Most times, I find it difficult to smile for the camera. Have always found it difficult to. Have always seen it as something abnormal. Like dancing. I guess it’s because, I am not the normal guy down the hood.
I became aware of it, from childhood when mother would always rebuke me during photo shoots. Or when something good happened and I was supposed to smile. And, I didn’t.
"Put up a smile, you moody child! Why don't you ever smile?"
Then, she’d proceed to use every trick in her armory to try to get me to smile. All to no avail.
I didn't understand her then. I thought she was just being overtly overbearing. That’s how my little mind interpreted a mother’s intense love for her child who looked exactly like her, on whose face, she wanted to see beautiful smiles.
And she’s a beautiful woman, my mother. Watching her smile would most certainly, make anyone smile. But, not me-the young me.
And so, she rebuked and rebuked.
“Even your mother’s smile cannot get you to smile,” she’d sigh in disgust.
It was same thing during my nursery school graduation. The same during secondary school graduation. It was same during my matriculation. And on that one she almost flared up.
“The least you can do for your extended family is to smile in a picture you’re taking with them. You’re going to be their first doctor.”
Then, she put on that frown, that long face, that mine looks exactly like on a normal day.
Yet, I did not smile.
There was still non for my convocation. I didn't even wear the gown, didn’t take pictures and, didn't inform them about the damn ceremony.
Not that it mattered, anyway. Convocation had since become nothing to celebrate in this country. The country has become a very difficult place.
***
So, when I woke up this morning, having dreamt all night long about the hefty fee I’ve had to pay for an MSc program I’ve just enrolled for, I was certain I wasn’t gonna smile all day.
I was sure that my face was consistently going to look like the one my friend Ugochi Iroegbu used to call ‘sad face,’ back then, in unec, when she always tried to get me to smile more often. “You don’t know how handsome you look when you smile,” she’d smile.
I was sure I wasn’t going to smile when my new little ‘patient’ friend, the little girl recovering from some serious injuries, following a road traffic accident, would ask for my phone and for me to pose for a picture.
She has been doing that since she became my friend, since she started walking again, after I removed her last sutures, deeply rueful that the nylon sutures might have marred her most immaculate skin.
Yet, she’s still such a cute little fellow with the loveliest of brown eyes, dimples and an electrifying smile and, since she’s been asking me to pose for pictures, I’ve been managing to smile for her. Strange. But today had started in a bad way and I didn’t think I’d smile for her.
So, ward round over, I went to her room to give her injections, silently praying that she wouldn’t ask for my phone, for a pose and her other demands like me inspecting her wounds and reassuring her that they were all fine- little things her grandmother told me, a few days ago, “make her- your wife, happy.”
But, soon as injections were over, the cute voice went “Doctor can I take a picture of you? You’re looking fine today.” She gave out the most radiant smile.
But, I said “no.” “Today is not a good day.” I tried not to look at her face.
I wanted to leave as soon as possible, to go after my chores in the hospital. But, she held me back. “Please, let me snap you,” she insisted.
“Next time,” I tried to sound nice. “I’m busy.”
I knew she wasn’t happy with my ‘impatient’ replies but, I just had to make her understand that the day wasn’t a good one. I had issues, bearing down on me. And taking pictures was not one of them.
So, I walked away from her room and, into the oxygen room to get my stethoscope and my new Pharmacology text book. I wanted to read something, in between attending to the patients.
But, a soft knock soon followed me. And when I opened the door, there was little Ezinne, looking at me imploringly. So imploringly that the scars on her face appeared more conspicuous.
“Why are you sad?,” her voice sounded broken. “Grandmother said I shouldn’t bother my husband because ‘can’t I see that he is unhappy?’”
She looked at one of her scars, the biggest one on her left thigh- a blackened rough scar, one that’d likely be the reminder of that dark day when she was brought in by the Keke that had knocked her down, her blood dripping here and there, the Keke driver- a chronically ill looking middle aged man, fidgeting and muttering “I’ve killed somebody’s child.”
“Why is my husband sad?” Her eyes looked even more imploring.
There was a moment of silence. And, I could hear the leaves of the pine trees caressing one another. Then, She began to cry.
Really?
I was shocked. I could have said ‘moved’ but, things don’t easily move me when I have issues to sort out especially, financial issues. But, that’s my little friend crying. So, I bent over and consoled her.
The nurses at the table began to laugh, to ask what was wrong between ‘husband and wife.’
“Stop crying,” I consoled. “You know I hate to see you cry.”
“Then, let me take a picture of you.”
It’s not even as if she knew how to use the camera properly. And it’s not as if she got to keep any of the pictures she took of me. But, right there and then, I sensed that the relationship between us and the joy she got from it stemmed from me, each day, looking at each blurred pictures she took and smiling, calling her a ‘brilliant photographer.’ And perhaps because of the fact that ‘true friends don’t feel comfortable when we don’t smile,’ as Ugochi would often put it during those days in unec.
So, I decided to flash a smile. No matter how fake it appeared. And, once I had smiled, I watched her face soften up too and, the tears dry away.
I handed her the phone and went to stand in front of the new door, striking my usual pose, faking a smile. As always, whenever I’ve had to, in front of the camera.
Soon, the camera went off a number of times and the little girl beamed out another beautiful smile.
“Here,” she stretched out her hand, bearing the infinix hote note, coming closer to where I squatted, tying my shoes lace.
“See how handsome you look when you smile?” She giggled.
“Grandmother said my husband must be handsome.” She took my stethoscope from the table and hung it on my neck. “Now, off you go to work.”
By now, I couldn’t hold back the care free laughter. Or should I say ‘emotional laughter.’ Just as she could not keep back her joy when I gave her some eclaise.
We both ended up laughing, till our eyes got misty.
***
She said “bye, doctor” and, began to walk away, back to her room, to her grandmother who had called for her to come take her tablets. The limp was still in her steps. And her full black hair bounced in a carefree ponytail.
As I watched her walk, I thought about my mother and how happy she would have been had she been able to get me to smile and be happy the way little Ezinne had just done. Especially, on those beautiful days that she tried her best but failed to make me smile.
