by Chidozie Nnachor

    “The tubes conveyed a much darker liquid, which on closer inspection Tope discovered was blood. “

There are places Tope wants to be in, hospitals are not one of them. Hospitals are death camps, literarily. From the eerie silence that pervades the whole expanse of dark walls, to the totally intolerable smell of death and sorrow stabbing your nostrils at every turn, you come to the conclusion you would rather be in a prison than in a hospital. Tope was in a hospital recently and the experience left him yearning for a visit to the penitentiary rather than this spirit-sapping experience.

Everywhere he turned, human suffering stared him coldly in the face. Death and suffering awaited his visit right there at the corridor. On getting through the doors of the hospital, a group whom he later learned were called ‘convalescents’, assaulted his 5 senses and rudely brought his private reverie to a halt. The sight of these people threw up memories of war, hunger, malnutrition and frustration in a set of dreamy faces. They ambled about, their feebleness evident in the robotic steps which passed for movement. Everything they did – their greeting, their smile, their camaraderie – reeked of a struggle to rid themselves of death’s stranglehold on their frail bodies. They don’t look, they mope. As is evident in the percentage of their eyeballs revealed under emaciated eyelids. One look at their eyes, and he instantly knew that what lay before his eyes, was a new personal benchmark for suffering.

Tope’s in-law was the subject of the visit. He was shot in the lungs, by the terrifying night marauders. There he lay, recuperating, barely able to turn his head sideways and crack a weak smile as Tope felt his way into the dark hospital room. Tope snuck closer to have a better look. The usual hospital paraphernalia which consists of a series of white rubber tubes and bags reached from a stand beside the bed to somewhere in his body. Tope had seen several versions in previous sick-bed visits, and lots more in the movies.

This one was different. The tubes did not convey the usual colourless and odourless liquid Tope was conversant with. The tubes conveyed a much darker liquid, which on closer inspection Tope discovered was blood. Thick dark blood! At the base where the contraption was attached to his chest, the distinct ‘phrii, phruu’ of his blood spurting out of the bullet wound on his lungs in unison with his breathing can be heard. He was not being infused. The dark trail was his life juice leaving him ever so slowly!

Tope could stand it no more. He quickly expressed the necessary sympathy, patted the sick man on the legs and dashed out the room, dizzy, knocking over something sitting somewhere near the door which he did not bother to look. The doctor reassured him the wounds weren’t as bad as they look; That blood he’ll lose, yes. That soon the bleeding will stop. All the doctor said fizzed past him.

“Oga, abeg find us something. We are hungry”, he heard someone say as he looked behind the door to the entrance where he had dropped his umbrella. “Oga please help us. They no dey allow us commot because we no fit pay our money”, another blurted out in quick succession. “Oga, abeg….” He dipped his hand into the inner pocket of the suit he had on, grabbed all the change he could lay hand on, flung it at the disheveled, convalescing crowd and ran out of the hospital.

Marching down his street, Sunny Neji song blasted out of the CD vendor’s speakers: I’m so thankful for Ntishokarome…

He could not guess what Ntishokarome meant. Whatever it really meant, Tope felt it was safe to assume that it meant something good, something to be grateful for. He too was grateful for the gift of health. He too was thankful for Ntishokarome.

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Chidozie Nnachor is a young man struggling to succeed, much like everyone else. He loves books, and hopes to write one, someday. He believes there’s no absolute truth. He tweets from @odogwudozilla.

30 Days, 30 Voices series is an opportunity for young Nigerians from across the world to share their stories and experiences – creating a meeting point where our common humanity is explored.

Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija