CHAPTER 1:

“Everybody out!”

“Only journalists.”

“Everyone else, out.”

People fled the narrow alley. Men covered their mouths with their shirts, while women pulled brightly colored cloths over their faces. The rain that had fallen earlier that day evaporated beneath the fierce midday sun, steam rising from the corrugated roofs and scavenged materials that formed the homes of Monrovia’s West Point slums. The wind carried a salty sigh through the streets as seagulls called overhead. Fishing boats lay still along the shore. Liberian flags fluttered at half-mast on poles at the bow. The fishermen had not gone out for days.

Samuel Tetroien Nimley Jr. had just turned forty-four. Nearly six feet tall, with a well-groomed beard and small rimless glasses, the policeman carried a natural authority that was difficult to ignore. Standing before the gathered crowd, he spoke in a loud, confident voice:

“We are at war out here. A serious war. You may not hear the bullets shoot, but the danger is real. We are fighting an enemy. And the enemy is Ebola.”

A burial team arrived at the scene in a slightly beaten-up pickup truck. Black paint on the side doors read: Body Team 5. The men and women inside the vehicle were dressed in full protective gear: white overalls, goggles, three layers of blue rubber gloves, and heavy boots. None of the skin was left exposed. They disappeared through a small doorway along the busy market street. Another man followed, a plastic tank strapped to his back. A tube ran over his shoulder to a nozzle in his hand. He sprayed chlorine into the air and onto his colleagues. Another kind of ritual had taken its place, far removed from the ones people here had followed for generations.

In normal times in Liberia, the dead were washed by their loved ones, gently and without haste. The body was anointed, dressed, and perfumed. Water poured slowly over the skin. Hands lingered. Faces leaned close. Sometimes relatives kept vigil for days. Caskets were lined with colored velvet. The deceased was covered in silk flowers and often photographed one last time.

Under normal circumstances, there was time. Time to look, to touch, to speak softly to the one who had passed away. Neighbors came. Family gathered. The dead were not left alone. Many Liberians believe that failure to perform these rites correctly could cause the deceased to return and trouble the living. Funerals were considered a vital transition, ensuring ancestors were properly sent to the next life.

Here, on this Tuesday afternoon, there was none of that. Only a procession of men and women in plastic suits and rubber gloves, their faces hidden behind goggles. They moved in silence, distant, almost mechanical, as they were called to collect the body of a woman who had died earlier during the night. Their duty was to disinfect the premises, put the deceased in a body bag, and take her away to one of the improvised burial grounds just outside the city.

The team remained inside for a long time.

Leaning against an orange-painted concrete wall, my camera on standby, I waited for them to reappear.