I thought about having a daughter and naming her Ezinne.
I thought about Mercy-Iroegbu Ugochi Niteh and her sweetness towards me. A friend I’ll never forget.
Friday, 26 June 2020
Saturday, 20 June 2020
You cannot go home because the roads are flooded.
You remember that time you drove a woman who was deep into the pain of obstructed labour from her house to the nearby health center.
Her house was in the ghetto in the outskirts of the city and you'd gone there to seek out a Welder when you met her screaming and crying, her unborn baby nearly dead because when you used the fetoscope in your car you found out that the foetal heart rate was on the roof.
You were forced to abandon the Welder and speed off to the health center where you would improvise everything in the process of helping the woman; she, having vehemently refused to go to a hospital.... because... money issues.
You did the section against all odds, using only flashlights supplemented by Android phone lights. There were no boots and no facemasks to protect you from blood splashes.
There were not much in the theater, which had obviously had its days of glory. There were simply nothing but the experience and passion of the matron and the nurses in the center.
Yet, you succeeded in bringing out the baby and after you blew air into his lungs, massaging his heart at the same time, he cried and regained life. And there were choruses of praise to God.
You remember the night that followed that surgery, the way you'd soon lose your job because your boss became unhappy that you had failed to incise a little abscess in the little boy's face because, you'd come back to the hospital an hour later that you should, even though you explained that it was while saving a life that you arrived late.
You're thinking about his words that night....now that you're stepping out from your new place of work. For the first time.
"You're worthless. Leave my establishment." He had sounded so cold...
***
His voice echoes so loud in your head now, as you're driving over the covet. You're rushing to head bridge to get some antibiotics.
The volume is so loud that you nearly fail to hear the voice of the man and the woman who are calling out to you asking for a lift.
When you're sad you hear no voices except songs and poems that soothe the heart. And you are sad most of the time.
"Please, are you going to junction," the man asks, waving you down. "Please, help us. It's about to rain. We're going to junction."
You look at him. You can't really hear him very well because passenger's 'home' was playing.
You turn down the volume even though you're addicted to the lyrics:
'They say fear is for the brave
For cowards never stare it in the eye
So am I fearless to be fearful
Does it take courage to learn how to cry
So many winding roads
So many miles to go.'
Beautiful song.
"Ebe?" you ask, turning to take in the man's face and then, looking away into the distant mirage on the freeway, to make sure it's all clear before you get onto the black asphalt.
When you are finally on the tarmac, you hear him answer, "Junction! Junction," in a raised voice.
So, you pull over to the nearby vegetation and motion him to get into the car. Ifem says you're too nice to strangers, that you always want to pick up people without thinking about the consequences. She says people can be evil.
Her voice echo in your mind and you feel guilty.
You'll explain to her why you're going to pick up this man and woman. Atonement for all the good you've failed at some points to do.
You feel the need to explain, until soon when, after a period of silence, after you've driven past the pharmacy where, just a few days ago, you and the manager had made concerted effort to get a dying man who'd been abandoned to die there, to a hospital, leaving you still feeling guilty, knowing you could've done more, if not that you were rushing back to the hospital to answer an emergency, when the man says something that makes you think there is no need to explain to Ifem anymore why you are in the same car with strangers once again.
It is how the man says the words that gets to you. "My wife has just had a dialysis but, the doctor said that she's reached the point where she'd need a kidney transplant."
It is the helplessness in the tone of his voice, the weakness which contrasts so much with his muscular build and sinewy features that makes you turn to look at him for a long time and then at the woman and ask if 'the wife' is the one on the back seat because, she looks too old to be his wife.
You feel embarrassed and apologize immediately.
"I'm so sorry, I assumed," you plead, turning to wave down a girl selling sachet water.
The weather is so hot with the sun blazing down on the street full of people in a hurry. There is an organized chaos exacerbated by the horns from overloaded lorries. And the noise from speakers announcing cures for staphylococcus eeeerus and tifoid.
Mad city this is.
The satchet water girl, a girl of about eight doesn't have change and before you can say a word, she asks that you forget the money, that she'll complete it with hers.
Her generosity touches you and you decide to give her an extra hundred naira note. But, she runs off to go sell to another scorched buyer.
You try to call her but the man's voice asking you to not bother apologising because you weren't far from the truth, brings you back into the stuffy air of the golf3.
"She used to be beautiful and young," the man says. "She used to feed us while I was in the university, until this illness took her strength away."
You're startled. You never countenanced the possibility that such a man with such a street build could possibly have gotten a piece of university education.
You assume a lot. You hate yourself. You're silently embarrassed again.
The embarrassment will get worse when, after you get past the monstrous traffic at junction and new parts, and finally on your way to the relatively free expressway, the man says something about residency.
"You're doing your residency?" he asks, looking at you. "Are you specializing in surgery because you keep talking about surgery."
"No," you answer, trying furtively to hide your exasperation. "I'm not yet doing residency. I swore after school to go away from medicine but now, I'm beginning to change my mind. I guess I'll try to get a fellowship, perhaps in therapeutics. As planB, in case my businesses fail."
You always feel embarrassed when you have to explain to people why you are yet to start residency, why you find it almost impossible to commit yourself to it. Why you think the system will break you once again.
It's like the man hears the voice of your mind because just when you're about to delve into self pity, he says something that makes you feel better immediately.
"My brother was a doctor too. He did residency by force because his wife forced him. You're not alone. Some of us want to be somewhere else." He smiles at you, knowingly.
"So, your brother was a doctor? Why do you say it in the past tense?" You turn to look at him before suddenly stepping on the accelerator and asking him to put on his seat belt.
He cooperates. The seat belt clicks and then you hear the sniffing and watch his tears fall. He is crying. It's always an ugly sight when a man cries.
His voice is broken as he begins to speak about his brother. Passionately.
He was a brilliant boy. He was five years his elder. He'd wanted to be a fine artist but he'd been made to become a doctor. He was doing well but, soon after his fellowship in surgery, he died. A very sudden and painful death.
