Just Imagine is a Zikoko weekly series that takes fictional pop culture icons and reimagines them as chaotic Nigerians.
To drive in Nigeria, you must be insane. It is a standard requirement. So, in a way, we are living the real-life version of Fast & Furious. Except when it comes to jumping from buses to tankers. Who is helping you do that one?
So, on this episode of Just Imagine, I’ll be reimagining Fast & Furious as a Nigerian movie because if there’s one thing we know about Nigerians, it is that we don’t play with our lives.
24 Hours Before The Shoot.
Director’s Apartment.
The Director is sitting on a couch in his brightly-lit living room. He picks up his phone and dials a few numbers.
Director: Hello! Hope everybody can hear me?
The people over the phone respond.
Director: We will be shooting the car race scene tomorrow, so come with your cars because we don’t have car to give you.
There is some murmuring over the phone.
Director: I say come with your car!
The director ends the call.
24 Hours Before The Shoot.
Tattoo Parlour.
Frank Donga drops a call. He is sitting in a tattoo artist’s chair while the artist stands next to him and lays out his instruments.
Frank: You see that this director is mad? Where will I see car now?
The tattoo artist continues his task, ignoring Frank Donga.
Frank: Abi, I can see your own car to borrow?
Tattoo Artist: I don’t have.
Frank: That one outside nko? That school bus. Is not your own?
The tattoo artist holds up an instrument and turns it on. The needle starts to spin. Frank Donga looks from the needle to the artist.
Frank: Is that what you will use for me?
Tattoo Artist: You said you want a big lion on your forehead, right?
Frank: I didn’t know that it is this drill you will use oh.
Tattoo Artist: Have you changed your mind?
Frank: (nods) Draw only the lion’s face. I don’t want body again.
The tattoo artist nods.
Frank: I don’t want it to have eyes, nose and mouth o.
Tattoo Artist: …
Frank: …
Tattoo Artist: So you want an empty circle on your forehead?
Frank: Help me do half.
The tattoo artist sighs and lifts his needle.
Frank: Oga?
Tattoo Artist: Yes?
Frank: Don’t you have those sticker tattoo?
Tattoo Artist:
12 Hours Before The Shoot.
Car Dealership.
Toyin Abraham, dressed in shorts, a fake Lacoste shirt and slippers is walking around the Mercedes dealership. A young salesman walks behind her as she checks out the cars.
Toyin: (points at a car) How much?
Salesman: 60 million, ma.
Toyin: How much for staff discount?
Salesman: Ideally, there is a 2.5% discount, but you’re not staff.
Toyin looks around, leans in and presses ₦350 into his hands.
Toyin: (whispering) Hold this one first.
Salesman: (sighs) Security!
Toyin:
15 Minutes Before The Shoot.
The Director is standing on Third Mainland Bridge, frowning at Toyin Abraham who is chewing sugarcane.
Director: Why did you bring trailer that is carrying goats?
Toyin: (bites sugarcane) I’m taking it to Kano. I want to use one stone to kill two bir…
Frank Donga pulls up with an APGA (All Progressives Grand Alliance) keke napep. The director looks inside and sees 3 people dressed in the APGA t-shirt.
Director: Who are all these ones?
Frank Donga: (turns to them) Vote APGA!
The Members: (in unison) All Progressives Grand Alliance!
Frank Donga: (leans in and whispers) I lied that I’m taking them to presidential meeting.
Director: (whispers back to him) Are you mad? Which stupid pre…
Toyin interrupts them.
Toyin: Where is Odunlade and Ibu? I don’t have time, abeg.
A red Ferrari is spotted in the distance, speeding down.
Frank: Na them be dat?
Director: Finally! Someone has sense!
The Ferrari speeds right past them. They all watch it go. Right behind the Ferrari, a black maria pulls up and Odunlade jumps out of the vehicle.
Director: What is this nonsense that you brought?
Odunlade: They brought to arrest my father-in-law but I quickly say I should borrow it. Let’s do fast o.
Mr Ibu walks into the scene barefoot, eating an orange.
Director: Where is your own car, Ibu?
