Sometimes, Time Scars

The world didn't grow warm when I lost my mother. I keep recalling the sympathizing words of the twenty people who graced the burial in my father's living room;

“Stay strong Efe, with time everything will be alright”.

It was their lengthy way of breaking the 'time will heal’ clicheque phrase to a nine-year-old.

I held on tightly to my father’s long legs that cold afternoon in June, afraid of the strange-looking faces that squated before me, patting the old hanu biu mama made for me, two weeks before she fell to the power of the flu.

I still think about it, how could a common flu claim Mama's life?

My 17th birthday and admission present was a small button Tecno phon Papa bought. I had always wanted to have a phone. I envied Beatrice and Sarah when they used their Asher 2100 to take pictures during our free period in math class. And when they’d talk about a chat they had with a boy in school on Facebook, I always went mute, not knowing what to say or add to the conversation.

Out of pity, Sarah would pull me to herself in those moments and say “Don’t worry, you’ll soon have a phone”.

And I'd smile a smile that never touched my eyes, because I knew Papa would never get me a phone, at least not yet.

“When you’re of age, I promise, you’ll have a phone. There’s time for everything. Right now, the time is for you to sit up and pass your WAEC and JAMB so you can get admission”, Papa said to me once when I asked after a meal of red vegetable rice.

I understood as always. If we were wealthy, having a phone might not have been a thing to ask for, but Papa was working morning and night, through sun and rain, and the only money he could spare was the ones that passed through his teeth.

Since Mama's death, I learned to understand and not ask for luxury, even when I needed it.

Like on my matriculation day. I watched as every year one student I met was getting ready, a week before the event. The girls were getting their nails and hair done, buying new clothes and shoes. While the guys got fresher trims and bought suits and cool shoes.

I had gone to the ATM stand two days before the D-Day to withdraw one thousand naira I hoped would last me for the rest of the week as it was Thursday. I heard the guys in front of me talk about the girl who was using the ATM.

“See her hair na. Na fresher she be” one of them said.

I was a fresher too, but you could only tell if I showed you my course form because my hair was undone and just packed in a short ponytail. My nails were not painted nor were my lashes fixed.

My roommates teased me and called me stingy for not wanting to spend on myself even on a special day like that.

“Matric is nothing. I’ll do all that and more for my convocation. That’s the most important one” was my defense line to them, just like Papa had said to me over the phone.

I understood and never asked for more than I was given. Even from God.

But for once I hoped I'd be understood when Papa broke his leg from working in a construction site.

I was a struggling youth going around from office to office, attending job interviews, and selling perfumes when I could. It was a hard realization learning that my lecturers were wrong when they said an Agricultural Economist could work anywhere. Turned out we aren’t so high in demand.

It was at one of my interviews that I got the call from a strange number. I let it ring off since my phone was on 'silence’.

So after my interviewer shook my hand with the usual catchphrase I now say along with them in my head “We'll get back to you”, I called back the number. The recipient picked immediately.

“Are you Efe?” The strange feminine voice queried.

“Who's asking?”

“Look, your father gave us your number. If you're Efe, you need to come to St Luke's hospital now” she said, ignoring my earlier curiosity and spiking a new one.

“What?” I shouted, but she had already hung up. “Hello?” I looked at my phone.

Was this a prank or was it real? I couldn't tell, and wouldn't let my brain work it out either because I was as fast as I could be on my feet, racing out of the hospital, forgetting I'd get there faster if I hailed a bus, but soon realizing that and getting on the next bus that stopped.

“Where you dey go?” The driver asked from his seat.

“St. Luke's hospital” I managed to say between pants of breath.

“Where be that?”

I stopped for a second. I too did not know where St. Luke's hospital was.

“Eh madam?” The driver said impatiently.

“Um”, I looked at the three passengers on the bus with me, an old father and his grown-up son and a young lad. None of them could offer the help I needed.

“I no know” I said.

Without knowing when or how, I began to break into sobs. The driver who had been going off loudly, asking me to get down from his bus turned to me in shock, the old man looked at me with a scowl on his face, the young lady beside me looked as if confused, yet irritated by my display.

I wish I could stop the tears, but I couldn't. My father was in a hospital and I didn't know where or why. I had finally accepted that it was not a prank and I didn't know what to do.