The man looks away at the busy road through building materials market. He's still crying. The streets hustles by.
"My brother would've helped me. His death broke me because I had put every hope in him and just when he was about to make it, he died on his duty post. I know if he is still alive, my wife will certainly live."
"How did he die?" you ask nonchalantly, trying to defuse the situation by your attitude. "How did he go?"
"Lassa Fever. He was working in Ebonyi when Lassa came and killed ten doctors. My brother was the first." He wipes his tears. "I know he'd have raised money for my wife's kidney transplant. But unfortunately..... Life always screws me."
He seems to have had enough of the crying and changes the subject. But, it ends up bringing him back to tears because when he asks you about marriage, you answer that you are married but yet to have children.
So, tearfully, he goes again. "My wife and I are supposed to have four children now but, we lost all of them to hypertension, to miscarriage. Each of them at around six months. They say it was the hypertension that eventually destroyed my wife's kidneys. Four children, doc. Four children, we've lost."
You're lost of words and you just look on. At the police guy checking out the cars. At the roadside mechanic trying to hug a plantain seller. At the long road ahead from Ugwunwasike leading to Awka where the man and his wife are going.
"You'll have more children," you assure, knowing how almost impossible it sounds as the woman in the back seat is as good as going without the transplant.
But, you say it all the same. "All four children, the two boys and the two girls are all going to come back."
"Yes," the man agrees. "I only pray that we'll be able to get the ten million naira it'll require to get her a kidney transplant."
By now you're speeding up towards Ogbunike and Ogidi, Achebe's home town. You think about Achebe and you momentarily wish you can write like he did so that you'll tell this man's story properly. It hurts you that you can't.
Yet, you promise to try. "Nna, I don't have money ooo. I'm still struggling to get above water but, I'll try to tell your story."
You hand him a thousand Naira note. "Here, take it for transport home."
You want to drop them off at Ogbunike in order to get back on your way to head bridge. But then, the woman cannot get down so easily.
She's weak and shaky. Her skin is unusually dark in the way a sick person's shouldn't even be.
You look at her and imagine how beautiful she must have been before the illness, how much dreams she must have had. Dreams about children. A home. A career. A life.
How sad the situation looks now. You can tell. You see the pain in her eyes.
You look up the sky and the cloud is really getting darker. You can't just leave them here so, you'll drive further to Afọr Igwe where they'll get a straight bus to Awka.
The Man is grateful. And on the way, he will tell you more about his family. How he'd met his wife in 2006. How he'd promised never to leave her and how that promise has encouraged him to keep persisting in his quest to save her.
He had a shop in Lagos. He loved education. He got admission in the university to study parasitology because he wanted to find a solution to the lassa fever which had killed his brother. So he left his shop in his wife's custody.
They nearly had children but lost all four of them. They were still struggling well until the disease came.
You'll listen without saying much. You're in a hurry to know more about the man because you're already running out of time.
So when he tries to get the story back to you, to your own life by asking "what do you intend to do now about residency? Will you try?" you stop him by asking how far he's gone in his quest to get help.
You already feel guilty by telling your own little pain in the face of the real pain the man and his wife are facing . "How far have you gone in terms of getting help?" You look at his wife.
He laughs at your question. "Ten million naira!"
He laughs again. "Who'll give you that? Almost all the people and Government have been delaying us and doing us turn turn. We can't even feed now talk more of having dialysis."
He stops suddenly. Seems he remembers something. I understand when he adds "But our church people are helping. There are other people too but they don't like their names mentioned."
He apologizes for almost failing to recognize those that are helping. "Pain and fear makes one forget the favors he gets," he explained.
***
His wife speaks. For the first time. You're startled but you urge her to continue with what she's just saying, something in the line of having a solution to all the problems.
You will have to continue taking until she says that she's been pleading with her husband to let her die in peace and go on with his life. 😳😳😳😳😭😭😭
"Doc," She calls you. "Please tell him to just leave me to go. He's trying to go down with me. He's love has been overwhelming. He's never hurt me. He has tried. I want him to save himself and leave me to my fate." She suddenly goes quiet.
Her husband starts crying again.
He is wiping his tears. His tears which bring your attention to the fact that it's already raining and that you need to switch on the wiper. You do that and continue driving.
There's silence. Seconds. Minutes. Close to an hour. You're driving slow because of the flood water.
You'll remain silent until you get to Afor Igwe where you'll take the pictures below and finally exchange contact with the man. And note his detail.
His name is Magnus Odimgbe. And his wife is Uju Odimgbe. And they live in Awka, behind Ezeanwanyi, Aquinas area.
He needs help. No matter how little.
His bank details are:
Bank: First bank.
Account name: Odimgbe Magnus Echezona
Account number:3043620466
***
When you drop them off at Afọr Igwe, the rain has already flooded the way back. You're told by a bus driver.
You'll have to wait for the waters to drain. You only hope you don't get to lose your job again.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
17/6/19
Her house was in the ghetto in the outskirts of the city and you'd gone there to seek out a Welder when you met her screaming and crying, her unborn baby nearly dead because when you used the fetoscope in your car you found out that the foetal heart rate was on the roof.
You were forced to abandon the Welder and speed off to the health center where you would improvise everything in the process of helping the woman; she, having vehemently refused to go to a hospital.... because... money issues.
You did the section against all odds, using only flashlights supplemented by Android phone lights. There were no boots and no facemasks to protect you from blood splashes.
There were not much in the theater, which had obviously had its days of glory. There were simply nothing but the experience and passion of the matron and the nurses in the center.
Yet, you succeeded in bringing out the baby and after you blew air into his lungs, massaging his heart at the same time, he cried and regained life. And there were choruses of praise to God.
You remember the night that followed that surgery, the way you'd soon lose your job because your boss became unhappy that you had failed to incise a little abscess in the little boy's face because, you'd come back to the hospital an hour later that you should, even though you explained that it was while saving a life that you arrived late.
You're thinking about his words that night....now that you're stepping out from your new place of work. For the first time.
"You're worthless. Leave my establishment." He had sounded so cold...
