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Help Liberia Get Rid of EBOLA

First it was war when bodies were littered in the street like debris. That was war time, many will argue, when people became so insane to destroy their very own. What really got into them was beyond what the devil is capable of doing. It took us fourteen long years to go through a period when the lives of Liberian became so cheap that even a little boy toying with a trigger can determine who lives or dies. We heard the sounds of big planes hovering over day and night, doing what, I don’t know. Some said those planes were taking pictures and showing the positions of rival groups to the opposite sides. The common wisdom was so that they would make movies of the mayhem or publish graphic details for the Pulitzer Prize. 

Now, bodies are littered in the streets again. This time of a killer disease whose origin is still sketchy. The pictures are everywhere, the bad news keep circulating with some of the horror stories yet untold. State of emergency has been declared followed by curfew but the death toll keeps climbing. Everything has come to a stop and food is drying out. Every day, our hearts hang fearing that phone call from home announcing in tears that a friend, relative, sibling, parent, spouse, aunt, uncle or an entire household has been forced to succumb to the deadly EBOLA. There is nothing more agonizing than reluctantly waiting to hear the bad news. Nothing compares to seeing the body of a loved one -an EBOLA victim lying unattended in the streets or being eaten by stray dogs. Are the lives of Liberians that cheap? Is there no one looking? Can someone do something to at least stop the spread? Hopes are dissipating and despair has set in.

The picture of a mother on a side walk in Monrovia who raised her hands towards heaven over her soon to die EBOLA infected children just keeps haunting me. Anytime I close my eyes to sleep, I see the old ma. You bet I heard her words as she raised her hands and turned to God, her last hope. That instant miracle, I am sure did not come. As it is written, “To the Lord, one day is like a thousand years.” By the time it takes thousand years, I bet my neck, there will be no Liberian left to occupy the Grain Coast. Don’t just sit there, do something!

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