Sad Stories

Fatuma a sex worker living in the suburb of Liberia woke up in the early hours of the morning to realize that she had nine missed calls from her mum, three from her boyfriend and seven from her sister. She checked the time the call came in; 5:30am. What could have been so important that couldn’t wait till in the morning when she was fully awake? As she was about to toss her phone to the bed, her mum called her and then she picked grumbling first to her mother how it was rather to early ,before the sobbing from her mother made her realize that there was something wrong. Mother! What is the problem why do you sound like you have been crying? Your father his dead she stammered! Fatuma could not believe her ears. How did it happen? Was he sick? There was no answer she probed further and harder wanting to know the cause of her father death and then her mom told her it was the Ebola virus which has been ravaging her country Liberia for over a year. Her mother had warned father not to visit that man at the Ebola isolation center but he will not listen now see, who will take care of the 8 children he has left behind? Danladi a university undergraduate from Uganda has just lost his mother to the gruesome hands of typhoid fever just a day before his convocation, it was of no surprise though as she had been warned severally by the village doctors and her only son to stop the drinking the traditional concoctions produced carelessly from the Owino market but she will not listen. She says it’s a way of appraising the gods. She had turned deaf ears and lost her life just as she was about to begin to reap the fruit of her labour.she had suffered for 24years to make sure he got the best of education and now look at what had befallen her. Illiteracy they say is the mother of all problems What about Professor Gwandu a literate in all ramifications whose thirst for coke and Fanta was unquenchable. If as a student you needed any help from him you need to buy Professor Gwandu a bottle of coke or Fanta. He could consume 4 to 8 bottles of soft drink in a day. Soon he began urinate frequently than normal, he became increasingly thirsty and hungry. He observed this abnormality and carried on with his life.one morning he woke up and found out he could not hear a thing. He was taken to the hospital which confirmed he had diabetics and has lost his ability to hear. This was very depressing news. His wife Mrs. Ola Gwandu severely depressed and deep in thought did not notice she was on a speed of 120 she kept on thinking and did not notice the incoming truck because of the speed she was running at, she couldn’t get her vehicle to come to a halt! She crashed into the oncoming truck and lost her life instantly. What a loss So as to avoid the story of Fatuma, Danladi, Professor Gwandu and his wife we need to take necessary precautions concerning our daily living. To whom has ears let him hear ;Prevention is always better than cure!!

We Need Better Health Facilities in Nigeria

Mid last week, my temperature was running high and since I am clearly not a fan of hospitals, I thought it was best to limit myself to the confines of my room until the sickness disappears but my mom was having none of that. She dragged me to the hospital. My first reaction when I got there was “WTH! This is crowded.” I signed up for a medical consultation and found a place to sit. After 3 hours of waiting, the bad tempered nurse at the reception area called my name. Thank God, I thought. Before she let me into the doctor’s office, she put me on a height scale, weight scale and proceeded to pump my BP. “Nurse, Its just fever not a modelling audition. Are all these necessary?” I asked giggling. She frowned at me and increased the pressure till the friction numbed my arms. That was her way of telling me to shut the hell up. I was not surprised to say the least. Its no news some Nigerian female nurses are far from polite. Especially those ones with big buttocks that are always roaming from ward to ward with a tray of injections, looking for an innocent patient to stab. Like someone said on twitter, its only in Nigeria the nurses would wake you up from sleep to give you sleeping pills. When I got into the examination room, I was expecting some sort of gadget to be used on me but everything was done MANUALLY. The doctor even used his palm to gauge my temperature rather than a thermometer. Oshey baddest doctor!!! “So what is wrong with you?” He asked. “That is your job doctor. If I knew I wouldn’t be here.” No, that was not my reply. Clearly in Nigerian hospitals, you are expected to diagnose your problem in your house so you don’t waste the doctor’s time at the hospital. “Fever.” I replied. For all I know it could be a fever disguising as TB. God Forbids! A cancerous fever. God Forbids! A brain tumour fever. God Forbids!! Ebola Fever. God Forbids!!! But no, not in our hospitals. The first rule they operate in is, “All facts surrounding a fever must be twisted and twisted until the final diagnosis reads MALARIA.” Now I made his job easier, he began manipulating my replies. “How is it doing you?” He asked. Na wa o. See question. I used my palm to massaged my chin for a few seconds and then I said, “Its doing me somehow oh.” “You have headache?” “No” “Loss of appetite?” “I guess.” “Cough?” “No.” “Cold?” “Small.” He turned to my mom this time. “Madam, she has malaria!” He exclaimed. *sigh* As usual. Don’t we all? It seemed he forgot to ask me when last I saw my period in his line of questions. My heart broke some years back when a malaria diagnosing doctor threw the question at a twelve year old bisola. The only diagnosis these doctors are good at making are malaria, pregnancy and HIV. All my life, whenever I go to the hospital, I always return home with the same malaria declaration after the doctor has assessed me MANUALLY. Sometimes when the doctor is in a good mood, he takes my hard earned blood and upgrades me to typhoid. This is the reason my dad almost bundled me to a native doctor when a medical doctor told him the chances of his fragile 5-year old bisola surviving malaria were 20:80. At least native doctors have high-tech equipment like a calabash for skyping with sango, a speaking mirror and no-nonsense oracles. Even when I roll into the hospital from the expressway with green blood dripping from my nose, blue mucus dripping from my mouth and down syndrome attitude, Its still malaria! Back to our story. It was time for drug administration. My favourite part where the doctor gets to clear the shelves of the in-house pharmacy for me. The closer the drugs are to their expiration date, the more generous he gets. Five transparent nylon of drugs were given to me. First contained several tablets of paracetamol, second contained those medium size multi vitamins, third contained more than twenty tiny yellow tablets, fourth contained a green coloured anti malaria tablets and the last one, orange vitamic C. “Take all of it. Directives are on the pack for your dosage.” The doctor commanded. All ke? He didn’t even have conscience. That was when I gave into a hysterical laughter. I laughed to the point that I felt the fever leaving me in annoyance. When I walked back to the reception, I wanted to grab a mic to announce to the impatient prospective patients to return home. After all, their problem is either pregnancy or malaria. Finally home, it was time for me to be my own doctor as usual. I tossed everything into my trashcan except for my vitamic C which became my hourly tomtom. Until our health care system improves, I know what to do when sickness strikes again. Migraine : Alabukun powder Headache : Panadol Catarhh : Procold Purging : Flagyl Boil : Robb Waist pain : Aboniki balm Madness : Native doctor Dislocated bone : Pastor Chris HIV : Prophet T B Joshua