Just as I was about getting off the bus, embarrassed with myself, the young man with his father said “Stop. Where do you think you're going like that?”

Was it a rhetorical question or not, I couldn't tell, but just cried even more.

“Driver let’s be going. We’ll be asking questions on the way” I heard him say to the driver.

To me, he said "It's alright. What's the problem?”

Although I had accepted my reality, my lips felt heavy at the thought of bringing it to words. I tried until finally I blurted;

“My dad is in the hospital and I don’t know why. They called and said I should come now, the person on the phone sounded like it was an emergency. I don’t want to lose him” I cried.

“Heyyyy, shh. You won’t lose him” he assured me like he knew that for a fact. The old man’s eyes were still on me, but this time, he wasn’t scowling.

“Wait, you say person call you?” The driver asked.

“Yes” I replied.

“Oya call the person ask am for direction”.

In the midst of my rowdy thoughts, I never considered doing that. Immediately I dialed the number again and before she could begin talking I said;

“Please how do I get there from Ewet Street?”

“Who’s this?” It was a different voice now.

“Hi, I got a call that my father is in your hospital, but I don’t know how to get there, please how do I get there?” I explained.

“Oh, ok, um, where did you say you are?”

“Ewet Street”.

“Oh, ok. Get on a bus going to Abakaleke Street, from there get a keke coming here”.

“Thank you very much” I said and ended the call which was on loudspeakerer for the driver to hear. I watched him do a reversal, heading back to the places we’ve passed already.

We got to Abakaleke Street and the driver said “na here oo”.

“Thank you very much” I said to him and to the three passengers on the bus, if they hadn't been patient and selfless, I would have probably still been at Ewet Street.

“How much sir?” I asked the driver, but before he could speak, the young man who had been comforting interjected.

“Don't worry”.

My mouth dropped and I was near tears again, but remembered my father, so instead I said my thanks and went across the road where there was a lineup of yellow kekes.

“St. Luke's hospital” I said, loud enough to get the attention of a driver.

“One-fifty” he said and I went to take a seat.

It looked as though they were having a slow day and if I were to wait for passengers to fill the three remaining seat in the keke, my muscles would wear out, so I called on the driver.

“Oga, you dey carry drop?”

“Yes”

“Make we go abeg”.

“One thousand naira” he informed me.

“Make we dey go” I almost yelled. In a different situation, I knew I wouldn’t take the ride, as the price was too absurd and he probably wouldn’t have asked for that much if he didn’t see from my teary red eyes, the stench of desperation and impatience.

He kickstarted the engine and in not more than fifteen minutes, we were in front of St. Luke's Hospital. I paid him and ran into the brown and cream-colored two-storey building.

The tiles were slippery but I made it safely to the receptionist, where I met the nurse I assumed I had spoken with on the phone.

“My father” I said breathlessly, “Mr George Ikan. You called me”.

“Oh, that's you. Please give me a minute”.

I watched her click on a computer mouse, then suddenly she stopped and gradually turned to face me. Her eyeballs roamed around the building as if in search of someone.

“Um” she kept saying.

“Nurse. Nurse” I called her, trying to keep her attention on me, “my father?” I asked.

“Let me, let me get the doctor” she stuttered.
A fresh set of tears welled up in my eyes. From her reaction I perceived something unfavourable. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Silently I offered a prayer.

“God please” I exhaled and opened my eyes allowing the tears to flow down my cheeks.

“Hi” a masculine voice came from behind me.

“Hi” I said and wiped carelessly at the tears on my cheek. On seeing my state the doctor's lips parted slightly without making any sound.

“Miss Ikan” he started. “Your father had diabetes and wasn't taking his medications as he should. With the injury to his leg, we hoped an amputation would be the best treatment, but we needed consent from someone first, as he was not in the state to make the decision himself. Because of the pain, we administered anesthesia. However…” he stopped and looked in my eyes as if searching for the right way to break it to me.

In his searching eyes, I found the confirmation of my thoughts. My knees felt frail and couldn't hold my weight anymore as I became heavier with the new pounds of grief my heart was accommodating.

The world never grew warmer when I lost Mama, but today it has become colder.