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
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