Within weeks of the Ebola hoax dying down, the guys at Health

Host: The night was thick, humid, and quiet—the kind of darkness that feels like a blanket, heavy and alive. The streets of Accra hummed faintly in the distance, a mix of motorbikes, radio music, and the ocean’s slow breathing. In a small community center, lit by a single flickering bulb, posters hung on the walls—each one marked with a bold red warning sign: “Ebola kills. Stay safe. Stay informed.”

Jeeny stood by the door, watching the shadows of children dancing across the floor, their laughter the only bright thing in the room. Jack sat nearby, his hands wrapped around a chipped cup, the smell of strong tea and dust mixing in the air. Outside, the rain began—a steady, rhythmic tapping that felt like the heartbeat of a continent remembering its fear.

Jeeny: “Michael Essien once said something remarkable: ‘Within weeks of the Ebola hoax dying down, the guys at Health Africa International approached my friends George Weah, Mahamadou Diarra, and I to be part of the initiative in using various forms of communication to promote an Ebola prevention education programme.’”

Jack: “Essien, huh? Footballers saving the world between matches. Nice headline.”

Jeeny: “You always go for the cynic’s angle first, don’t you?”

Jack: “I go for the real one. You think people listened to celebrity campaigns when fear was eating their neighborhoods alive?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. When people don’t trust systems, they trust faces. When science sounds foreign, a familiar voice can build a bridge.”

Host: Her words were steady, but her eyes carried weight—that kind of gravity born from having seen too many posters, too many warnings, too many graves that came too late. The light bulb buzzed, flickered, and dimmed, throwing shadows like echoes.

Jack: “It’s noble, I’ll give you that. But celebrity advocacy is a performance, Jeeny. A way to look like you care, not necessarily to change anything.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. You remember what happened in 2014, right? The panic, the lockdowns, the rumors. People thought Ebola was a curse, a government lie. But when someone like Essien or Weah spoke, people listened—not because they were experts, but because they were familiar. That’s not performance. That’s strategy.”

Jack: “Strategy, sure. But it’s still branding. A footballer telling you to wash your hands isn’t public health—it’s optics.”

Jeeny: “Then why did it work? Why did transmission rates drop in communities that ran those campaigns? Because the message mattered less than the messenger.”

Jack: “Or maybe the virus just ran its course.”

Jeeny: “Don’t do that, Jack. Don’t reduce collective effort to coincidence.”

Host: The rain grew louder, pounding against the tin roof, as if to underline her anger. Jack leaned back, his face half in shadow, half in light—a man caught between reason and resistance.

Jack: “You talk about collective effort. But what about truth? The quote started with ‘the Ebola hoax dying down.’ That phrase alone tells you how warped information had become. The real virus wasn’t just Ebola—it was misinformation.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why communication became the cure. Health Africa International didn’t just hand out pamphlets—they told stories. They used radio, football matches, songs, theatre. They didn’t fight fear with facts alone—they fought it with connection.”

Jack: “And yet, half the world was still laughing at Africa. Posting memes, spreading conspiracy theories. The same world that ignored the outbreak until it threatened flights to Europe.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why people like Essien stepped in. Because leadership doesn’t always come from power—it comes from presence. You use what you have. He had fame. So he used it.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the room, illuminating Jeeny’s face—her eyes fierce, her jaw tight. Jack rubbed his temple, the tension between them palpable, like the air before a storm.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic. But where were those heroes after the cameras left? After the crisis faded?”

Jeeny: “You think compassion expires when headlines do?”

Jack: “No. But attention does. That’s the curse of the modern savior—they burn bright and vanish faster than the next trend.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that spark still matters. You underestimate what a single message can do in chaos. One familiar voice telling a village that Ebola wasn’t a curse but a virus—that could save a hundred lives.”

Jack: “And what about the people who spread the hoax in the first place? Don’t they bear more responsibility than the ones trying to fix it?”

Jeeny: “They do. But blame doesn’t build trust. Communication does.”

Host: The room fell silent, save for the drumming of the rain and the distant chanting of children outside, their voices rising in some half-remembered song about washing hands and keeping safe. It was haunting, and somehow, hopeful.

Jack: “You know, when I think of Essien, I think of speed, control, precision. A footballer trained to calculate distance in seconds. But here, he was playing a different kind of game. One with no clear scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the beauty of it. He turned skill into service. It’s easy to score goals for yourself. Harder to play for the health of others.”

Jack: “You really think he saw it that way?”

Jeeny: “I do. He could have stayed silent, protected his brand, done nothing. Instead, he lent his voice to something uncomfortable, something raw. That’s not PR. That’s courage.”

Jack: “Or guilt. Sometimes, the successful try to redeem their comfort by dipping into charity.”

Jeeny: “You can’t cheapen every act of goodness, Jack. Not everything’s a transaction.”

Jack: “Everything is, Jeeny. Time, effort, reputation—it’s all currency. Even compassion costs something.”

Jeeny: “Then I’m glad some people still choose to spend it.”

Host: The rain had slowed, tapering into a gentle drizzle, the kind that soothes more than it soaks. The light bulb flickered again, but this time it stayed on, a small glow in a room that had seen too much darkness.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it doesn’t matter why he did it—just that he did. I guess when fear spreads faster than truth, any voice of reason is worth its weight.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’m saying. It’s easy to mock hope when you’re not the one losing people.”

Jack: “And you think hope is enough?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s where healing starts.”

Host: She walked toward him then, placing the ball from the table into his hands. It was worn, cracked, its once-bright colors faded—like a symbol of the world itself: scarred, but still capable of play.

Jeeny: “That’s what Essien did. He took the game he loved and turned it into a message. You don’t need a degree in epidemiology to change lives—you just need a voice that people believe.”

Jack: “And maybe the humility to use it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The air was clean, cool, new. The posters on the walls fluttered softly in the breeze, their edges curling, but their words still clear:
Protect yourself. Protect others. Knowledge saves.

Jack stood, stretching, his muscles aching, not from labor, but from the quiet weight of understanding.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe the real infection isn’t disease—it’s indifference.”

Jeeny: “And the cure?”

Jack: “Communication. Like you said.”

Host: They smiled, not in triumph, but in recognition—two souls acknowledging that truth, like a ball passed across generations, only travels if someone is willing to carry it.

As they stepped into the night, the moonlight caught their silhouettes, and the camera would have followed them out into the rain-washed street, where hope, however fragile, still glimmered like light on wet asphalt—

proof that even in the aftermath of fear,
the voice of one who cares
can still echo louder than a hoax.