***
His voice echoes so loud in your head now, as you're driving over the covet. You're rushing to head bridge to get some antibiotics.
The volume is so loud that you nearly fail to hear the voice of the man and the woman who are calling out to you asking for a lift.
When you're sad you hear no voices except songs and poems that soothe the heart. And you are sad most of the time.
"Please, are you going to junction," the man asks, waving you down. "Please, help us. It's about to rain. We're going to junction."
You look at him. You can't really hear him very well because passenger's 'home' was playing.
You turn down the volume even though you're addicted to the lyrics:
'They say fear is for the brave
For cowards never stare it in the eye
So am I fearless to be fearful
Does it take courage to learn how to cry
So many winding roads
So many miles to go.'
Beautiful song.
"Ebe?" you ask, turning to take in the man's face and then, looking away into the distant mirage on the freeway, to make sure it's all clear before you get onto the black asphalt.
When you are finally on the tarmac, you hear him answer, "Junction! Junction," in a raised voice.
So, you pull over to the nearby vegetation and motion him to get into the car. Ifem says you're too nice to strangers, that you always want to pick up people without thinking about the consequences. She says people can be evil.
Her voice echo in your mind and you feel guilty.
You'll explain to her why you're going to pick up this man and woman. Atonement for all the good you've failed at some points to do.
You feel the need to explain, until soon when, after a period of silence, after you've driven past the pharmacy where, just a few days ago, you and the manager had made concerted effort to get a dying man who'd been abandoned to die there, to a hospital, leaving you still feeling guilty, knowing you could've done more, if not that you were rushing back to the hospital to answer an emergency, when the man says something that makes you think there is no need to explain to Ifem anymore why you are in the same car with strangers once again.
It is how the man says the words that gets to you. "My wife has just had a dialysis but, the doctor said that she's reached the point where she'd need a kidney transplant."
It is the helplessness in the tone of his voice, the weakness which contrasts so much with his muscular build and sinewy features that makes you turn to look at him for a long time and then at the woman and ask if 'the wife' is the one on the back seat because, she looks too old to be his wife.
You feel embarrassed and apologize immediately.
"I'm so sorry, I assumed," you plead, turning to wave down a girl selling sachet water.
The weather is so hot with the sun blazing down on the street full of people in a hurry. There is an organized chaos exacerbated by the horns from overloaded lorries. And the noise from speakers announcing cures for staphylococcus eeeerus and tifoid.
Mad city this is.
The satchet water girl, a girl of about eight doesn't have change and before you can say a word, she asks that you forget the money, that she'll complete it with hers.
Her generosity touches you and you decide to give her an extra hundred naira note. But, she runs off to go sell to another scorched buyer.
You try to call her but the man's voice asking you to not bother apologising because you weren't far from the truth, brings you back into the stuffy air of the golf3.
"She used to be beautiful and young," the man says. "She used to feed us while I was in the university, until this illness took her strength away."
You're startled. You never countenanced the possibility that such a man with such a street build could possibly have gotten a piece of university education.
You assume a lot. You hate yourself. You're silently embarrassed again.
The embarrassment will get worse when, after you get past the monstrous traffic at junction and new parts, and finally on your way to the relatively free expressway, the man says something about residency.
"You're doing your residency?" he asks, looking at you. "Are you specializing in surgery because you keep talking about surgery."
"No," you answer, trying furtively to hide your exasperation. "I'm not yet doing residency. I swore after school to go away from medicine but now, I'm beginning to change my mind. I guess I'll try to get a fellowship, perhaps in therapeutics. As planB, in case my businesses fail."
You always feel embarrassed when you have to explain to people why you are yet to start residency, why you find it almost impossible to commit yourself to it. Why you think the system will break you once again.
It's like the man hears the voice of your mind because just when you're about to delve into self pity, he says something that makes you feel better immediately.
"My brother was a doctor too. He did residency by force because his wife forced him. You're not alone. Some of us want to be somewhere else." He smiles at you, knowingly.
"So, your brother was a doctor? Why do you say it in the past tense?" You turn to look at him before suddenly stepping on the accelerator and asking him to put on his seat belt.
He cooperates. The seat belt clicks and then you hear the sniffing and watch his tears fall. He is crying. It's always an ugly sight when a man cries.
His voice is broken as he begins to speak about his brother. Passionately.
He was a brilliant boy. He was five years his elder. He'd wanted to be a fine artist but he'd been made to become a doctor. He was doing well but, soon after his fellowship in surgery, he died. A very sudden and painful death.
The man looks away at the busy road through building materials market. He's still crying. The streets hustles by.
"My brother would've helped me. His death broke me because I had put every hope in him and just when he was about to make it, he died on his duty post. I know if he is still alive, my wife will certainly live."
"How did he die?" you ask nonchalantly, trying to defuse the situation by your attitude. "How did he go?"
"Lassa Fever. He was working in Ebonyi when Lassa came and killed ten doctors. My brother was the first." He wipes his tears. "I know he'd have raised money for my wife's kidney transplant. But unfortunately..... Life always screws me."
He seems to have had enough of the crying and changes the subject. But, it ends up bringing him back to tears because when he asks you about marriage, you answer that you are married but yet to have children.
So, tearfully, he goes again. "My wife and I are supposed to have four children now but, we lost all of them to hypertension, to miscarriage. Each of them at around six months. They say it was the hypertension that eventually destroyed my wife's kidneys. Four children, doc. Four children, we've lost."
You're lost of words and you just look on. At the police guy checking out the cars. At the roadside mechanic trying to hug a plantain seller. At the long road ahead from Ugwunwasike leading to Awka where the man and his wife are going.
"You'll have more children," you assure, knowing how almost impossible it sounds as the woman in the back seat is as good as going without the transplant.
But, you say it all the same. "All four children, the two boys and the two girls are all going to come back."
"Yes," the man agrees. "I only pray that we'll be able to get the ten million naira it'll require to get her a kidney transplant."
