various names for what is called Ebola today.
SAMPLE READS - Behind the Eclipse
‘George!’ I was preparing the medicine tray when Dr. Michael yelled in the ward. I did not know how I got there, but I found myself near the bed of the boy who was trembling vigorously with convulsions. I immediately tried to turn the boy face down position for reducing the impact of fever seizure and when I noticed that he had already started bleeding from his mouth and nose.
I realized that the boy would not make it and suggested Dr. Michael to relocate the boy to a ward where more critical patients had been so that his sister would not witness the death of her brother whom she was always concerned of.
In less than 40 minutes after the relocation, the boy passed away leaving a permanent psychological scar in me. George II came to my mind. I could not imagine anything else and my mind was completely empty except the sharp pain I felt in my wrist. I looked at my wrist wondering what happened. Between the sleeve of the protective jacket and the glows, an area of my skin had been exposed while struggling to stabilize the boy and probably, I could have hit a sharp end of a metal bed or a chair. There was a small cut which was slightly bleeding. I was relieved assuming that it was my blood. But I was not fully convinced that I was safe. I rushed to the washing area and rolled up the sleeve of the protection gear a bit. Blood stains on the sleeves in the other side of my wrist froze me for a while.
In less than a few seconds, my father, grandmother, Oldman and the Reverend Philip showed up inside my eyes. All of them were in black clothes in a valley where there were nothing but tombstones. In the following moment, I saw myself walking along a passage lead to a silver line that separated me and those who were in black dresses. I looked behind and saw my family at the other cusp of the passage. They looked mournful. I wanted to wave them but I was afraid that they would cross the silver line that I was about to cross.
I realized that the boy would not make it and suggested Dr. Michael to relocate the boy to a ward where more critical patients had been so that his sister would not witness the death of her brother whom she was always concerned of.
In less than 40 minutes after the relocation, the boy passed away leaving a permanent psychological scar in me. George II came to my mind. I could not imagine anything else and my mind was completely empty except the sharp pain I felt in my wrist. I looked at my wrist wondering what happened. Between the sleeve of the protective jacket and the glows, an area of my skin had been exposed while struggling to stabilize the boy and probably, I could have hit a sharp end of a metal bed or a chair. There was a small cut which was slightly bleeding. I was relieved assuming that it was my blood. But I was not fully convinced that I was safe. I rushed to the washing area and rolled up the sleeve of the protection gear a bit. Blood stains on the sleeves in the other side of my wrist froze me for a while.
In less than a few seconds, my father, grandmother, Oldman and the Reverend Philip showed up inside my eyes. All of them were in black clothes in a valley where there were nothing but tombstones. In the following moment, I saw myself walking along a passage lead to a silver line that separated me and those who were in black dresses. I looked behind and saw my family at the other cusp of the passage. They looked mournful. I wanted to wave them but I was afraid that they would cross the silver line that I was about to cross.
November 16, 2016
Behind the eclipse -Sample reading
George is now working in a clinic in Peyneseville. On Sundays he is volunteering at a missionary school in his community. He still does not know what to say whenever the boys ask about their mother. ‘I often say she is serving God beyond the rainbow, and George II waves at the clouds and call Mama whenever I yell at him for something,’ he said during a telephone conversation.
It looks like daughter of Kumba—Yaema had filled the gap created by the death of Princes. On Sundays two boys go to church with their farther while Yaema is following her Koran studies at home.
When I revisited George in March 2016, he said.
‘I want my story to be heard by the entire world that the life is a battle which one has to fight even when in the jaws of defeat and one can`t be selfish to give it up as it is for those whom we love and care for.’
His smile was welcoming and his eyes were filled with determination.
‘These smiles are the reason for everything.’ He embraced his three children.
‘God bless you!’ He said when I was about to go.
‘Sir, do not disclose my real name but my story!’ He added.
‘Yes, I will not,’ I promised.
‘Now, Ludo time.’ George II sounded demanding.
‘After my studies,’ I heard the voice of Yaema.
It looks like daughter of Kumba—Yaema had filled the gap created by the death of Princes. On Sundays two boys go to church with their farther while Yaema is following her Koran studies at home.
When I revisited George in March 2016, he said.
‘I want my story to be heard by the entire world that the life is a battle which one has to fight even when in the jaws of defeat and one can`t be selfish to give it up as it is for those whom we love and care for.’
His smile was welcoming and his eyes were filled with determination.
‘These smiles are the reason for everything.’ He embraced his three children.
‘God bless you!’ He said when I was about to go.
‘Sir, do not disclose my real name but my story!’ He added.
‘Yes, I will not,’ I promised.
‘Now, Ludo time.’ George II sounded demanding.
‘After my studies,’ I heard the voice of Yaema.
October 13, 2016
Book Review
South Asia`s premier literature magazine . THE BOOK REVEW' talks about 'Footprints in Obscurity'
September 22, 2016
SAMPLE READS- Behind the Eclipse
We had returned to a Monrovia which was different than that we left four days ago. A Monrovia that had been beaten flat by two brutal civil conflicts had been trying to crawl on its knees but unfortunately it looked like another inevitable blow had already landed right on its centre.
