FUGEE Hawa Jande Golakai There'e(tm)s a saying that goes, 'eoeYou can'e(tm)t go home again.'e It offersno direction as to where you'e(tm)re supposed to go. It'e(tm)s meant to bepoignant: some manner of existential examination of how thingsonce lost can'e(tm)t be retrieved, relived, at least not from the same perspective.I think. I'e(tm)ve always been a little too literal for the deepnessof sayings. MARCH 16'e"22, 2014 DURBAN, SOUTH AFRICA 'eoeJa, but where are you from originally?'e the journalist presses me. Ah. This again.

I'e(tm)m one of the featured authors at Durban'e(tm)sseventeenth Time of the Writer arts festival, and at these events,being grilled about 'eoeotherness'e is a train that'e(tm)s never late. 'eoeYoucan'e(tm)t be unoriginally from somewhere. I don'e(tm)t think that'e(tm)s a thing.'e She waves her hand. 'eoeBut you know what I mean. You'e(tm)re quiteaccomplished, considering.'e She catches herself and flinches at the'eoeconsidering.'e I let it slide.

'eoeYou'e(tm)ve lived in South Africa for years,right? You'e(tm)ve gotten most of your education here?'e I smile. She'e(tm)s doing that cherry-pick thing people feel obligedto do with foreigners, timeline the best of your attributes so theircountry can take credit for it. 'eoePostgrad education,'e I correct. ButI'e(tm)m tired and cranky, not exactly shipshape for interviews. It'e(tm)s notgoing to matter anyway. No one reads articles about writers, andwe don'e(tm)t much care 'e" just buy the book. 'eoeSo. West Africa.

There'e(tm)s that virus scare starting up at themoment.'e I sit up. 'eoeIt'e(tm)s across the border. In Guinea.'e Is she putting thisin the piece? Why do I keep clarifying where the reported cases arefrom whenever I'e(tm)m asked? It'e(tm)s not like viruses need visas to travel. 'eoeYou mentioned you moved home two years ago. Why'e(tm)d youdecide to go back?'e I want to say it was less a deliberate decision and more a questfor closure, a need to tie up a loose end that had dangled, frayedand fraught, for too long. But I'e(tm)ve stopped saying this.

I morphinto a mumbling cretin when I do, as if afraid the real -real reasons( frustration much? drifter ) will seem ridiculous. People then feel theneed to tilt their heads and nod, like it'e(tm)s noble and they get it, orthey don'e(tm)t but won'e(tm)t be rude enough to admit it. Instead I beauty-queen my reply: it was time to move on, to helpmy recovering country. To revert fully to my native state, which,aside from the odd visit, I haven'e(tm)t done in over two decades. To seehow much it'e(tm)s changed, the land that small me took for grantedshe'e(tm)d grow up in, get a job, marry, have piccaninnies, likely growold and die. Life has taken me down brighter, more meanderinglanes, for which I'e(tm)m very grateful. The journalist nods to my words,scribbling away. When the article comes out, it says I went home because it'e(tm)swhere I'e(tm)d always wanted to get married and have children, as iffinally I can stop being a loser and make it happen.

My best friendcalls me to laugh; she'e(tm)s just learned something new about me. Isigh. No one reads articles about writers anyway. MARCH 23'e"APRIL 12 JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA My friend Fran laughs like a bawdy barmaid in a Chaucer tale, acomforting sound. I'e(tm)ve decided to round out my stay to a month,so I'e(tm)m staying at her flat, plotting insidious ways of never leaving.Our mouths run all day, about shoes and sex, politics and careerchanges, original versus fusion curry recipes, TV content. Themeaningful mindlessness that any red-blooded woman who livesin a male-dominated household doesn'e(tm)t know she misses until thetap is turned back on. Her spare bedroom is a cloud of amenities.

SuperSpar is five minutes away, full of strawberries, peaches, andother edible exotica that I never see or can'e(tm)t afford in Monrovia.The guy behind the counter at the Clicks pharmacy is so delicioushe'e(tm)s practically a food group. I trawl the malls, stoked to be back inJozi, home of posh cars and cinched-waist lovelies with awesomehair. Feeling uncouth, I get a Zimbabwean hairdresser to braid me;her price is a blip on my radar. I'e(tm)m balling in dollars. On rare occasions, Fran gets serious. 'eoeEbola'e(tm)s making the newsonline. You know it'e(tm)s getting serious when it makes the news.

