I heard that you took your last breath in a crowded hospital and my world stood still. I couldn’t allow my mind to form a thought for a few days.  I silently and tearlessly mourned your passing—the death of a girl who died because she loved a man deeply.  A conniving man.

It took me days to get this in my journal, and weeks to be able to publicly acknowledge it in a post. I couldn’t bring myself to write about you, so I had to write to you (maybe because I silently wish that you were alive to read it and because I know that I will disappear emotionally if I don't acknowledge you publicly).

So I’m sitting in a hotel lobby, across from a guy dressed in a business suit who stares at me: the girl wearing a t-shirt, jeans and bedroom slippers, writing feverishly with tears streaming down her face.

Since the way I know how to express my feelings best is on paper, I hope this note reaches your beautiful spirit.

“She died from the thing,” they told me.

“She was sick with the cough,” somebody else said.

“Come on! You KNOW what she died from even though they never call the name,” our mutual friend and reliable source told me.

I knew. But I didn’t know.

I felt it. But you didn’t tell me yourself.

So I didn’t want to believe it.

It all seemed surreal—I once lived with you, shared a bed with you.  We survived the aftermaths of war together; after being taken in by a pastor who had tons of "displaced" children. We shared secrets. And when we broke the rules, we always covered for each other.  We had dreams: dreams of reuniting with our family, of finding a life that offered more than what we saw—war-affected teenage girls selling their bodies.  I inspired you to go to school, and you inspired me to get up on a stage and sing in front of an entire church (I still feel bad that they had to hear that).

I remember when I heard that he had died—the prowler who affected you with this nasty disease.  I was in America then, having lived my dream of reuniting with family. You were still there, left alone to deal with the sadness of losing a piece of your heart. Everyone, including you, said that he had died of a stomach disease. What kind? No one could tell me.  A few phone calls and still no logical answer.

Years later, I would learn about your death.  No one warned me that you were dying.  Not our mutual friend Mary…or Elton who always saw you…no one. I wasn't prepared for it.

I feel ashamed that I didn’t know. I got so caught up in the "me" world, that I forgot to care about meaningful world issues that affect societies equally.

I found out that you wouldn't be coming back--that there was no way to make it up to you, and I immediately withdrew from my physical body. My soul wandered so I could reminisce you.  I recalled a decade ago, when I tried to forget the pain that existed from that part of my life. By doing that, I forgot you too. But my soul never left you. Now it screamed in pain.  My heart ached and burned for you so bad that I had to see a cardiologist.  

Through the pain I remembered my phone calls to you, how they became less frequent. My life in America went on, while yours deteriorated. The phone calls I made or money I wired, didn’t make up for the love for which you yearned. Sorry for having a friend as emotionally trapped in her  mind, as you were in your world.

I heard about the way the prowler infected tons of women within the small church with his infidelity. I heard of the ones who died before you. I heard of his wife who “looks sick.” I heard of how people in the church knew of this, but would become outcasts once they spoke up.  Then I remembered what he tried to do to me when no one was there to protect me—how I was saved by a Divine grace that yanked me from within his fatal reach.

I thought of you and I finally lay on the floor and waved the tears on in.

He had everyone fooled with his great musical abilities. He was a musical prowler—directing an award-winning choir to his bed of lies. His height and looks captivated both foolish and unsuspecting women.  And his connections made him untouchable within that community—the church community that was supposed to protect.

He knew who he was, what he carried, yet he continued to do.

You were so vivacious—emulating life in the midst of death around us.  Your only crime was that you wore your heart on your sleeve when it came to everyone: your friends, your mom, your absent dad, and him.

“Leave him alone, he’s a married man” we all said.

“But I love him,” you said.

Your soul was his for the tying.  And he knew it.

So you became his mistress. Sweet naive you.  And for that, you paid with your life.

Dear friend, I love and miss you.  And because of you, we will shine the light on the abyss that threatens women and men similarly—in Liberia, America and worldwide.

In remembrance of Yvonne M., born, raised and lived in Liberia, West Africa—where she remained separated from her parents and family until death.  Not being able to pass the health screenings required by American Immigration, she never made it to the United States to see her family. She died of AIDS. She was thirty-three years old.