Mr Ibu: (sucks orange) E still dey for mechanic (chews pulp). I fit borrow your okada?
Director:
The Shoot
The director hands the cast their walkie-talkies.
Director: This is how we will communicate. Now, ACTION!
The three vehicles speed off. Mr Ibu follows them on the Director’s okada. A drone follows them and the director watches the footage on his laptop.
Director: Ibu! Take your okada and slide under that container in your front.
Mr Ibu:
Director: I say drive under that container!
Mr Ibu:
Director: (hisses) Frank, take Ibu’s place under the trailer.
Frank: So that I will die unnatural death?
Director: You’re acting Fast & Furious!
Frank: That’s why I should die another person’s death?
Director:
Director: Toyin, take your trailer and jump off the bridge inside the water.
Toyin: Because is boat I am driving?
A lady is walking on the street. Frank Donga parks his keke next to her.
Frank: Aunty. Ikeja bridge is N150. Hold your change o.
Lady: I’m not going.
The lady continues to walk.
Frank: Where are you now going?
Lady: Apongbon.
Frank: That’s where me too I’m going.
Director: (shouts into his walkie-talkie) CUT! Frank! What are you doing?
Frank Donga turns off his walkie-talkie.
APGA Member: (from behind Frank) Which Apongbon? Are you not taking us to presidential meeting?
Frank: No dey spit for my head. You people cannot even win election, I don’t know why you’re going up and down. (to the lady) This keke is my own, I can take you anywhere.
APGA Member: Our party keke?
Lady: Thank you, my boyfriend will soon be here.
Frank: Ehn ehn?
Lady: Ehn.
Frank:
Her boyfriend, a military man, walks up to them. He is holding a rifle.
Man: What are you talking to my girlfriend about?
Frank: The eternal Kingdom of Christ.
Odunlade is approaching railway tracks. There is a loud horn to signify that a train is approaching.
Odunlade stops his back maria.
Director: Odunlade! Go and stay in front of that train!
Odunlade:
Director: Odunlade, jump in front of the train now!
Odunlade:
Director: Ibu, you run in front of the train jare.
Mr Ibu:
Frank: (speaks into his walkie talkie) Director?
Director: What?!
Frank: Agbero don remove my own tire o and soldier don collect my key.
Director: Collect it back. Tell them you’re filming.
Frank: So that they can collect my kidney join?
Odunlade stops a plantain chips vendor and starts to price the chips.
Director: Odunlade!
Odunlade: Wo, you will calm down ni o. Because I don’t know why your blood is hot for cassette film.
Director: Get back on the road and crash into a danfo. I want everywhere to explode.
Odunlade turns off his walkie-talkie and collects his plantain chips.
Director: Ibu? Where are you going?
Mr Ibu: Church.
Director: WHAT? For what?!
Mr Ibu: I want to sow seed with this okada.
Director: Whose okada? My okada?
Mr Ibu: You don’t want me to progress?
Some LASTMA officials stop Toyin Abraham’s bus and are screaming at her.
Lastma: Bring your papers now! Where are you going with this trailer?
Toyin: Calm down first. Let me get down.
Lastma: We will arrest you if you don’t shut up.
Toyin:
Lastma:
Director: Toyin! Do you know you’re on my set?
Toyin: If you say nonsense, you will collect.
Director: (screams) CUT! Everybody come back here, we need to talk!
The others turn but Toyin Abraham keeps driving.
Director: Toyin! Where are you going?!
Toyin: You put cotton wool in your ear when I told you that I am going to give them goat in Kano, abi?
Director: Won’t we finish this film?
Toyin: I will come for part two.
Odunlade: (whispers into his walkie-talkie) Dire?
Director: What?!
Odunlade: They have started looking for the black maria and I’ve given them your address and Facebook picture.
Director:
Mr Ibu: I no use your okada sow seed again o, Director!
Director: (heaves a sigh of relief) Bring it back.
Mr Ibu: Armed robbers don collect am.
Frank: (shouts into the walkie-talkie) Hello! Director!
Director: WHAT?!
Frank: Someone should come and pick me for here o. I say soldier has collected my keke!
