mind.
My father’s room reeked of disinfectant. The walls were stained, the bed frame was rusty, and the lumpy mattress had a broad depression right in the middle. There was neither bedsheet nor pillow.
‘You’re supposed to bring you own bedding,’ the nurse chastised.
After my father was secure in bed, oxygen mask clamped over his face, blood samples drawn from his veins, tubes inserted through his nostril and wrist, catheter through his penis, Mr Nwude was ready to leave.
‘Thank you very much for all your help,’ my mother said to him. ‘We really appreciate it.’
‘My pleasure, madam,’ he replied. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow to find out how he’s doing.’
‘Mummy, why don’t you go home with Mr Nwude and let me stay the night with Daddy?’
My mother took a seat at her husband’s bedside and shook her head firmly. The resolve on her face was as solid as Gibraltar.
I saw Mr Nwude off to the car park. It was not until he drove off that I noticed. Lo and behold, there were people covered in wrappers and lying on mats in many corners. The nurse was not being sarcastic when she suggested that we could sleep there.
All through the night, the mosquitoes came riding in on horseback. The males hummed shrill love songs into our ears, the females sucked blood from our exposed arms and feet. Tired of swatting the air and scratching her limbs, my mother shut the windows against them. Minutes later, we were almost at the point of asphyxiation. She opened them again. The mosquitoes were clearly the landlords. But at some point, we must have set aside our troubles and fallen asleep. A young nurse shook us awake in the morning. I rubbed my eyes and scratched at a red swelling on the back of my hand.
‘You should bring a mosquito net for your father,’ the nurse suggested. ‘And bring a fan for yourselves. Even if NEPA takes the light, as long as there is fuel, the hospital generator is on from midnight till 4 a.m..’
‘The doctor who is supposed to see him,’ my mother asked, ‘what time is he coming this morning?’
‘He can come in anytime.’
The nurse handed me a sheet of paper. I studied the handwritten list. The items included a pack of cotton wool, bottle of Izal disinfectant, pack of needles, pack of syringes, roll of plaster, disposable catheter bags, bleach, gloves . . .
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘Those are the things we need for your father’s care,’ she replied. ‘Any item you don’t find at the hospital pharmacy, you’ll have to go out and buy it from somewhere else.’
The list even included intravenous fluids!
‘Does the hospital not provide these items? Are they not part of the bill?’
‘Every patient is expected to buy their own.’
‘Let me see,’ my mother said.
I gave the list to her.
‘So what would have happened if he didn’t have any relatives here with him?’ I asked. ‘Who would have had to buy these things?’
‘We never admit any patient who is not accompanied by relatives.’
Irritation had assumed full control of her voice. The last thing I wanted was for someone whom I had entrusted with my father’s life to be angry with me over such a minor issue. My mother also seemed to share this thought. She handed back the list and surreptitiously poked my thigh. That was my cue to shut up.
The nurse tugged at some wires and peeked under my father’s clothes before exiting the room. As soon as the door clacked shut, my mother turned to me.
‘Kings, please hurry up and go to the house and get the cheque booklet for our joint account. It’s in my trunk box. Bring it immediately so that I can sign some cheques for you to take to the bank and withdraw some money.’
‘I’d like to wait and see the doctor before I go.’
‘Please, go now. You know they admitted us on trust.’
On my way out, I walked past a nurse who was pushing a squeaking wheelchair. The wheelchair was stacked with green case files.
The queue at the bank went all
My father’s room reeked of disinfectant. The walls were stained, the bed frame was rusty, and the lumpy mattress had a broad depression right in the middle. There was neither bedsheet nor pillow.
‘You’re supposed to bring you own bedding,’ the nurse chastised.
After my father was secure in bed, oxygen mask clamped over his face, blood samples drawn from his veins, tubes inserted through his nostril and wrist, catheter through his penis, Mr Nwude was ready to leave.
‘Thank you very much for all your help,’ my mother said to him. ‘We really appreciate it.’
‘My pleasure, madam,’ he replied. ‘I’ll come again tomorrow to find out how he’s doing.’
‘Mummy, why don’t you go home with Mr Nwude and let me stay the night with Daddy?’
My mother took a seat at her husband’s bedside and shook her head firmly. The resolve on her face was as solid as Gibraltar.
I saw Mr Nwude off to the car park. It was not until he drove off that I noticed. Lo and behold, there were people covered in wrappers and lying on mats in many corners. The nurse was not being sarcastic when she suggested that we could sleep there.
All through the night, the mosquitoes came riding in on horseback. The males hummed shrill love songs into our ears, the females sucked blood from our exposed arms and feet. Tired of swatting the air and scratching her limbs, my mother shut the windows against them. Minutes later, we were almost at the point of asphyxiation. She opened them again. The mosquitoes were clearly the landlords. But at some point, we must have set aside our troubles and fallen asleep. A young nurse shook us awake in the morning. I rubbed my eyes and scratched at a red swelling on the back of my hand.
‘You should bring a mosquito net for your father,’ the nurse suggested. ‘And bring a fan for yourselves. Even if NEPA takes the light, as long as there is fuel, the hospital generator is on from midnight till 4 a.m..’
‘The doctor who is supposed to see him,’ my mother asked, ‘what time is he coming this morning?’
‘He can come in anytime.’
The nurse handed me a sheet of paper. I studied the handwritten list. The items included a pack of cotton wool, bottle of Izal disinfectant, pack of needles, pack of syringes, roll of plaster, disposable catheter bags, bleach, gloves . . .
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘Those are the things we need for your father’s care,’ she replied. ‘Any item you don’t find at the hospital pharmacy, you’ll have to go out and buy it from somewhere else.’
The list even included intravenous fluids!
‘Does the hospital not provide these items? Are they not part of the bill?’
‘Every patient is expected to buy their own.’
‘Let me see,’ my mother said.
I gave the list to her.
‘So what would have happened if he didn’t have any relatives here with him?’ I asked. ‘Who would have had to buy these things?’
‘We never admit any patient who is not accompanied by relatives.’
Irritation had assumed full control of her voice. The last thing I wanted was for someone whom I had entrusted with my father’s life to be angry with me over such a minor issue. My mother also seemed to share this thought. She handed back the list and surreptitiously poked my thigh. That was my cue to shut up.
The nurse tugged at some wires and peeked under my father’s clothes before exiting the room. As soon as the door clacked shut, my mother turned to me.
‘Kings, please hurry up and go to the house and get the cheque booklet for our joint account. It’s in my trunk box. Bring it immediately so that I can sign some cheques for you to take to the bank and withdraw some money.’
‘I’d like to wait and see the doctor before I go.’
‘Please, go now. You know they admitted us on trust.’
On my way out, I walked past a nurse who was pushing a squeaking wheelchair. The wheelchair was stacked with green case files.
The queue at the bank went all
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