Every house is dark, the terribleness of the dark smells like gutter. No one leaves their lights on. The fear of the devil himself has gripped our neck; it squeezes every vein running down our neck. At the moment we suffocate to death. I hear the sound of every step I make. In the quietness we make our breaths as gentle as possible. Since that day last week when the community bell sounded the note of disaster and the town crier shouted The devil himself is in town, we all have retreated into our caves. No one is bold enough to even open a window pane and catch a glimpse of the beast with four horns. We heard before that all that the devil sees fall down dead on the spot.
This time they call him Ebola, few months ago he came too. He went away with 276 of our girls. That time he had another name.
Grandpa told me “the devil will soon die, he was born before me. When he dies you all can play all you want without the fear of the ravaging lion” This hope is my special gift from grandpa before we laid him to rest. Every night before I lay me down to sleep, I would chuckle when my imaginations come alive. My daily imaginations of our streets with no four-horned beast lurking in it.