Odunlade: Dire? You know that your flying camera?
Director: My drone?
The Director rushes to his laptop.
Odunlade: LASTMA people have used stone to bring it down.
Director:
Check back every Friday by 2pm for new stories in the Just Imagine series.
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A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week.
The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is a community health worker. Community health workers are trained to assist the healthcare team with tasks like vaccination and all-around preventive care. Our subject talks to us about some of the challenges of the vaccination program, why vaccines can’t be sold, and how to report the side effects of the vaccine.
I wake up to the sound of my alarm telling me it’s time for the fajr prayer. It’s quarter to 6 a.m., and I drag myself, slowly, out of bed to say my prayer. I’m done after 30 minutes, and my clock reads 6:15 a.m. This means I have another 45 minutes to relax my eyes.
I’m up by 7 a.m., and now my day begins — I have my bath, brush my teeth and iron. I dislike ironing. It’s such a boring task. However, every morning, I’m plagued with the burden of ironing my shirts. Thankfully, my trousers don’t need ironing. After I’m done, I polish my shoes next.
After that, breakfast. I warm up leftover food from the previous day and manage to eat very little.
Then I dress up and check the mirror. “Not looking bad,” I say to myself as I dash out of the house.
The first thing the security man says to me when I get to the hospital is “Oga, you no wear nose mask today?”
On one hand, I can’t believe I forgot something so important. On the other hand, it’s understandable because fatigue has set in from wearing masks all the time. I make a mental note to get a mask when I settle in at work.
At 9:00 a.m. the vaccination exercise for the day kicks off. The crowd controller and person in charge of orientation address the crowd on what to expect from the exercise. After they’re done, we start attending to patients. Patients fall under two main groups — people who registered online and have a vaccination I.D. And patients who haven’t registered before and have to be manually registered.
My process typically goes: see if the patient has registered online. If yes, verify their details and proceed to administer the vaccine. If not, register them manually [this takes time], verify information and administer the vaccine. After injecting them, I counsel the patients on expected side effects and monitor them for about 10 – 15 minutes. While monitoring the patient, I also look at my adverse effects kit — which contains stimulants and steroids — in case of any untoward reaction.
I rinse and repeat this process until 4 p.m. when we’re done administering vaccines for the day.
At the end of each vaccination day, we hold accountability meetings where we reconcile the number of patients seen with the vials of vaccines used. We also take feedback and observations from the regulatory bodies on how to improve the whole process for the next day.
These meetings take nothing less than three hours to conclude.
Monday meetings are longer than usual, so I’m preparing my mind. I know that no matter what happens, I’ll leave the hospital by 7:30 p.m. I can’t wait to get home, complete my solats and jump into my favourite place in the world — my bed.
I have some “free” time during lunch break at work, so I spend today reminiscing about all the drama surrounding the vaccination exercise.
On the first day of the exercise, we prepared to receive 600 people in my LGA, and only 70 – 100 people showed up. This was hilarious because, in anticipation of a large crowd, the hospital brought in armed police escorts to prevent vaccine theft and to ensure the safety of health workers.
There was also the challenge of misinformation among health workers. It was difficult convincing some of my colleagues who had undergone the vaccination training to take the vaccines. After all we were taught, some of them simply did not trust the safety of the vaccine.
Lastly, there were people who wanted the vaccination card and not the vaccine itself. Their reason was that since the cards were computerised and had barcodes, it was for international purposes and this could help them get travel visas easily. This was funny to hear.
Lunch break is over by the time I snap out of my daydreams. When I get back to my duty post, there are patients waiting for me. The first patient is uncooperative and starts to shake before even seeing the injection. I spend a few minutes reassuring them that it’s a relatively painless process, but they don’t believe me. From their behaviour, I can tell that we’re going to be here for a very long time.
Today, I’m tired. I’m tired of one person vaccinating as many as fifty people because of the shortage of manpower. I’m fagged out by the long ass review meetings at the end of each day. More importantly, I’m stressed from constantly explaining to people that the main aim of the vaccine is to reduce the mortality rate from the Covid-19 virus and that until the second dose is administered, they should continue safety precautions like hand washing and wearing of nose masks.
