Bility Recounts Family Death Encounter -Pens Moving Letter on How Faith, love conquer COVID scare

Grief rarely travels alone. In a deeply personal letter from Saclepea, businessman and politician Musa Hassan Bility recounts the darkest passage of his family’s life. His wife lost her mother to COVID, then confronted the disease herself within days. What follows is a testimony of fear, devotion, and faith inside a locked room. For 21 days, Bility nursed his wife alone while death, as he writes, stood at the door. The letter speaks to every Liberian family that endured the pandemic’s silent terrors. It is equally a meditation on marriage, prayer, and the fragile line between loss and survival. Readers will find the full text of the letter  BELOW:

Letter from Saclepea – An Encounter With Death

By Musa Hassan Bility

There are moments in life that never leave you. Moments that remain written on your heart, not because you want to remember them, but because you cannot forget them.

This is one of those moments.

My wife and I have a special name we call each other: Boobie. It is our own little language of love, friendship, comfort, and belonging. After many years together, some words stop being ordinary. They become home.

One afternoon, my wife spent the whole day with her mother. The next day, she travelled to Ghana. On that same day, I received a call that her mother was not well. I took her mother to the hospital, and she was diagnosed with COVID.

At the time, my wife had already left Liberia.

While she was in Ghana, her mother’s condition worsened. Two days later, her mother passed away.

It was devastating.

This was not just my wife’s mother. This was a woman who had been part of our lives from the beginning. From the day I met my wife, she was there. Through our marriage, through our family, through our joys and struggles, she remained a part of us. She was a good woman. A strong woman. A woman whose presence brought love, history, and comfort into our home.

Losing her was painful beyond words.

And it happened in the heart of COVID.

When I called my wife and gave her the news, she broke down completely. She had just spent time with her mother. She had travelled, believing all was well, only to receive the news that her mother was gone. The pain was too much. The grief was too heavy.

She decided to come home.

At the time she boarded the plane, she was not showing any clear sign of illness. She was broken by grief, but physically she seemed able to travel. It was COVID time, so everyone was wearing masks and taking precautions. When she arrived, I went to the airport to receive her myself.

I wore my mask. I took every precaution I could. But nothing could have stopped me from going to get my wife.

I brought her home.

Because her mother had tested positive for COVID, and because my wife had recently been with her, I told her, “Let us isolate you. Let us be careful. Let us protect the children and everyone in the house until we are sure.”

The children were home, but I knew I had to protect them. I moved them away from the house and took my wife inside myself. I placed her in the room, and from that moment, I made a decision: I would care for her myself.

That first night, I kept checking on her.

Around midnight, I went into the room, and what I saw shook me. She was almost lifeless. She was not speaking. She was weak in a way I had never seen before. I stood there and felt fear enter my body.

Then, after some time, she began to speak.

“Boobie,” she said, “I don’t think I am going to make it. I’m not breathing. I have fever and my mouth is tasteless”

In that moment, life left me.

Everything we had been through came rushing back to me. The years. The laughter. The struggles. The children. The marriage. The love. The sacrifices. The life we had built together.

I looked at her and said, “You are not going anywhere. I am right here with you.”

She looked at me, broken in body and broken in spirit, and said words I will never forget.

“Boobie, I could not say goodbye to my mother. And now I may not be able to say goodbye to my children. Please talk to God for me. Pray loudly. Ask Him to allow me to at least visit my mother’s grave and tell her goodbye. Ask Him to allow me to see my children again and tell them goodbye.”

I told her, “Do not worry. You will be fine.”

But inside, I was afraid.

By morning, the signs became clearer. She was not well. She was struggling. She said she could not breathe properly. She said she could not taste anything. Her body was weak, and her spirit was heavy. She was grieving her mother, and now she was looking death in the face herself.

the next day, she said to me, “Boobie, I cannot taste anything. I am leaving. Please take care of the children for me.”

I said, “You are not leaving.”

From that moment, I stayed with my wife. Alone.

For 21 days, I cared for her. I gave her medicine. I prepared what she needed. I helped her through the nights. I checked on her again and again. I would sit in the living room, then return to the bedroom. I would watch her breathe. I would pray. I would hope. I would fear. I would tell myself that as long as she was still here, she would come through.

People kept encouraging me. They kept saying, “As long as she still has strength, she will make it.”

But there were moments when the fear became almost unbearable.

Another night, she told me goodbye.

I answered her, but when I left the room, I went into the living room and cried. I cried like a man who was about to lose the center of his world. I cried because the thought of life without her was too heavy to carry. I cried because our children still needed her. I cried because she was the heart of our home, the comfort of our family, the person everyone could run to for relief, love, and peace.

At about 2:00 a.m., I went back into the room.

She was sleeping.

But she was alive.

I stood there and watched her. Then I went back and prayed again.

When morning came, I returned to get her ready for the day, to give her medicine, to help her through another morning.

And something had changed.

She was better.

The next day, her recovery began.

Slowly, life returned. Strength returned. Hope returned. By the twenty-first day, my wife was back to life.

And I said, “Thank You, God.”

What a moment in life.

What an encounter with death.

Death came calling. Death stood at our door. Death tried to enter our home and take the pillar of our family. It had already taken her mother. It came again, as if it wanted to take from my children the one person they could always run to for comfort, for warmth, for relief, and for love.

But that day, I stood at the door.

And by the grace of God, I said to death:

Not today.

Not my wife.

Not my Boobie.

Not the mother of my children.

Not the heart of our home.

Not today.

God heard our prayers. God gave her back to us. God restored what death tried to steal.

And for that, I remain forever grateful.

Some moments teach you the meaning of love. Some moments teach you the meaning of fear. Some moments teach you the meaning of faith.

This moment taught me all three.

It was an encounter with death.

And God gave us life.

Have a pleasant week.