I Do Not Come to You by Chance (10 page)

I confirmed that I had just enough money left over in my wallet and set off on another impromptu trip to Owerri.

 

Ola was not inside her room. My photographs were still missing. And instead of the wooden locker, there was a brand new refrigerator standing by the wall. Two girls were looking through some clothes piled on Ola’s bed. I recognised one of them as an occupant of the room.

‘Please, where’s Ola?’ I asked.

‘She’s not around,’ the roommate replied.

She would either be in the library or in the faculty lecture theatre.

‘If she comes in while I’m gone, could you please ask her to wait for me? I’m going to the faculty to look for her.’

The roommate was about to say something. The other girl hijacked her turn.

‘Ola isn’t in school,’ she said. ‘She travelled to Umuahia about two days ago.’

‘She went home?’

‘Yes,’ the girl replied.

How could Ola be in Umuahia and not let me know?

‘When is she due back?’ I asked.

There was an awkward silence. The girl looked at the roommate. The roommate did not return the look.

‘She didn’t say,’ the roommate replied.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and shut the door behind me.

It was late when I returned home. Godfrey and Eugene were huddled in front of the television while Charity was lying on the three-sitter sofa.

‘Where are Daddy and Mummy?’ I asked.

‘They’ve gone in,’ Godfrey replied.

‘It’s not been long since they went,’ Eugene added.

‘Daddy said he was having a headache and wanted to go in and rest, so Mummy went in with him,’ Charity expatiated.

Their answers came one after the other, as if they were reciting a stanza of poetry and had rehearsed their lines to perform for me when I returned.

I went into the children’s bedroom and changed into more casual clothes, returned to the living room and relaxed in a chair.

My mind was moving like an egg whisk. My brain cells were running helter-skelter. How could Ola have come into town without letting me know? What else had her mother been saying behind my back? Poor girl. I would visit her first thing tomorrow morning to allay her fears. Fixing my gaze on the screen, I tried my best to be entertained.

It was difficult. In the movie, a charcoal-skinned father and a charcoal-skinned mother had been cast as parents of an undeniably mixed-race daughter. This was not the only gaffe. Another woman had been cast with a teenage daughter who, based on her appearance, could very easily have passed for the mother’s elder sister. Plus, whoever was in charge of that aspect of things had forgotten to replace the large, framed photograph of the family on the wall of the opulent living room with one of the family of actors who had borrowed the house to shoot the scene.

The lead actress had just discovered that the man she was about to marry was her long-lost father, when I heard the first scream. I assumed the noise came from the television. But when Godfrey lowered the television volume, we knew it was there in the house with us. We rushed to our parents’ bedroom.

My father was sprawled like a dead chicken by their bathroom door. My mother was crouched over him with her hands on his shoulders and her head close to his chest. She was shaking him, listening for his heartbeat, and screaming.

‘
Hewu Chineke m o
!’ she cried. ‘You people should see me o!
Hewu
!’

Her face was wet with tears. We threw ourselves to the floor and gathered around my father’s still form. Charity burst into tears. Odinkemmelu and Chikaodinaka, having heard the commotion from the kitchen, also rushed in. I pushed everyone aside and listened for a heartbeat. With relief, I confirmed that my father’s life was not yet finished.

‘Mummy, what happened?’ I asked.

‘
Hewu
God help me o . . . God help me o . . .
hewu
!’

I pulled myself together and recovered some of that level of thinking that sets man apart from the beasts of the field.

‘Godfrey . . . quick! Go upstairs and ask Mr Nwude if he can come and help us drive Daddy to the hospital in his car. Hurry . . . hurry . . . !’

I turned to the rest. ‘All of you go out . . . just go out. He needs air.’

I shooed everybody away and closed the door. My mother was still crying. I checked my father’s pulse again and again. Godfrey returned from his errand.

‘Mr Nwude said we should start bringing him out. He’ll meet us downstairs.’

I turned to my mother.

‘Mummy, please wear something.’

From the wardrobe, she dragged a boubou, which had black stains from unripe plantains covering most of the stomach area, and pulled it over her nightdress. I bent down and held onto my father’s arms beneath his shoulders while Godfrey held his legs. We lifted his body from the floor. With his head balanced carefully on my belly, we carried him out. A quick thinker had already opened the front door wide - the main entrance to the house that we reserved for special visitors. That exit would be closer to Mr Nwude’s sky blue Volkswagen Beetle.

Mr Nwude rushed out, dressed in an outfit that he ordinarily should have been ashamed of. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and bathroom slippers, with his short-sleeved shirt buttoned halfway up. His wife stood beside my mother while we arranged my father into the backseat. I and my mother squeezed into the front passenger seat and forced the door shut. The old car sped off as best as it could, leaving the members of our household staring in distress.