I’m also tired of working long hours every day. I just want to be soft in peace.
But even in the tiredness, we move. That’s why I drag myself to have my bath and prepare for work.
At work, the NAFDAC team in charge of monitoring reactions to the vaccine is around. They’re educating people on the types — serious and non-serious — of reactions common with the vaccine. The non-serious drug reaction includes chills, mild fever, headache, pain at the injection site and weakness. The serious drug reaction reactions include anaphylactic shock, fainting, seizures, arm paralysis.
The NAFDAC team also spends some time educating people on steps to take to report any adverse reaction. This information has gingered some of my colleagues who have been sceptical about the vaccine. On our healthcare worker’s WhatsApp group, we all make plans to get our vaccines tomorrow.
I’m lowkey scared of needles but the question is, who isn’t? I’m excited to get vaccinated today, and I’ve prepared myself on what to expect.
9:30 a.m.: Took the vaccine. I kept on asking about the potency of the vaccine which made my colleagues laugh. In their words, “You’ve never worried about potency since you’ve been administering it on others, so why are you asking now?” We all laughed.
2:00 p.m.: Experienced chills and took two tablets of paracetamol to counter it. It’s not me that side effects will kill.
4:00 p.m.: Reported the chills side effects to the pharmacovigilance team of NAFDAC to help them in data collation.
7:30 p.m: Got home, prayed my solats, and did a video call with my girlfriend, the love of my life.
11:00 p.m.: Slept off in order to be properly recharged for another day on the capitalist treadmill.
I’ll be the first person to admit that the vaccination process is not perfect. There are holdups and limitations that slow down the process — system downtime, website crashes, etc. However, one thing I can vouch for is the vaccines are stored in a way that they can’t be resold by health workers.
The value chain of a vaccine is that it comes from the Oshodi central cold store to the local government’s cold store. Before vaccines leave the LGA’s cold store, it passes through a cold chain officer who distributes a realistic amount of vaccines sufficient for a team. At the end of the vaccination exercise, the empty vaccine vials are returned to this officer alongside the name and number of patients seen. After that, the cards bearing the patients names are collected and the barcodes are scanned to confirm the existence of these patients. Additionally, the number of syringes used and disposed of will be tallied against the number of vials used and patients administered.
Also, every LGA team has three supervisors who constantly monitor the vaccination activities for discrepancies. Because of how tightly controlled the process is, the highest that can happen is people paying others to help them jump a queue.
I start my day by giving a version of this speech to someone accusing health workers of selling vaccines to patients. After I’m done with my long explanation, I have a slight headache and I go to lie down.
I’m thinking about a future when I’ll move from the stress of fieldwork to a management role. I’m also thinking that the weekend is here, so I can finally rest. My plan this weekend is simple: sleep all through and be free from the world and all its stressors.
Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.
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A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week
The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is a grief counsellor. Grief counsellors help people experiencing loss to examine the root cause of their emotions. Our subject tells us about how counsellors don’t have quick fixes for emotions, the tedium involved in his job, and why he shows up every day.
The first thing I do when I get out of bed today is morning devotion. After which I have a bath. Then I prepare to start my day. A typical day for me involves either seeing patients with appointments or running operations at my volunteer job. Mondays are mostly for the operations role, and this involves following up with people, making sure tasks are done on schedule and generally being on top of things.
Mondays are also useful in helping me plan my week — I schedule patient appointments, follow up on patients progress and rest so I don’t burn out.
I’m pretty excited about today because I have plans to see a movie after work and to also try out a new food recipe from YouTube. I check my watch and realise that I’m running late. I turn off all the sockets and lights, take one last look to see I’m not forgetting anything and dash out of the door. Another Monday morning, another hustle begins.
People ask, “what is grief counselling?” and I tell them that it simply means taking a deep dive into a person’s life. Because of the many layers to grief — loss of a job, opportunity, failed business — counselling focuses not on the loss but on the quality of life before and after an incident.