Couple of suspected cases and two deaths had been reported in Liberian capital in no time just like an eclipse that hides the Sun like a bat out of hell.
‘Ebola here O’ Aminatta said seeing me entering the fence, evening without greeting her husband who was way from home for three nights.
‘One man died in Firestone tow days ago’ Aminatta looked like an Impala escaped that had just escaped from a Chita.
‘I knew it was going to come to Monrovia but I never thought this soon’ I said what I really assumed. It was a real eclipse like situation as no one wanted Ebola or whatever they believed that was killing people in Guinea and Lofa to come to Monrovia which they expressed through their words of confidence and denial which not only typical Liberian way of thinking and acting but also of people in many places in the region, mainly because of the trust issue that we were born with as black-people which had been constantly fertilized by our own inferiority complex that we develop through life-long and constant interaction with different layers in our society. On the top of that, it is always easier to blame the outsider highlighting a conspiracy theory and escape from responsibility of once`s own behavior or act which is not only limited to Liberia or Africa, but I believe many under-evolved societies do have that traits. Then the politicians threw straw into raging fire calming that white-man`s soul was behind the rising flames which our people could better digest than it was their own behavior such as eating bushmeat, traditional burial practices and the life style that was behind this killer disease.
While the rumors on conspiracy theories were traveling across the country with their constant changes of outlook just like chameleon that changes the color, Ebola had silently accelerated its conquest in many close communities in Monrovia. No one noticed that until several dozens of cases started emerging out of densely populated close communities such as Duala -Market, Bushrod-Island island and Paynesville—a highly dense community located near the biggest outdoor market called Red-Light. And the deaths followed many reported cases hinting everyone that Ebola was real.
‘Papa I have got an A for Mathematics, A for Human biology and B for French’ Princes came running after school.
‘Papa Papa, I also have A for English’ George II who was running after his sister said victoriously.
‘Papa papa Oldman in mu class jealous of me O’ George II pulled his school back and showed me his report card.
Even-though my children had the luxury to go to school at the right age, over a decade long series of conflicts deprived the right to education from most of the Liberians which contributed to 85% illiteracy in the country. Many of those who dropped out did not resume their education after war was over but some of them who had means as well as interest had just restarted their school life after a decade. It was a normal to have twenty or thirty years old students in grade five and often parents and children studying together in the same class. Getting more marks than older pupils in the class, George was pretty happy and motivated. As a father of children who supported what their father believed in, I was more than happy to hear what George was telling but simultaneously as a Liberian it was heart aching to see the citizens who should have been already at working age were going to primary school. Aminatta`s chances to resume her studies were deprived by out poor finances but when I heard the discussion between Dr Harris and Dr Samuel about their plans on health servants my thoughts suddenly linked to possible chances of sending Aminatta back to school in case if I get a sufficient salary. And my first exposure to an Ebola treatment ward had cutdown my unrealistic fears about the decease.
‘The PPE protects you fully. If you know how to wear and remove it properly there is no risk at all’ Dr Samuels briefing left its stains in my mind. Whenever I think the opportunities in the calamity my children and Aminatta invade my mind and manacle my straying thoughts and cage them within iron bars called family bounds. Simultaneously my thoughts that pops up time to time yet constantly just like blinking starts in the sky were to earn something more for betterment of their lives. I wanted Aminatta to resume her studies in journalism as she was always dreaming of, and my daughter Princes wanted to be a nurse like her father, George II was too young to say something concrete about his career but he loved the job of Moto-boy. ‘They are the fastest on the road’ he used to say. But I knew that was just like my dream to be a soldier which I never wanted to be when I grew up.
It was a Friday evening in August 2014 when the signs of fear and had invaded every corner of Monrovia, Dr Harris called me into his cabinet.
‘George’ He kept looking at my eyes for few seconds.
‘Would you like to lead a team of community mobilizers and conduct sensitization programs for EVD in Monrovia?’ His question rather intimidated me than allowing me to respond as I felt I was not in a position to give him an answer right away.
‘Shall I let you know tomorrow morning ?’
“George, I do not expect you to reply right now. You can discuss with your wife and get back to me on Monday which is fine’ He said smiling.
In the evening I left the office with mixed thoughts. As many working class Liberians I used to take shared taxi known as Yellow-machine, to go to Elva junction from Congo town [ have to clarify where from last chapters ]where my newly made house was. Usually taxi drivers load the cars with more than seven passengers packing them like goats taken to slaughterhouse and all the smells that human body could emit added to the dusty air in the taxi making everyone nauseated[ need t check]. On top of everything women and men scream at the top of their voices in limited space in passenger cabin almost tearing the ear-drums. These realities we had accepted as post war Liberia`s normal life and we did not look at our neighbor with fright and paranoia as if he or she was a virus. Having someones sweat on hands or cloths was not something to panic.