By now you're speeding up towards Ogbunike and Ogidi, Achebe's home town. You think about Achebe and you momentarily wish you can write like he did so that you'll tell this man's story properly. It hurts you that you can't.
Yet, you promise to try. "Nna, I don't have money ooo. I'm still struggling to get above water but, I'll try to tell your story."
You hand him a thousand Naira note. "Here, take it for transport home."
You want to drop them off at Ogbunike in order to get back on your way to head bridge. But then, the woman cannot get down so easily.
She's weak and shaky. Her skin is unusually dark in the way a sick person's shouldn't even be.
You look at her and imagine how beautiful she must have been before the illness, how much dreams she must have had. Dreams about children. A home. A career. A life.
How sad the situation looks now. You can tell. You see the pain in her eyes.
You look up the sky and the cloud is really getting darker. You can't just leave them here so, you'll drive further to Afọr Igwe where they'll get a straight bus to Awka.
The Man is grateful. And on the way, he will tell you more about his family. How he'd met his wife in 2006. How he'd promised never to leave her and how that promise has encouraged him to keep persisting in his quest to save her.
He had a shop in Lagos. He loved education. He got admission in the university to study parasitology because he wanted to find a solution to the lassa fever which had killed his brother. So he left his shop in his wife's custody.
They nearly had children but lost all four of them. They were still struggling well until the disease came.
You'll listen without saying much. You're in a hurry to know more about the man because you're already running out of time.
So when he tries to get the story back to you, to your own life by asking "what do you intend to do now about residency? Will you try?" you stop him by asking how far he's gone in his quest to get help.
You already feel guilty by telling your own little pain in the face of the real pain the man and his wife are facing . "How far have you gone in terms of getting help?" You look at his wife.
He laughs at your question. "Ten million naira!"
He laughs again. "Who'll give you that? Almost all the people and Government have been delaying us and doing us turn turn. We can't even feed now talk more of having dialysis."
He stops suddenly. Seems he remembers something. I understand when he adds "But our church people are helping. There are other people too but they don't like their names mentioned."
He apologizes for almost failing to recognize those that are helping. "Pain and fear makes one forget the favors he gets," he explained.
***
His wife speaks. For the first time. You're startled but you urge her to continue with what she's just saying, something in the line of having a solution to all the problems.
You will have to continue taking until she says that she's been pleading with her husband to let her die in peace and go on with his life. 😳😳😳😳😭😭😭
"Doc," She calls you. "Please tell him to just leave me to go. He's trying to go down with me. He's love has been overwhelming. He's never hurt me. He has tried. I want him to save himself and leave me to my fate." She suddenly goes quiet.
Her husband starts crying again.
He is wiping his tears. His tears which bring your attention to the fact that it's already raining and that you need to switch on the wiper. You do that and continue driving.
There's silence. Seconds. Minutes. Close to an hour. You're driving slow because of the flood water.
You'll remain silent until you get to Afor Igwe where you'll take the pictures below and finally exchange contact with the man. And note his detail.
His name is Magnus Odimgbe. And his wife is Uju Odimgbe. And they live in Awka, behind Ezeanwanyi, Aquinas area.
He needs help. No matter how little.
His bank details are:
Bank: First bank.
Account name: Odimgbe Magnus Echezona
Account number:3043620466
***
When you drop them off at Afọr Igwe, the rain has already flooded the way back. You're told by a bus driver.
You'll have to wait for the waters to drain. You only hope you don't get to lose your job again.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
17/6/19
Friday, 19 June 2020
The red whirlwind.
The first day I read ‘psalm 88’ was on a day like this. A dull day, filled with untraceable feelings of emptiness. I had stumbled on the psalm, while praying my rosary, in penance, a few days prior.
I was a teenager. 19 years old and fresh from making the 5th best result in WAEC in my school. Plus a fine jamb score and a name for my family because, everyone in the hood talked about me, my family. “Oga, ‘Allied forces!’” they hailed my father, “we’ve heard what your son did, you’re going to be called nna doc.”
And, it made him happy, my father, added to his new found happiness, since Abdulsalami Abubakar improved the lot of the federal workers, following the death of the previous dictator.
It made my mother happy too, made her smile more often. She called me ‘nna m,’ more often. “Nnam, ime aga, how are you, Papa?”
She’s always believed that I am her father, reincarnate and so, whenever she got emotional, she’d call me ‘Papa.’ She did it a lot on those days that I made her happy.
And, my sisters too, they were so proud. The little ones bragged about me. “Emeka, ba’anyi has set a new record in this neighborhood,” they bragged. “Imakwa n’onwe nine As, he got nine As?”
Everyone else came to congratulate me. “It’s not easy o! To write WAEC without 'expo' and still make only As and Bs. No Cs at all. And also, to smash Jamb, in the first sitting...You’ve done well, Emmy…”
I only nodded and shook hands, trying to smile too, to make it seem all was well. Because they all wanted me, the boy who never caused any trouble, to be well.
But, on that dreary morning on which I read that chapter of the psalms, I couldn’t hide it anymore- the silent tears.
It was in the middle of a heavy Nsukka Harmattan, full of cold red wind and late aunt Rose had come visiting. She wore her favourite sequined red gown and laughed and sang her way, happy for her nephew who looked like her late brother, into the room where I had been, reading the Bible, feeling like I should die.
It didn’t take long for her to find me out, even as I hugged her with a smile, like I did everyone else. She noticed, as she held me after the hug. Then, she asked “Why aren’t you happy, Emeka?”
I was jarred out of my façade.
How did she notice? How could she have heard the stifled murmuring of my soul, in spite of the noise and chaos of slaughter road?
I tried to find an escape. “Aunty, I’m ok. Maybe, it’s the psalm I’d been reading. It’s a sad story. Maybe it’s what’s changed my mood...” but, she didn’t buy it.
She probed further, looking into my eyes, trying to see the face of my spirit.
“You don’t seem happy; you’ve never looked happy. I’ve been looking at you since you were born. You’ve never smiled, freely, like a teenager should. And now, you’ve made everyone happy, except you. What’s wrong? What is happening inside your soul?”