I remember losing my mum in 2005 and not feeling anything in real-time. Like most people, I avoided processing the loss and immediately threw myself into schoolwork. It was easier to function well during the day because I had so many activities to distract me. However, alone with my thoughts at night, I cried. This routine went on for a year, then I lost my paternal grandmother that I was close to. Because I had lost two people and refused to process it in such a short period of time, I switched off from being a jovial person and became reclusive and almost antisocial.
I continued to go through life as a recluse until I started living with a psychiatrist friend. He noticed that I didn’t mix with other flatmates or interact with anyone; I’d just come out to eat before dashing back into my room. One day he sat me down and asked me, “How are you?” I answered that I was fine. Then he said, “How are you really doing?”
Such a simple question helped me unravel a lot of emotions I had suppressed and avoided facing.
My friend eventually came to the realisation that even though I had suffered losses in 2005 and 2006, I was still grieving in 2013. Because I didn’t properly grieve, I was living the life of another person for seven to eight years of my life.
I eventually got therapy and dealt with my emotions.
That event showed me that grief causes people to spiral and can manifest as depression, panic attacks or anxiety. Grief counselling involves reviewing the before and after effect of an event and examining how it has affected a patient’s relationship with people, their life and their self-esteem. The knowledge is then used in developing a strategy for both patient and counsellor to walk through the loss together.
This is the pitch I give all my patients when they come to me.
I’m tired from running around yesterday, so I’m going to cancel my appointments and spend the day recharging.
I did sleep hypnosis for a patient today and I almost “died.” I was so tired after the session that I needed a colleague to pick me up. One of the challenges of this job is that it takes an emotional toll on you. Constantly listening to grief stories is a weight that we must bear, and that’s why grief therapists seek out ways to offload. We do this by either spacing therapy appointments, asking for help when we’re stumped, or in my case, surfing the web and making podcasts.
Another challenge grief counsellors face is that people want quick fixes for their emotions. I tell them that emotions take time to resolve and involves the active participation of the person feeling them. If the patient is not ready to put in the effort to examine their feelings, then the therapist will never get to the root of the issue.
Patient participation ensures that patients who recover are clear-eyed about the steps that got them out of a funk. Knowing the difference between the steps they took and how a therapist helped prevents patients from saying: “It’s God,” or “It was my therapist that helped me get through my grief.”
I’ve had clients cancel on me because they either didn’t feel better after one session or they didn’t want to do the soul searching assignments I gave them. I’ll still not stop preaching that there’s no magic formula; therapists are not saviours. Psychologists are not saviours. Psychiatrists are not gods. We don’t have the answers and we need patients’ participation in therapy. Without effort on the part of our patients, there’s not a lot we can do.
A lot of Nigerians approach grief like something that goes away unattended to. Only very few people come seeking help after losing a loved one. There are some people who consider break downs as not being emotionally strong. I encourage my patients to cry, especially if it helps them get through a difficult situation.
I generally advise people who are grieving not to blame themselves, especially if they think their action or inaction was somehow responsible for the death. The next step is to encourage them to have conversations with people so they can sit with their emotions. Conversations help to examine their thoughts about an issue and to also observe how thoughts affect feelings and how feelings influence behaviour. It then becomes “easy” for the therapist to hold their hands as they break thoughts, and ultimately, their behaviour in the aftermath of a traumatic event.
This method doesn’t always work, especially on days like today where I’m dealing with a difficult patient. We’re not making any progress in her sessions because she’s not ready to examine the root of her grief. She has been missing sessions, ignoring assignments and generally been uncooperative.
I’ve decided to refer her to another colleague.
A major downside to this job is that because the service is intangible, it’s difficult for people to appreciate the value. If it was a tangible product, I’m sure that more people would cooperate. Regardless of the challenges, we move.
The plan for today is simple: make podcasts and upload videos to my Youtube channel after seeing a few patients. I’ve been creating content around grief and mental health since as far back as 2009. I envision a reality where there’s so much accessible knowledge that anyone can hold a basic mental health conversation. As a society, we need to be able to talk about how we feel without being made to feel like we’re worthless or we’ve committed a crime.
