She had objected to be taken to the State Hospital. She kept saying she
was not ready to die as if the State Hospital was a killing field.
Everyone understood her fear for the government hospital.
Some five
years before she took ill, she had lost her best friend among her
children due to negligence of the nurse on duty. Though a strong Muslim,
my mother refused all religious persuasions to accept it as a will of
God, she told people about the nurse often. There was a time the nurse
came to her shop to buy fowl.
She called her by name and said.
“You’ve forgotten my face, abi?” The poor nurse looked into her face
trying to recall where she had known her but before she could say
anything, Mami hit her again. “You killed my son two years ago when you
sneaked to night vigil”. The woman recoiled before
everyone in the market could pay attention.
It was then that I noticed that the death of
my brother was still fresh in her mind.
So, our
eldest brother suggested we take her to Faith Hospital on Bamgbose
Street and she was very pleased with the proposition. Perhaps it was because of the successful surgery Ibrahim had at the hospital three months ago.
Mami was rushed to the hospital around 5:06 am with all children following
her leaving only me behind with instruction to prepare her akamu.
On entering the hospital, I caught sight of two ladies wearing uniforms sewn like that of a nurse who once injected me at Ilora
Medical Center in 2001. I have never seen a medical personnel hold a
syringe the way she did. She held it as if she wanted to stab me; I was
afraid but was persuaded to allow her. The injection I took from her formed
an abscess to which I nearly lost my right leg. Since the incident I
hate seeing people in that uniform.
The two young girls had entered the
ward where my mother was admitted. I met them regulating the drip being passed into her. One of them saw me and shouted with enthusiasm ‘Unkuu’ (Uncle) and
the other joined immediately. I taught them English Language at Anglican
Methodist Grammar School. They were simply classical among the
unyielding students I have ever taught. At this point, the fear of
losing my mother struck.
“Bukky, where are the senior nurses?” I
asked one of them. With some degree of pride she told me she was in
charge that morning. She was not surprised at my question because I
had told her severally that she may not even make it to even a College of Education.
We continued our discussion;
Me: By the way, which school of
nursing did you go and when did you make your O’ Levels?
Bukky: I make my
O’ Levels in 2005. I only redister wayek in that your school. I redister
NECO in Laguna Village with my friend, Senabu.
Senabu was still around
chorusing “yes” in approval of Bukky’s responses.
Bukky: Me and my friend go
to the same school of losin in Ibadan and finish last year. We all do
Junior CHEW.
Me: Oh, you are both Junior Community Health Workers, that’s
lovely.”
Bukky: Thank you sir, I know you are not ‘respect’
me and my friend to go to higher education because we are don’t serious
that time but thank God we are change.
She said looking straight into
my eyes with different gestures aimed at proving to me she’s arrived.
She exhibited her wrist watch, her well polished black high-heel shoes
and she jacked her uniform every minute probably to show me she was no
longer wearing knotty bras. I once mocked her of having too many knots
on her bra. That day she fought with a classmate and both of them got
their uniforms torn into pieces and were brought to the staff room with
only under wears.
I knew she was taking a pound of flesh on me
but I pretended as if I did not understand her beyond the surface. As
she was about to leave she remembered to ask what I had come to do.
Bukky: I hope no problem sir?
I pointed at the direction of Mami’s bed and
said, “That’s my mum.” Unfortunately that provided her another avenue to
come at me. “Ah, I don’t know Iya Aladie is your mummy o, she is
getting better. I was the one that attend to them when they bring them
here in the midnight.” She informed me proudly again.
I felt like shouting 'mo gbe' but I only manage a deep sigh. And she asked, “Unku, why
are you all teacher in your family? Your two sisters that just go said
that they are going to school.” I ignored the question and asked her to
let me know when the doctor is around.
Mami who had listened to
our conversation could guess I knew them. She did not understand
English so she asked what we were saying. I told her I was just asking
when the doctor would be around. I did not want to tell her she was being
attended to by quacks. Then I brought out her akamu which she took
without akara. She told me she was better. “The young girls you were
discussing with are miracle workers. Help me thank them”. I promised her
I will.
After series of medical tests, she was diagnosed for a
chronic typhoid fever and some parts of her intestine would have to be
cut off through surgery. Immediately the doctor briefed the family that
surgery was inevitable at that point, we made all efforts to get the required for
the surgery available only for the doctor to keep telling us that it was
not yet time.
We were patiently waiting for the unstated time to come,
we had chosen to fast and pray for the success of the surgery. He had
stopped us from giving her food; my mother would live on drip till the
d-day. Later he passed tubes into her mouth and urinary passage with
the explanation that some of the dirt inside her would be evacuated
through the process. The process was awry and painful that we hated
seeing her in that condition.
On the fifth day of her admission, we received shocking
news from the doctor. He had told my brother and sisters that he was
being careful of rushing her into the theatre because Mama was too aged.
None of us had the idea of her age but I assumed it to be around 68.
She had told me she married Baba around 23 years of age and she could
not conceive until the fourth year of her marriage. At that time her
first child, Buoda Kola was 41. How can a doctor say a 68 years old
patient is too old to be operated?
I was not satisfied with the
report so I headed to his office to confirm why her case was different
because I know of older patients operated successfully. The lanky and
hostile doctor asked, “What do you know about medicine? Look, I am well
trained and know what I’m doing so I don’t need to keep explaining the
same thing I’ve told your people.” “No, Doctor, I deserve to know why
her case is different. I have seen a doctor operate my grandma and her
mother who was an octogenarian. Besides, Alhaji Asiru Oloola (the
grandfather of Eniola, my wife) was operated successfully in his 80s
too". He did not say a word.