She spoke like a philosopher, my late aunt. Mother said she was their maternal grandmother, reincarnate.
I didn’t have any answer. And so, I looked at my toes and could do nothing else but cry, my whole body shivering.
“I don’t know, aunty, I don’t know but, everything seems dark, there’s no light in my life…,” I tried to use the words I had learnt in a poem, because I didn’t know any other way, to explain how I felt. Poetry always came handy, those days.
Silence. Distant noise from the streets. I could hear my heartbeat.
Then, aunty hugged me again, this time, holding me tight. “It’s OK, nna. Ozugo, Papa,” she whispered. She sounded much like mama.
She asked me to dress up and come with her to Erina. She had come all the way from Ogbede, solely, to take me out, to celebrate my success.
That was the day, I started understanding myself, my soul, my life, because aunty sat down with me, to talk it over. And, showed me the way.
She spoke vaguely about grandfather.
She said “You are your grandfather. He was brooding, too. Quiet, just like you. He was like you are now; he too, felt the same hunger for light, the same emptiness, in spite of his fortune. He never took joy in materials things. He too, couldn’t figure out why he lapsed into sadness, in spite of the good things around, like when he bought his first car; he was the first person to buy a car in the whole of Ukehe.”
I listened, pretending to be eating the ice cream, on the table. It nauseated me. Heck!
What was happening to me? I was supposed to be reveling in the glory that surrounded me but, instead, I was overwhelmed with sadness.
She looked at the piece of paper on the table, in which I had been scribbling a poem, a sad poem and, when she was done reading it, she continued, “So, don’t worry, this is how you were made. This is your design. You’ll achieve a lot. You’ll make your family proud but, don’t be afraid when you don’t enjoy the happiness. Because, just like your grandfather, you’re one of those who’ll play the role of the sentry . You know the world is a stage, we all have our roles to play.”
She let the paper fly away in the red whirlwind that had been building, outside. It got overwhelmed in the red dust, till I could see it no more.
She went on to say a lot of things some of which I understood, some of which I didn’t understand. But, that word ‘role,’ together with ‘design’ that she had mentioned, steered my soul towards a little light.
I got to know the reason for my frequent state of unhappiness. I got to know what to look for in my search for light. I got to understand what life, was all about- that people are different; that while some people will always smile and laugh and dance, some will be like the sentry , sober, sad, at times, lonely and, far removed from the merriment. But, in all of that, one had to still find contentment. Because we all have unique designs.
“Your grandfather was wealthy, he was the first to buy a car in the whole of ukehe. He was revered. He was a legend. But, he did not feel the glory, the glamour. His happiness came from the feeling that he was doing the right thing. He valued the fact that he was not a waste, more than the money. He was like Antonio, in the ‘Marchant of Venice.’ Perhaps, in fact, you’re like that,” she said, before looking me in the eyes, now, more intensely, “You’ll learn how to embrace your soul, the way it is.”
And so, the years came and went. And in each, I’ve tried to understand more about life, about my life.
The years of medical school taught me that I wasn’t always going to be among the best, no matter how hard I studied. I accepted it, acknowledged that everyone will not always be the best at a particular thing, at the same time.
So, when a secondary school friend of mine stopped talking to me when I had to drop a year, I didn’t think of killing myself. I understood, I had a different path. I forgave.
The loss of my first love, Ogoo, taught me that I could be rejected at times and that it’s as normal as anything, that my youthful good looks wasn’t everything, that love is a two edged sword.
So, when she told me, on a rainy Sunday night “ I’ll never be yours,” I didn’t die of depression. Rather, I embraced the loss and turned my pain into poetry.
The year after graduation, taught me that graduation wasn’t the end of all my troubles. That for a man, troubles and difficulties never ends. So, when our licence was withheld for 7 months, because we had quarreled with the Dean, I did not think of taking the pills. I understood that success and obstruction, sometimes, go hand in hand.
And during my first job, as a house officer, I realised that life can be brutal, that there are many things, out there, waiting to kill a man. So, I learnt how to be careful about my ways. I also learnt that I had the capacity to improve myself and go from being seen as the laziest, to been loved, as the more hardworking.
NYSC taught me, to do my utmost best, to survive. And that my country doesn’t really give a shit about me, that I have to think about creating jobs, instead of waiting for one.
And so, on.
In all of those years, in the midst of the chaos and noise and mistakes and guilt and success and failure and little flashes of joy, I’ve been carried through, by the one thing, the one understanding: It gets easier when one embraces one’s soul. Just as aunt Rose said many years ago.
“Embrace your soul, learn to always understand that happiness and sadness are like day and night; you experience both and while you might love one, more than the other, you still need two of them and you can channel them, into strength.”
Embracing my soul meant that I stopped taking things so deeply, brushing off the many episodes of depression with the belief, that we’ve all been designed and equipped to survive our roles. No matter how horrific; that survival, is all in our minds.
***
So, today, after a night of insomnia and thinking about the nation, about my life and the fact that I am not now, where I am supposed to be, that some people I was better than, are now above me, that I’ve been stagnating and, about everything else that is wrong with the world, I was tempted to slide into that dark mood again. That mood that makes everything seem hopeless.
Then, I remembered aunt Rose and her last words, the day I went to Ogbede to tell her about my difficulties in my practice. “Embrace both the mistakes and the failures, the guilt and the carefree state, the joy and the pain, the good and the bad and, try to rise above them. Use them to build new strength, new energy.”
And so, I’ll try to rise now, again, above it all. To keep the fight going, to be content with the purity of the effort and work, to understand again, that day and night are the same necessities of life and that all the things that try to take the joy away are only but, the price we pay for living.
I will keep mother's words closer now. "He who's still fighting is not yet defeated."
***
With mother and eldest sister.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu
I want to come home with you
I want to come home with you.
I was walking along the road to buy food from the mama put who cooked delicious egusi and onugbo soup. I was really hungry and needed to eat something fast but I was too weak to walk. Work had been unusually too busy of late. So, I dragged myself as fast as I could, all the while, thinking about home, when things were still good, about Ifem and her delicious cooking then, about the times when it was so easy to laugh. It was nightfall after all, the time I loved to enjoy my reverie the most. I was lost in it when the girl pulled my hands suddenly to stop me. "Good evening sir!"