We need more people to be in touch with their emotions. My perfect future is one where your excuse for not knowing about mental health won’t be that you’ve not heard or you didn’t have resources. This is what gets me out of bed every morning to repeat the hustle cycle over and over again.
Thank God the weekend is here because, on Monday, we go again.
Check back every Tuesday by 9 am for more “A Week In The Life ” goodness, and if you would like to be featured or you know anyone who fits the profile, fill this form.
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As told to Hassan.
A couple of weeks ago, I overheard a doctor talking to an ex-patient. The tenderness in the doctor’s voice piqued my curiosity. During the course of the conversation, he sounded incredulous because someone had died. For someone so used to death and dying, the doctor was visibly shaken. A few prodding questions, a couple of phone calls and consent later, I had the story that led to this article.
My sister died at 11.47 p.m. on Friday. I’m not sure what her last words were, but she must have probably called out for me, saying, “Mummy, don’t leave me.”
Mummy? I can tell that you’re a little confused. To understand why she used to call me mummy, we need to go back to the beginning.
***
4 years ago:
My sister was a vibrant, playful, four-year-old child. At least until the pain came. Young children in pain can’t fully express themselves with words because of their limited vocabulary. However, they show discomfort by either writhing in pain or becoming dull and withdrawn. In my sister’s case, it was the latter. She quickly became a shadow of herself; solemn and reclusive. Her withdrawal worsened so much that her dad, who’s actually my brother, had to beg me to take her to the hospital.
My first question was, “Where’s her mother?” to which he replied, “She abandoned me and ran off with another man.” — we’ll get to her uselessness later.
So, thus began our journey of doctors, syringes and repeated rounds of diagnostic tests.
***
Everyone who saw us at the hospital always asked: “Is she sick?” or “Is she visiting someone?” To which I smiled and responded, “She’s sick.” The next thing was for them to say: “How can a child this active and pain-free be sick. What’s wrong with her?” With a tight smile, I’d say: “Nephroblastoma“, pause, and add “a cancer of the kidneys.” The response would be a characteristic “Oh…”
Another question I always got was “Who’s she to you?” To which I’d reply, “my sister.” Since we were related by blood [her dad, my brother], I preferred calling her sister rather than my niece.
It took us six months before we got her diagnosis. In that period we had gone from one general hospital to another in Lagos before finally landing at the University of Ilorin Teaching Hospital. This change had required leaving my job in Lagos to take of her for six months in Ilorin. In that time frame, we experienced one major surgery, numerous rounds of chemotherapy, multiple blood transfusions, and various forms of brokeness.
Her dad would shuttle between Lagos and Ilorin and send money, grudgingly.
Her mother simply never showed up or called. The most effort she made was to send her sister to take a photo of the sick child.
My sister got tired of waiting for her mother to show up, and she started to say: “Iya Amirat [name of my sister’s immediate older sibling] didn’t come to see me, so she’s not my mummy. You’re my own mummy.”
This newfound bond made things tricky for me because she was always scared that I’d leave. She never let me out of her sight. She’d follow me if I had to go buy medicines, or even if I was going to the toilet. One time, she yanked off her drip because I was going to get medicine outside the hospital compound. She was definitely not letting her new mummy go so easily.
One thing that struck me about that period was that all the kids in the ward who had similar symptoms as my sister died. Some died while on admission, others, like my sister, died after a brief period of recovery. The doctors kept asking if we lived near a refuse or telecommunication mast or anything that might have predisposed her to the illness. To which I always answered, “No”. Then they’d scratch their head trying to figure out how best to help her.
The solution always came back to chemotherapy.
One round of treatment cost us ₦15,000. And she had to undergo treatment three times a week. This was minus treatment for some of the side effects of chemo, and minus the tests she had to take before starting chemo. Every treatment cycle involved her hair falling out, a bout of malaria, a lot of blood samples, and her dad complaining that he didn’t have money.
When her dad asked us to return to Lagos, I didn’t put up a fight. At that point, I was tired of his complaints and I was also tired from uprooting my life. That’s how we abandoned the treatment halfway to restart our lives in Lagos.