By the seventh day, Mami’s health
became devastating that she could not open her mouth to talk to us again.
She waved me out each time I entered her ward and I was afraid she may
die. The next day, I started crying and avoiding my mother’s sight for
reasons I could not understand. I was sitting with my siblings
under a tree in front of the hospital when Bukky appeared again, she
told me she had been on leave and very concerned that Mama was still in
that condition. Then, she signalled to excuse me. In a very low voice
she said to me, “Unku, why can’t you take mama to another hospital, that
doctor is too stubborn. Please do something before thing turn hand o”. I
told her I would discuss with my people and thanked her.
After
our discussion at about 2:20pm, we concluded to change the hospital to
Oroki Medical Center. A friend of my sister, a nurse in the General
Hospital where the director of Oroki Medical Hospital works as one of
the consultants and surgeon had helped us contact him on phone.
Fortunately he told Sister Funmi that he was a consultant to Faith
Hospital and he would be there before 4pm.
Dr Opabode, came some
minutes to four, he went straight to the doctor’s office before both of
them came to Mami’s bed. He went through her medical records and left
for the mosque behind the hospital having prescribed some drugs meant to
boost Mama’s energy.
I was lying down after the Asr prayer in
which the two doctors had participated; every other worshiper had left
except me and the doctors. I pretended as if I was fast asleep when they
started discussing. Dr Opabode called him by name and regretted being
instrumental to his appointment to the hospital. “You killed that woman
with your incompetence and arrogance. You are not humble enough to call
any of the three consultants we have here that you cannot handle a
simple surgery.” I guessed he left him in anger because I did not open
my eyes so they won’t stop talking. I knew it was over.
I met Dr
Opabode intimating my siblings with the fact that Mama had no strength
to cope with the rigors of surgery at that time so we should keep
praying that the drugs he had prescribed work perfectly. He promised he
would come back by 8pm to monitor her progress. He supervised the first
dose of drugs which will be repeated every two-hour.
The weather was
so hot, it was in the January end and the dry season was in its full
colour. Nigeria Super Eagles were playing the first Quarter-final of the
2008 MTN Africa Cup of Nation with the Black Stars of Ghana, the noise
of the soccer enthusiasts rented the air once a while. We’ve said the
last prayer for the day and my siblings stayed back in the mosque
praying fervently for the lost strength of our mother to return. I did
not join them, I had said my last prayer for the soul of my mum since I
heard Dr Opabode declare the stupid idiot calling himself a doctor had
kill her but I did not tell any of them.
Around 9:20pm, the
weather signed an unusual agreement with the season. It turned cold and
too cold suddenly that we all sheltered in Baba’s Peugeot 504. The
vehicle was older than I; Baba bought it a week before I was born in
February 1981. We were still in the vehicle when the soccer enthusiasts
started trooping out dejectedly. Some of them were blaming some
incompetent players Coach Suhaibu Amodu had substituted. “Osazie and
Ayegbeni are not competent; he should have brought Kanu in before it was
too late.”
“Incompetent?”, “before it was too late”? Those two
phrases caught my attention and I began to interpret it outside football
discourse and context. Could this mean, our attempt to change the
hospital is late? I likened the incompetence of Ayegbeni to that of the
Doctor and Dr Opabode as Kanu whose competence came too late. I was
still thinking of this when the literary term “pathetic fallacy”, came
to my mind. My Literature teacher in Ladigbolu Grammar School had taught
me it is the way people attribute the behaviours of nature to death or
birth of a person. I can never forget the example she gave. “The sky
refused to smile the day Muritala was assassinated”. “But why is the
weather so cold this night?” I asked myself.
I put all this
together and concluded that the murder of my mother was concluded. I
called our eldest brother, Kola, who had dozed off in the front seat,
“Buoda Kola! Buoda Kola!” He rose like a wrestler and asked with a
tired voice, “What is it?” “Please go and check how Mami is doing”.
He
did not argue, he left. My sisters were asking why, I told them I felt
she’s been alone for a while. I knew they knew my defence was just an
excuse and they would not ask again because Baba was with us. Buoda Kola emerged some ten minutes after, my sister and Baba were
excited, they wanted to ask question but he gave them no chance.
Instead, he gave two of them different assignments. Sister Laide was to
go and boil water they would need for the surgery any moment from then.
He told us she had regained her strength and they have to operate her
immediately. Baba was to take Sister Bimbo home to bring the money he
claimed he kept somewhere hidden at home.
When all of them had
left, he called me and said an Islamic phrase “inahlilahii wa inalilei
rojihun.” meaning, "from Him we come and to Him we shall return."
I got
the message perfectly. I gave my brother a look to acknowledge his
maturity. Dr. Opabode met us outside, he apologized for coming late
claiming it was due to some emergencies he had to attend to at the
General Hospital. My brother and I were just looking, he requested we
follow him to the ward and we did. He had not even touched her when he
said, “aburo, excuse us.” My brother said it was not necessary because
we had prepared ourselves for the worst.
He placed his
stethoscope and pressed her chest with his two hands. And my brother
told him what he knew already; “she died some ten minutes ago as if she
was waiting for me. She struggled to hold my hand and died just
immediately.”
He was trying to sympathize with us when the incompetent
doctor entered, he exclaimed, “oh, she didn’t make it!” “Yes, she
didn’t make it and I assure you, you’ll make it to prison instead.” I
threatened. I continued threatening saying, “Just wait for me” as I left
the ward with my brother following me as if we had planned it.
