Monrovia – Liberia, 08 October 2015
Dolo was nine when he first time wandering the hospital alley. Back at that time his papa carries the job of a registrar cum clerk. He used to sat after his class until the hospital bus carried them both back to Gbanga in the evening.
“I met my wife in the ER, she was a nurse student who’d taken care of my friend. He’s severely drunk after passed 9 bottles of Club. The drink is serious eh!” He chuckled while told me the story.
Dolo was twenty when he married the love of his life. They had a ceremony at the county’s chapel and held a small ball at the hospital cafetaria. “I danced with her mother and my father took my wife’s hand after the third song.” He reminisced.
Back then, the hospital was his childhood, his romance and his best friend.
Dolo was twenty five when his wife and father were passed away due to Ebola.
“I saw them carried my wife to the ETU, five days later it was my dad. Five days later, I saw them in a body bags…”
I looked at him with admiration of the extent patience and courage he has.
“Sorry to hear that, I could imagine it wasn’t easy for you…”
His smile sparsed.
“I stand for my daughter, after all the lost, I stand for what left…”
Aren’t we all the same…
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