Things were going well until one year later when the illness returned. Before then, she had returned to her playful self. I had also been saving from my salary to finally attend University. Our fairy tale was shattered because the sickness came back with twice as much force. Her breathing was the first to struggle, then the pain came along.
Once again, we found ourselves back at the hospital from which we had run.
***
We had barely spent a week in the hospital when my sister gave up. I’ll never forget the time because at 11:30 p.m. on that day, I had rushed to the pharmacy to get some drugs for her. At that point, she was already gasping for air. The doctor met me on my way back from the pharmacy and pulled me aside. She told me, “Your sister has given up.” I replied, “Is she sleeping?” Then the doctor said, “She’s dead.” To which I replied, “Dead bawo?”
At that moment, I wanted to give up. I felt betrayed. After all we had gone through, she abandoned me. How could she be gone like that? I had just asked her a few minutes ago what she wanted to eat, and she had responded. What happened to our promise of beating this illness together? Did those words hold no meaning to her?
Looking back, the signs were there that it was her last week. She had to bend to breathe, she was always in pain, and had to lie in the foetal position to be comfortable. But we had passed through worse, so I thought this too would pass.
I take consolation in the fact that God knows best.
***
Pain ages people. It turns adults into wizened old people, and it makes adults out of children. Part of the reason I miss my sister a lot is that we related like age mates. Even though I was eighteen at the time and she was barely five, we found a lot of common ground in conversation. I found that I could talk to her about my struggles and she could also confide in me.
In addition to her precociousness, she was also smart. My sister knew the name of her favourite doctors, the name of tests like Full Blood Count, or medical jargon like PCV. She also quickly learned to associate hospital gates with a lot of pain.
There were also extreme mood swings where things got thrown at you. Or she could become so lively and animated that you had no choice but to participate in her joy.
I sometimes feel guilty that her father didn’t have enough money for us to stay back and finish the treatment. Then I also get angry that her mother never showed up. In her short life, my sister learned that pain could be both physical and emotional. For that reason alone, I can’t ever forgive her mother. There’s a part of me that still believes that if her mother was present she might have held on for longer.
I’m grateful for the experience. I’ve come to understand how precious the gift of life is. I’m grateful for the time I got to spend with my sister, however short. Most of all, I’m grateful for the privilege to be the mother she never had.
Editor’s Note:
Balikis, the subject of the story shared her story to spread awareness of Nephroblastoma and to also seek ways the Nigerian government can help in the early detection of the illness.
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“A Week In The Life” is a weekly Zikoko series that explores the working-class struggles of Nigerians. It captures the very spirit of what it means to hustle in Nigeria and puts you in the shoes of the subject for a week
The subject of today’s “A Week In The Life” is a medical house officer. House officers are freshly graduated doctors completing a one-year mandatory work program [called house job] for more hands-on experience. Our subject tells us about not getting enough sleep, being owed salaries and how the house job experience contributes to doctors leaving the country.
The thing about being a house officer is that there’s no wake-up or sleep time — you need to be awake whenever the hospital calls you — continuously for one year. You have to find time in between work to get some sleep.
On a day like today where I managed to sleep before 12 a.m. and nobody called me through the night —which is rare — I wake up around 6 a.m. I pray for a bit. I check my phone to see if anyone from the hospital has called me, and I sigh in relief when I meet an empty screen.
I have my bath at 6:30 a.m., wear my clothes, and I’m off to the ward by 6:55 a.m. It takes me twenty minutes to get to the ward from the medical officers quarters, and I arrive at 7:15 a.m.
As the most junior doctor in the unit, I start my day by administering medications to all the patients — sometimes as many as 31 patients to one house officer — on the ward. In between, I have to clerk, document and ensure that no patient died over the night or is dying. I’m also somehow miraculously expected to do all these tasks before the “official” resumption time of 8 a.m.
On paper, ward rounds start at 8 a.m., but because nobody cares about the time of a house officer, the senior doctors stroll in whenever they want. Today, they arrive a few minutes to 9 a.m., and I’m put on secretary duty. My job during the round is to write down things like: “Patient seen.” “Carry out xx test.” “Patient doesn’t have money.”
After a while, I zone out.
