Tag Archives: health

The Scream – 2

 

“I’m not going to die here,” I said to myself, “not yet, not on the street like a dog. I’ll see my family and say goodbye to them. I’ll find out what happened to me.” I said to the bright sun and the looming night. I have no idea why I had the thought that I was not yet dead, but it gave me hope, enough to have a little strength. A dark shape appeared above and blocked what little light I had left to see, and then it spoke.

“Pele Aunty, sorry, what is your name?”

“Funke” please, help me. I raised my right hand and he touched it.

“Calm down, I’ll help you. Your phone is dead. This is it” I couldn’t see anything. Do you know any number I can contact? I nodded.

“Okay”. I gave him my brother’s number. My dad was my first thought, but I could picture him falling apart. He would first rush to the toilet and back. Then he would go again, maybe three times before making up his mind on what to do.

“The number is not available. I tried it twice. Do you know another one?”

My tongue was getting heavier and getting hard to swallow. My throat was shutting down the passage to my voice box. I recited my dad’s number. “Couldn’t he just get me out of here first before calling a family meeting? His voice broke into my thought. “Hello, omo yin Funke, your daughter had been hit by a vehicle at Ojoo. Can you hear me? Hello, he cut the line. I can’t reconnect with him.”

“I’ll give you another one, my mother’s.” And I did.

 “Hello, your daughter has been hit by a vehicle. Yes, she was in an accident. We are taking her to UCH now, join us there. Hello, hello, she is not responding. The line is on but she is not talking.”

“My sisters, I know my sisters’ lines too.” He called them both but they all disconnected at the mention of UCH.

“Do you know another one? Funke, answer!

“Yes, yes— 0805—5—” it was becoming awfully difficult to speak, to think. I couldn’t remember. The number was in there somewhere, my brother-in-law’s but I couldn’t remember. Everything was dark and hot like my head. It was too dark to see anything. I couldn’t see the rest of the number. My mind was being wrapped in a thick blanket.

“Hello”, his voice hauled me back again, from the deep dark hole. “Somebody has called back, I think it’s your father. “—ehn, meet us at UCH, your daughter had been hit by a vehicle. Yes, we are going there now.”

“I told you to calm down, I have contacted your father, he would join us at the hospital. I’m going to get a taxi now. My own broke down, but my friend is near. I’ll just call him. I’ll be back.”

I wanted to tell him not to leave me but I couldn’t see anything. So, I closed my eyes maybe the dream would fade and when I opened them I’ll be home in my bed.  My waist kept burning, and the warm thing kept trickling.

I remember the man’s voice. Was I hit? But how? Where was I coming from? And where am I? Why can’t I remember? Did he say Ojoo? Okay I was going to school, to UI for a lecture walking with my friends? My friends, where are they? Were they hit too? I have to ask him.

When did I leave home? Home, my head was too cloudy. No feedback was coming from the main database. The warm fluid wouldn’t stop trickling between my legs. My legs! Why can’t I move or feel my left leg? Then another realisation set in, the heat was coming from my leg. It was in my left leg. Now, I wanted the dream to stop. The chill was overpowering me. I was becoming the chill. But I have to be strong, I just knew it. It was all I had to do, all I could do even as the bright light was being swallowed by darkness just like I’m being swallowed by the chill.

An Amputee’s Prayer (1)

What would an amputee pray about?
What would be their major prayer request?
A new leg?
That the limb or limbs would miraculously grow back? I don’t know what it was supposed to be. But I do know I have never asked for it before. Not ever.

My niece was reading the story of the Shunamite woman of 2Kings Chapter 4 to me few days ago. It was the story of the woman who took pity on Elisha the prophet and made a chamber for him in their house, so he could rest whenever he comes around. Elisha in turn asked what could be done for her for her generosity. So he prophesied to her that by the following season she would embrace a son.

And it was so.

Then the child died.

The woman took him to the prophet’s chamber and laid him on his bed. And then she went in search of the man of God. When she found him, she took hold of his feet and asked why he would give her a child and then take him away. The prophet sent his servant Gehazi to lay his staff on the child’s face, but the Shunamite woman refused. She would not leave unless the man of God came with her.

He did. He went in to the child, prayed to the Lord and did his prophet thing. The child sneezed seven times and opened his eyes.

Before that, there is the story of the poor widow and his two sons whom the man of God saved from her creditors. And after it, there is the account of dearth in Gil-gal and how the man of God made the poisonous pottage safe for the sons of the prophets. He also fed hundred men with twenty loaves of barley.

“There are no more miracles”, my niece said simply at the end of the chapter. They don’t exist anymore like in the Bible. I opened my eyes, looked at her and closed them again, hoping she would close the Bible and let it rest.

“They don’t happen anymore, even when you believe they would”

I sighed, I could feel my hope dissipating in the heat.

“I prayed for you”. I pray for you every day but it never happened”.

I opened my eyes again and stared at the ceiling. I watched as my hope that she would let go of the dearth and death of miracle ascended into it.

I didn’t have to ask what the prayer was. I knew it. And then I wondered why I never asked for it myself.

Maybe my faith is not strong enough. Maybe I don’t believe it is possible. Or I was just contented with walking unaided with my legs in my dreams.

I don’t know that too. But one thing is sure; I have to give the young lady an answer.