‘What of your card?’ the nurse asked.

We were at the Government Hospital Accident and Emergency Unit.

‘What card?’ I asked back.

‘The one they gave you when you made your deposit.’

‘We didn’t make any deposit.’

‘OK, hurry up so I can arrange for a doctor to see him soon.’ She pointed her chin at my father, who was lying on a wooden bench with my mother standing beside him. ‘Go and pay then come back and fill out the forms.’

What was she talking about?

‘Just walk down the hall,’ she explained. ‘Turn right and walk to the end of the corridor, then turn left, and you’ll see a blue door. Three doors from the blue door, you’ll see another door that is wide open. Go inside, then look to your left. You’ll see where other people are queuing up. That’s the cashier. Pay your deposit and bring the receipt back here.’

Deposit? I looked at Mr Nwude. He looked at the nurse.

‘Madam, please, this is an emergency,’ Mr Nwude said. ‘Let the doctor have a look at him now and we’ll bring the money by morning.’

She almost laughed.

‘Madam,’ I begged, ‘please, first thing tomorrow morning, we’ll bring the money.’

She folded her arms and looked back at me. I wondered if the feminine of brute was brutess.

‘Nurse, please . . .’

She patted a pile of forms on all four sides until every single sheet was perfectly aligned. We pleaded and beseeched. She strolled to the other end of her work space and started attending to other matters. We beckoned my mother. Reluctantly, she left her husband’s side and leaned on the counter.

‘Please, my daughter,’ she said in a mournful, motherly voice. ‘My husband is very ill and we need to get him some medical attention as soon as possible. As my son was telling you, by tomorrow, we’ll bring the money. I can’t lie to you.’

Pity clouded the nurse’s face.

‘Madam . . .’

‘Please . . . please,’ my mother begged, shedding some tears for emphasis.

‘Madam, please. It’s not as if the doctors and nurses here are heartless. We’ve just learnt to be realistic that’s all.’

She explained that after a patient was admitted, it became almost impossible to discontinue treatment if it turned out that the patient could not pay. The doctors and nurses were now tired of contributing from their own pockets towards the welfare of strange patients.

We rushed back to my father’s side and held a quick consultation. My father did not conceal an emergency stash inside his mattress. All the banks were closed. There was nobody we knew in Umuahia who could afford to loan cash readily.

‘What do we do now?’ my mother asked. Her face was drenched with worry.

We carried my father back to the car and went searching. The Ndukaego Hospital told us that they were very sorry. The King George Hospital promised us that we were wasting our time. The Saints of Mount Calvary Hospital assured us that there was nothing they could do under the current circumstances. My mother lost her mind.

‘Hewu!
God, please help me! My husband is dying o! My husband is dying!’

‘Mummy, please.’ For the billionth time, I confirmed that my father still had a pulse. ‘Mummy, please calm down.’

She continued babbling to God.

‘Let’s try another hospital,’ I said to Mr Nwude.

A light bulb flashed above his head.

‘My wife’s brother has an in-law whose aunty’s husband is a senior consultant in the Government Hospital,’ Mr Nwude said. ‘Maybe we can go and ask if they can help.’

We sped to the wife’s brother’s house. He gave us directions to the in-law’s house. At the in-law’s house, my mother flung herself against the floor and uttered a cry that shook the louvers. The in-law got dressed and accompanied us to the aunty’s house. At times like this, I had no grudges at all about Umuahia being such a pocket-sized town.

After assuring us that the hospital would have no qualms about shoving my father out the next day if we did not produce the cash, Senior Consultant Uncle gave us a signed note addressed to the hospital emergency ward. We sped back to the Government Hospital, flung the note across the desk to the nurse, and got my father attended to pronto. Thank God for ‘long-leg’.

‘He’s had a stroke,’ the doctor declared.

He said that my father’s blood pressure was too high, that he was in a coma. He could not give any definite prognosis, but gave instructions for my father to be admitted.

The hospital lift was not working, so I and Mr Nwude carried my father up via the staircase to the medical ward on the third floor. After every few steps, we would lean on the wall and pant before continuing.

At the ward, some junior nurses took my father from us, while a militant senior informed us that we could not go in. Visiting time was over.

‘You can sleep in the car park if you want to spend the night,’ she insisted. ‘This is not a hotel.’

Mr Nwude dashed back downstairs, retrieved the senior consultant’s note from the nurse at reception, and brought it to the ward. The militant nurse changed her mind.

‘You can spend the night, but it would have to be a private room.’

A more expensive alternative, but we did not 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 . . .