2016: the year of the apocalypse. The year of presidential elections, the peak of Drake’s music career, and the year of the Ebola panic. Fear and propaganda had spread all throughout the news media of this foreign, African virus that turned people into zombies. The U.S. raced to control the spread and ensure that no citizen ever had to deal with this fatal disease. What the media never reported though, was that the U.S.’s first case was right here in Rochester, New York, at Iroquois Middle School.

Hi, my name is Abiola, or Abby, Koumassou (aka Ebola), and because my schoolmates knew of my West African roots, saw my dark skin, and heard my ethnic name that conveniently sounded like Ebola, I was an easy target for a cruel joke that I didn’t find funny. So even though I hadn’t been out of the country since I was four years old, this didn’t stop the kids in my class from telling their friends not to sit with me for fear that I would give them my “disease.” At 11-years-old, in social studies class, learning about the Ebola crisis, the rumor of Abiola the African and her disease spread like wildfire. I sat through the lesson, mortified by the hurtful rumors I was hearing about myself. My heart broke. However, as all rumors do, this one died down eventually.

Two years went by, and I was in 8th grade, junior high. I made so many friends and even found some hobbies that I quite enjoyed such as cheerleading, singing, playing volleyball, reading, and hanging out with my friends. I had become quite the social butterfly. I excelled in school, even winning the Principal's Award for the Urban-Suburban program, as well as obtaining high honor roll for excellent grades. I had come such a long way from being a “disease”. Ebola the African was gone for good, and nobody remembered that moment anymore. This was the year where I became Abi, and I liked it.

Unfortunately, like all good things, this didn’t last. One day I was in my favorite class, social studies, with a lot of my friends. This day we had a substitute teacher, so we got to sit where we wanted to and had a free work period. At the start of the period, the sub called roll, and as most teachers do before a correction, he mispronounced my name: “A- ah- uhh... Abola?” Before I had the chance to correct him, a know-it-all kid in the class shouted, “Haha, her name’s Ebola!” and the class went ballistic. Suddenly, I was again Abiola the African from 6th grade. A flood of emotions raced through me, and in my anger, I chose violence. Screaming and shouting, I took all my trauma and frustrations out on that boy. Held back by my best friend Ana, I eventually left the room. When I came back, the whole class laughed upon me reentering. I felt small and insignificant. The following weeks were a blur, and I was ecstatic when school shut down for the Covid epidemic. I would get a break from everyone and my worries.

During that summer to come, the Black Lives Matter movement peaked and we also mourned the death of George Floyd. From this, the news reported the chaos and tragedy that befell after. This coverage shaped a lot of people’s image of the BLM movement, but I realized that the marginalized people in America are more than just a movement. Despite what the media puts out, each person is more than a single moment. I am more than a moment. During this time away from school, I accepted myself and grew stronger. Abiola is not Ebola or whatever someone else wants to call her. I will be exactly who I want to be.

© Abiola. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.