I turned sharply to look at her, surprised, and at the same time, angry that she had the nerve to pull my hands. A total stranger. But then, I looked at her face, the innocence written on it, the slight uncertain smile, and I melted. A girl of 20 whose eyes told the story of a brittle despair. Especially when she pleaded, "please do you have any money to give me? I haven't eaten since morning and I do not know what to do."
Her words rolled out too quickly, too easily in a startling way. She said that the lock down was making life difficult for her. That she was visiting a friend from Lagos because the friend had promised to get her a job, that she was still searching for the job when the lock down came and made things difficult. "I really need help sir. Anything would be appreciated."
I had only ₦500 on me and that was 'home and abroad' because nothing else was left.The dinner I was going to buy was like a 'last supper'. Because certain failures by the government had left me stranded.
Yet, I couldn't ignore this girl's difficulties. And so I decided to split the money in two. "I don't have much," I explained. "But I can give you a little from this money after I must have bought my food." I asked her to walk with me so that I'd give her the change after buying the food.
As we walked, we talked about things. About her preparations for JAMB, her difficulties at home. She said she was the first child, that she just wanted to get out of home in order to see what life was about out there. That her step father wasn't kind to her. She said she needed the freedom and were it not for the lock down, she would've been happier.
I listened, wondering what it was that made her so comfortable with me, a stranger she'd just met, what it was that was going on on her mind, why she wasn't scared of me and so, I asked her why. "Why are you so free to tell me all that? Why aren't you scared?"
I had to interrupt her with the question because she talked so freely. And I had expected her to be startled but she wasn't. Instead, she smiled and said that she had seen my face and had felt it was the least scary, that she had told herself before walking up to me, that I couldn't hurt her, that all I could ask would certainly not go beyond sex, and that it was something she wouldn't mind giving since she already liked me from a far. She looked at me and smiled a little bit more elaborately. A knowing smile. Assured and unwavering. It felt powerful enough to seduce the unguarded soul.
We were now close to the cross road and so, even though I had been so stunned by her boldness and had wanted to talk about it, I kept calm as we waded through the maze of Okadas, and traffic. But, I kept turning the whole thing in my mind. What else could this child must have done since her travails started? Who knew how many men she must have given herself to just in order to eat? I couldn't help thinking of my little nieces. She was just about their age.
After buying the food, I decided that the ₦250 change was too small and so I asked her if she would follow me to my house so I could give her some uncooked rice and more change. "My place is not far," I pointed. "It's just a few minutes walk."
She followed me.
I couldn't stop thinking about her slight frame and chocolate skin. I wondered how much longer before the freshness and firmness of her body would be gone. Plundered by opportunistic men.
As we walked, we talked some more. This time, I did most of the talking. About the mess in the country, about the virus, about how she should focus on her studies and try to get home quickly once the lock down was over, about trying to repair her relationship with her dad. She had spoken of him earlier with obvious disgust.
I told her also, to be careful with men, especially harmless looking ones like me. "We could be dangerous too," I pointed out, looking at the mark on her neck. A statement which made her smile. Especially, when she began explaining that she had been seeing me for quite some time, that considering all the men she had been tempted to give herself to, that I would be the least evil among them. "I'm even attracted to you," she said, trying to avoid my eyes.
She was now more thoughtful as she added that she knew that one way or another, she could certainly be forced to sleep with a man for food and that she would he happy to do it with the man she'd grown to like. "All the times I've seen you pass by, you've looked harmless. I like you."
I was again stunned. Her boldness and openness were remarkable. I had never seen it before. I mean... this is Nigeria where if you said something personal, people would rush to use it against you. Why was this girl behaving totally different? We talked until we got to the house and I pointed. We're here. "Would you like to come in?"
"Yes. I would love to."
We were half way through the stirs when I changed my mind. I worried that the hallway was too dark, that it could make her uncomfortable and so I asked her to stop, to wait for me beside the jeep parked outside. I tried to smile as I touched her shoulder gently. "I hope you don't mind." I watched her face. It suddenly lost the smile and enthusiasm. I wondered if it would have looked same had she seen my ring, had I told her that I was married.
I soon returned to see her leaning on the car. "Is it yours?" she asked as she thanked me for the rice and little change. She whipped out her infinix spark. "Let me have your number," she thrust it towards me. "I'd love to chat."
I held the phone. A little while. A few minutes. Then a few more, all the while turning over in my mind, the difficulties that might have put this girl in such a situation as to actively seek out men, the unfairness of it all. The fact that the society was gradually breaking even the children amongst us. Her native hair style reminded me of Reginald Nwankwo's girl friend in the story 'girls at war,' and her famous request "if you must shell, please don't send in the boys," in reference to sex and not releasing of sperm, and I felt like crying at that very moment. I looked at her tiny waist and wondered if she would even be able to take in a full grown man. She looked almost like a teenager.
The rustle of the wind outside broke my thoughts. It was brewing. As if to usher in a minor storm. And so I tapped her shoulder. Out of the blue. "You have to go before it rains. You have to run now."
She looked up and I saw her eyes; they were sad. "I can stay for the night with you," she said, unwilling to take the first step towards the gate. "My friend told me to find a good man and satisfy him, to get him to love me and care for me." She held my hand and rubbed it gently. "Don't you like me?" Her voice was broken. So broken that it got to me as much her soft palms and the caress.
But I pulled my hands away, gently. "You're a child my dear. I like you but you're a child. It wouldn't be fair if I should take advantage of you."
My mind became full of emotions. I wished I could have been able to give her my number and keep in touch. I wished I could have been able to give her a little more help. But, my thoughts would soon be cluttered by the sound of the minor storm. And my anger against the world and how it breaks the children before they're grown.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
June 2020.