I Remember (1)

I remember her eyes. There was something eerie about them. I can almost see her now like I did four years ago. She was dark and thin, but there was strength in those eyes, in their depth. The way she blinked and widened them….I still get goose bumps whenever I remember them. She was feeble but her upper arms were strong; thin, but steady like her icy eyes.
I was about to jump into the waiting cab when they flung opened and our eyes met. Mine held, even when hers dropped to straighten her floral skirt. I hardly stare or take much notice of strangers but for some reasons I was glued to that spot. I was frozen. Now, when I think of it, I still have no idea why I paused.
When she looked up, I looked away, embarrassed like a child caught peeping through a key hole. Then I saw a young man, maybe her brother judging from the same set of full upper lips and oversized nose. He looked worn out in a dirty jeans and faded t-shirt holding her wheel chair. I stepped back to give him room, just realising then that I was blocking the way. I couldn’t stop myself from watching their well mastered performance of moving her from the car to the chair. How she folded and shrank her body into a ball, her hands hugging her chest to make it easier for him to lift her into the wheelchair. I was enthralled. Then our eyes met again. I turned and hurried on to get another cab even as the driver was calling me to come back. As I was about to to step onto the cab, I glanced back and our eyes met, again. Hers hardened and then widened, with contempt? I have no idea. I wondered why at first, then I realised she must find it irritating. I wished then that I could show her my thoughts. Or maybe she was offended that I didn’t take the cab? I sighed and closed the door.
I tried not to look to my right as I rode to lecture. But I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering to her. I pictured her bathing, dressing, growing from girlhood to womanhood. I wondered if she had a boyfriend. Will she have children, know the joy of motherhood? Then I saw another boy hopping on one leg and a wooden crutch. I wondered what happened to him too, was he born that way, or an accident? How does he survive every day knowing tomorrow would be the same? What does he do when in danger? Who looks out for him? Who takes care of them all? I didn’t have to wait for long to find out. As I didn’t return to my home or bed until four months later. I spent those months in a surgical ward with a front row view watching “Behind the Scene of an Amputee Life”.
Now, I know.

The Old Album

When I found the album it was caked with dust. I wonder why it looked like a relic of the Second World War, I had flung it to the back of the closet, where I couldn’t reach it. But now I can, I’m much better, stronger and steadier. I opened it and was surprised that it opened to the last picture I saw. It was the picture I took at the front of our old house on my birthday five years ago, before everything fell apart. Except it looked nothing like me. I was darker, simpler calmer and very innocent with big eyes; uninteresting and young, but of course I was younger. I was dressed in a sky blue shirt and a dark blue knee-length jean skirt.

It shows the legs, nice, shapely smooth calves. I had nice legs, I know it and people said it too. They looked awesome, but they didn’t feel like mine. The last time I saw the picture, my whole body went still and everything around me too. My heart wouldn’t stop hammering at my rib-cage. My eyes were so heavy with unshed tears, I wanted them to drop to at least mourn their dead mate. But they wouldn’t, so I flung it.

Today, the picture look so unreal and so far away, a lifetime away. I looked down at the left limb where the rest of the leg was supposed to be. It stopped mid-air like a frozen raindrop waiting for someone to press the play button. And the right leg has put on a muscular and fierce looking armour; wearing protruding veins and scars, its warrior badges in place of its former sexy look.

The residuals of the traumatic experience has faded into occasional nightmares and buried amidst counsels of accepting the present, look into the brighter future and forget the past. I closed the album and stared at the face looking back at me from the mirror on the wall and wished she could tell me what this is, healing, denial or acceptance?

Crazy or Not

I am not beautiful, not really.
I’m not talented, or maybe a little.
I’m not rich or famous. But there are some things I’m passionate about, wealthy or not everybody deserves that. I love dancing; it empties my mind of negative thoughts and purge me of loneliness.
I love walking, especially in the night, or in the rain. Crazy? Maybe, but nothing is more soothing than the stroke of the cool night breeze. I love riding okada at night. I’d let my hair loose for the wind to whip though it after the day’s work. It’s a great way to destress and exciting too. Too crazy?
Aren’t we all? I loved the cold. The colder the weather, the better I sleep.
The point is we love what we love, crazy or not. They give life to our souls, they make us more alive than spirits floating in the air. But what happens when those things are snatched from our warm fingers without warning. When all we have left of our being are the memories of the used tos? Leaving our souls floating, merely existing.
Where do we start?
How do we recover from the shock of the snatch?
How do we hold on to the tail of the kite connecting to our soul?
How do you find your way back to you?

New Leg For Uche

UCHE is a young vibrant guy who had his leg crushed in a ghastly automobile accident almost two years ago. He eventually lost his leg due to poor medical facilities within his locality. He had contemplated suicide but with divine intervention, he’s gradually turning his life around. 
Due to Uche’s past medical expenses, he and his siblings, who are orphans, are currently out of school.
Uche has discovered his passion for life despite his circumstances and he aspires to having a career in the music industry. 
Uche needs a prosthetic leg. You can help Uche by contributing  towards procuring this much needed aid.

Here is the link to the donation site

http://www.gofundme.com/nc2p37z4

“…the Chains of benevolence must not be broken…”

Insomnia

Sleep took its flight
I embraced the light
Memories of the day
Sway gently in the moonlight
Ghosts of the past
Waltz into the present
And together
They mock the future
Who lies patiently
In a mist of uncertainty
On my rumpled pillow
My eyelids pinch mercilessly
As the long night
Fades into daylight

(C) Olufunke Kolapo, 2015

The Script

I am acting the part
As stated in life’s script
I’m acting my part
Smiling and keeping on
So the others
Can act their parts
Of lingering not and moving on

I drop my part
And shelf the mask
When I’m alone
I drop my part
And hang the armour
When the honest me
Takes over the weary me

Then, I drop the act
And hopefully pray
That I don’t loose myself
In between the parts