'eShe glances at me. I stay quiet. 'eoeAre you considering going back toyour job?'e 'eoeI'e(tm)m at my job,'e I answer tersely. 'eoeNational Health Coordinatorat Ministry of Health'e is a title I'e(tm)ve buried, along with career dissatisfaction.After all those years studying to be, then working as,a medical immunologist, I'e(tm)m now an author, a career switcher,trying to fade out the former as I find my feet in the latter. Theirony is I left a tough profession that involved essays and articlesthat few understood to do 'eoewhat anyone who knows the alphabetcould manage,'e my critics say. Writing isn'e(tm)t respectable, notin Africa anyway. I'e(tm)m considered a sufferer of 'eoeMe Disease,'e anunrepentant member of the selfish generation, we who shirk dutyto follow pipe dreams.

There'e(tm)s little consideration for how hard it'e(tm)sbeen to let go 'e" which I still haven'e(tm)t done fully 'e" for how much Iquestion myself. 'eoeDo you think they'e(tm)ll be able to contain it?'e Fran asks. 'eoeNo.'e Snip. Snarl. I cringe at my tone. She means well. We dropit, switch back to safe terrain.

A guy back home has thrown hishat into the ring for my affection. I don'e(tm)t know. Men are dicks 'e¦but then again, men have dicks, so. I'e(tm)m vacillating between uncertaintyand blushes. We'e(tm)ve spent more time talking and texting nowthat I'e(tm)m on the other side of the continent than we did when I washome; social media makes Bravehearts out of us all. Fran does herlaugh: please give Contender a whirl. Hhmmm. At night, though, on my laptop, I'e(tm)m stealth-surfing the web.

Numbers are climbing in Guinea, and now Sierra Leone, but Iknow the true figures are understated. Through the grapevine atmy old job, I hear they'e(tm)re not really doing anything or mobilizingforces to stop it leaking through the borders. Immobile. Do we evenhave forces? The Neglected Tropical Diseases Unit 'e" they contendwith elephantiasis and yellow fever, last of the unicorn afflictions.Is ebola not contemporary enough, and if so, will it get an upgradefast enough to make us take it seriously? Because hemorrhagicviruses are the last word in seriousness. And we don'e(tm)t have testingcentres. We won'e(tm)t know what measures to take. We don'e(tm)t haveanywhere near enough doctors.

On a normal day our one majorhospital, John F. Kennedy Medical, is heaving with humanity, allwaiting for hours on end for treatment. 'eoeBut it'e(tm)s across the border mostly,'e says my ex-colleague. 'eoeAndwe weren'e(tm)t really infectious -infectious. You were one of the few realdisease scientists we had. And you left.'e Pause. 'eoeAnyway, you knowour government.

These old guys move slow. Let'e(tm)s see.'e Guilt bites a chunk out of me. I kick it in the teeth. It goesaway. Well, retreats. Into a dark corner, where it squats, eyeing me,gnawing on something I didn'e(tm)t give it permission to eat. I don'e(tm)t lockit up or put it on a leash.

I want it to come back and harass me. Wehave a weird relationship. APRIL 13 10:00 P.M. OLIVER TAMBO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA The airport is cold. Winter should be winding down, but Joburgtends to be clingy when it comes to its seasons. I'e(tm)m double-layered,jacket in carry-on just in case. I don'e(tm)t mind airports; they'e(tm)relike hospitals 'e" you do your time and get out.

Mostly. I do hatethis particular red-eye, though. Departure: one-frickin'e(tm)-thirty inthe morning. The airline assured me the flight would leave anhour earlier than usual, but it seems they didn'e(tm)t take into accountthat the plane needed things like cleaning and refuelling beforethey made their wayward promises, so it looks like we'e(tm)re taking offthe same time. I can'e(tm)t wait to leave. Airports get seriously wrong,creepy, after all the shops close. Like abandoned warehouses.Unlucky stragglers huddle by the gates, bleary-eyed, giving eachother grim stares.

And there are always a few gratingly cheerfulchipmunks who want to story-of-my-life you until the boardingcall sounds. I walk around to avoid them, Viber-flirting withContender as I pace.