Couple of suspected cases and two deaths had been reported in Liberian capital in no time just like an eclipse that hides the Sun like a bat out of hell.
‘Ebola here O’ Aminatta said seeing me entering the fence, evening without greeting her husband who was way from home for three nights.
‘One man died in Firestone tow days ago’ Aminatta looked like an Impala escaped that had just escaped from a Chita.
‘I knew it was going to come to Monrovia but I never thought this soon’ I said what I really assumed. It was a real eclipse like situation as no one wanted Ebola or whatever they believed that was killing people in Guinea and Lofa to come to Monrovia which they expressed through their words of confidence and denial which not only typical Liberian way of thinking and acting but also of people in many places in the region, mainly because of the trust issue that we were born with as black-people which had been constantly fertilized by our own inferiority complex that we develop through life-long and constant interaction with different layers in our society. On the top of that, it is always easier to blame the outsider highlighting a conspiracy theory and escape from responsibility of once`s own behavior or act which is not only limited to Liberia or Africa, but I believe many under-evolved societies do have that traits. Then the politicians threw straw into raging fire calming that white-man`s soul was behind the rising flames which our people could better digest than it was their own behavior such as eating bushmeat, traditional burial practices and the life style that was behind this killer disease.
While the rumors on conspiracy theories were traveling across the country with their constant changes of outlook just like chameleon that changes the color, Ebola had silently accelerated its conquest in many close communities in Monrovia. No one noticed that until several dozens of cases started emerging out of densely populated close communities such as Duala -Market, Bushrod-Island island and Paynesville—a highly dense community located near the biggest outdoor market called Red-Light. And the deaths followed many reported cases hinting everyone that Ebola was real.
‘Papa I have got an A for Mathematics, A for Human biology and B for French’ Princes came running after school.
‘Papa Papa, I also have A for English’ George II who was running after his sister said victoriously.
‘Papa papa Oldman in mu class jealous of me O’ George II pulled his school back and showed me his report card.
Even-though my children had the luxury to go to school at the right age, over a decade long series of conflicts deprived the right to education from most of the Liberians which contributed to 85% illiteracy in the country. Many of those who dropped out did not resume their education after war was over but some of them who had means as well as interest had just restarted their school life after a decade. It was a normal to have twenty or thirty years old students in grade five and often parents and children studying together in the same class. Getting more marks than older pupils in the class, George was pretty happy and motivated. As a father of children who supported what their father believed in, I was more than happy to hear what George was telling but simultaneously as a Liberian it was heart aching to see the citizens who should have been already at working age were going to primary school. Aminatta`s chances to resume her studies were deprived by out poor finances but when I heard the discussion between Dr Harris and Dr Samuel about their plans on health servants my thoughts suddenly linked to possible chances of sending Aminatta back to school in case if I get a sufficient salary. And my first exposure to an Ebola treatment ward had cutdown my unrealistic fears about the decease.
‘The PPE protects you fully. If you know how to wear and remove it properly there is no risk at all’ Dr Samuels briefing left its stains in my mind. Whenever I think the opportunities in the calamity my children and Aminatta invade my mind and manacle my straying thoughts and cage them within iron bars called family bounds. Simultaneously my thoughts that pops up time to time yet constantly just like blinking starts in the sky were to earn something more for betterment of their lives. I wanted Aminatta to resume her studies in journalism as she was always dreaming of, and my daughter Princes wanted to be a nurse like her father, George II was too young to say something concrete about his career but he loved the job of Moto-boy. ‘They are the fastest on the road’ he used to say. But I knew that was just like my dream to be a soldier which I never wanted to be when I grew up.
It was a Friday evening in August 2014 when the signs of fear and had invaded every corner of Monrovia, Dr Harris called me into his cabinet.
‘George’ He kept looking at my eyes for few seconds.
‘Would you like to lead a team of community mobilizers and conduct sensitization programs for EVD in Monrovia?’ His question rather intimidated me than allowing me to respond as I felt I was not in a position to give him an answer right away.
‘Shall I let you know tomorrow morning ?’
“George, I do not expect you to reply right now. You can discuss with your wife and get back to me on Monday which is fine’ He said smiling.
In the evening I left the office with mixed thoughts. As many working class Liberians I used to take shared taxi known as Yellow-machine, to go to Elva junction from Congo town [ have to clarify where from last chapters ]where my newly made house was. Usually taxi drivers load the cars with more than seven passengers packing them like goats taken to slaughterhouse and all the smells that human body could emit added to the dusty air in the taxi making everyone nauseated[ need t check]. On top of everything women and men scream at the top of their voices in limited space in passenger cabin almost tearing the ear-drums. These realities we had accepted as post war Liberia`s normal life and we did not look at our neighbor with fright and paranoia as if he or she was a virus. Having someones sweat on hands or cloths was not something to panic.
Pramudith D Rupasinghe
The Sri Lankan author PRAMUDITH D RUPASINGHE is considered one of the emerging authors of our times. His books have sold more than 300,000 copies worldwide, have been released in 170 countries and bee
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