I was walking along the road to buy food from the mama put who cooked delicious egusi and onugbo soup. I was really hungry and needed to eat something fast but I was too weak to walk. Work had been unusually too busy of late. So, I dragged myself as fast as I could, all the while, thinking about home, when things were still good, about Ifem and her delicious cooking then, about the times when it was so easy to laugh. It was nightfall after all, the time I loved to enjoy my reverie the most. I was lost in it when the girl pulled my hands suddenly to stop me. "Good evening sir!"
I turned sharply to look at her, surprised, and at the same time, angry that she had the nerve to pull my hands. A total stranger. But then, I looked at her face, the innocence written on it, the slight uncertain smile, and I melted. A girl of 20 whose eyes told the story of a brittle despair. Especially when she pleaded, "please do you have any money to give me? I haven't eaten since morning and I do not know what to do."
Her words rolled out too quickly, too easily in a startling way. She said that the lock down was making life difficult for her. That she was visiting a friend from Lagos because the friend had promised to get her a job, that she was still searching for the job when the lock down came and made things difficult. "I really need help sir. Anything would be appreciated."
I had only ₦500 on me and that was 'home and abroad' because nothing else was left.The dinner I was going to buy was like a 'last supper'. Because certain failures by the government had left me stranded.
Yet, I couldn't ignore this girl's difficulties. And so I decided to split the money in two. "I don't have much," I explained. "But I can give you a little from this money after I must have bought my food." I asked her to walk with me so that I'd give her the change after buying the food.
As we walked, we talked about things. About her preparations for JAMB, her difficulties at home. She said she was the first child, that she just wanted to get out of home in order to see what life was about out there. That her step father wasn't kind to her. She said she needed the freedom and were it not for the lock down, she would've been happier.
I listened, wondering what it was that made her so comfortable with me, a stranger she'd just met, what it was that was going on on her mind, why she wasn't scared of me and so, I asked her why. "Why are you so free to tell me all that? Why aren't you scared?"
I had to interrupt her with the question because she talked so freely. And I had expected her to be startled but she wasn't. Instead, she smiled and said that she had seen my face and had felt it was the least scary, that she had told herself before walking up to me, that I couldn't hurt her, that all I could ask would certainly not go beyond sex, and that it was something she wouldn't mind giving since she already liked me from a far. She looked at me and smiled a little bit more elaborately. A knowing smile. Assured and unwavering. It felt powerful enough to seduce the unguarded soul.
We were now close to the cross road and so, even though I had been so stunned by her boldness and had wanted to talk about it, I kept calm as we waded through the maze of Okadas, and traffic. But, I kept turning the whole thing in my mind. What else could this child must have done since her travails started? Who knew how many men she must have given herself to just in order to eat? I couldn't help thinking of my little nieces. She was just about their age.
After buying the food, I decided that the ₦250 change was too small and so I asked her if she would follow me to my house so I could give her some uncooked rice and more change. "My place is not far," I pointed. "It's just a few minutes walk."
She followed me.
I couldn't stop thinking about her slight frame and chocolate skin. I wondered how much longer before the freshness and firmness of her body would be gone. Plundered by opportunistic men.
As we walked, we talked some more. This time, I did most of the talking. About the mess in the country, about the virus, about how she should focus on her studies and try to get home quickly once the lock down was over, about trying to repair her relationship with her dad. She had spoken of him earlier with obvious disgust.
I told her also, to be careful with men, especially harmless looking ones like me. "We could be dangerous too," I pointed out, looking at the mark on her neck. A statement which made her smile. Especially, when she began explaining that she had been seeing me for quite some time, that considering all the men she had been tempted to give herself to, that I would be the least evil among them. "I'm even attracted to you," she said, trying to avoid my eyes.
She was now more thoughtful as she added that she knew that one way or another, she could certainly be forced to sleep with a man for food and that she would he happy to do it with the man she'd grown to like. "All the times I've seen you pass by, you've looked harmless. I like you."
I was again stunned. Her boldness and openness were remarkable. I had never seen it before. I mean... this is Nigeria where if you said something personal, people would rush to use it against you. Why was this girl behaving totally different? We talked until we got to the house and I pointed. We're here. "Would you like to come in?"
"Yes. I would love to."
We were half way through the stirs when I changed my mind. I worried that the hallway was too dark, that it could make her uncomfortable and so I asked her to stop, to wait for me beside the jeep parked outside. I tried to smile as I touched her shoulder gently. "I hope you don't mind." I watched her face. It suddenly lost the smile and enthusiasm. I wondered if it would have looked same had she seen my ring, had I told her that I was married.
I soon returned to see her leaning on the car. "Is it yours?" she asked as she thanked me for the rice and little change. She whipped out her infinix spark. "Let me have your number," she thrust it towards me. "I'd love to chat."
I held the phone. A little while. A few minutes. Then a few more, all the while turning over in my mind, the difficulties that might have put this girl in such a situation as to actively seek out men, the unfairness of it all. The fact that the society was gradually breaking even the children amongst us. Her native hair style reminded me of Reginald Nwankwo's girl friend in the story 'girls at war,' and her famous request "if you must shell, please don't send in the boys," in reference to sex and not releasing of sperm, and I felt like crying at that very moment. I looked at her tiny waist and wondered if she would even be able to take in a full grown man. She looked almost like a teenager.
The rustle of the wind outside broke my thoughts. It was brewing. As if to usher in a minor storm. And so I tapped her shoulder. Out of the blue. "You have to go before it rains. You have to run now."
She looked up and I saw her eyes; they were sad. "I can stay for the night with you," she said, unwilling to take the first step towards the gate. "My friend told me to find a good man and satisfy him, to get him to love me and care for me." She held my hand and rubbed it gently. "Don't you like me?" Her voice was broken. So broken that it got to me as much her soft palms and the caress.
But I pulled my hands away, gently. "You're a child my dear. I like you but you're a child. It wouldn't be fair if I should take advantage of you."
My mind became full of emotions. I wished I could have been able to give her my number and keep in touch. I wished I could have been able to give her a little more help. But, my thoughts would soon be cluttered by the sound of the minor storm. And my anger against the world and how it breaks the children before they're grown.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
June 2020.
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