It’s afternoon by the time we’re done with the rounds. It sucks, but I’ve been assigned one of the most ghetto tasks — mop ups. My bosses have left me to figure out how to run the tests the patients need. One patient needs an X-ray, another needs blood, and someone needs to see a specialist team.
My eyes are starting to turn, so I sneak off for lunch.
Post-Lunch: I ran some tests. Argued with a patient relative over buying of medications. Begged another patient’s relative to kindly run some tests. Survived.
It’s 6 p.m. when I finally catch a break. I can’t rest for long because it’s time to administer evening medications to the patients. It takes me an hour and thirty minutes. I leave the ward dragging my feet in search of dinner and maybe a shower or a nap. I’m barely at my quarters before I get a call from the Accident and Emergency unit— there’s a patient gasping for air. I grudgingly turn back. My long day is about to get even longer.
Theatre days are a whole new struggle. You have to go to the blood bank to “fight” for blood the night before major surgeries. Your job is to beg the scientist to keep at least two to three pints of blood for your patient. Then your Senior Registrar [SR] will call you at 4 a.m. to go to the blood bank and ensure that your patient’s blood is ready.
This is where it gets tricky.
You’ll hear either one of two things — your patient’s blood is ready or they gave out the blood overnight because of scarcity. If you hear the latter, that’s the beginning of your problems because your S.R is just going to shout at you for something that’s not your fault. If you’re lucky and you get blood, you move on to stage two, which is carrying the unit bag. This contains sutures and other equipment needed for surgery. If your village people are with you and you fall under the general surgery unit, your unit bag can be as heavy as a small adult.
I sincerely do not recommend.
The next step is to carry the bag to the theatre and prep your patient around 7 a.m. The surgery may not start until 10 – 11 a.m. and before it starts, it’s the house officers job to run around for whatever the patient needs or may be missing from the bag. During the surgery, your role is to run random errands like fetch heated normal saline or pass equipment.
Your role is to also get shouted at. Everybody shouts at you — from the porters to the nurses to your senior colleagues. The house officer is fair game for everyone’s frustrations.
After surgery, the house officer’s job consists of waiting in the recovery room to monitor the patient’s vitals every twenty minutes and relaying this information to your oga real-time. After about four hours, and if vitals are stable, you may then be either allowed to leave or ordered to wait until the patient is transferred to the ward. Unending problem everywhere.
I’ve come to a conclusion: house job is just one long year of similar stressful days repeated over and over again.
By some miracle, I have a few hours of “free” time today. However, I’m too worried to relax because I fear that the hospital can call me at any time. Ever since I started my house job, I get a mini-heart attack anytime my phone rings. I’m always worried that something has happened and they need me in the ward.
If I can get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, I’ll be fine. Is that too much to ask for?
The most challenging unit for me is the Accidents and Emergency [A/E] unit. It’s stressful witnessing the lived experiences of patients. Some patients come in terrible states after being mismanaged by quacks for Typhoid and Malaria, which is an illness that doesn’t exist.
I hate the phrase Typhoid and Malaria.
By the time the patients get to our hospital, they’re already in critical condition and there’s not so much we can do. To worsen their case, they have to battle mosquitoes, hard examination beds, and no admission bed space at the A/E. Some patients come to the hospital with only a thousand naira. Where do you start helping them from? It sucks because there’s no insurance and all payment is out of pocket.
I’m tired of losing patients to things they don’t need to die for. At the end of the day, I’m only one house officer managing a big emergency room.
This silent struggle is why I get sad when patients beat up doctors. Half the time, I want to scream, “See how Nigeria is messing both of us up. I too am a victim of the system.” It’s ironic that you’re beating me up when I’ve not been paid in months, and I also haven’t slept well in days.
Today, I got a message on our house officers group chat: “Violent relative in the ward. The person has broken examination tables and chairs and promised to kill any doctor in sight.” That was my cue to take off my ward coat, gingerly wrap it in my bag and sneak into the call room to hide. For a few minutes, I was not a doctor. I was just a baby girl trying to live long enough to enjoy the salary she slaved for.
Today I’m thinking of how house job completely erases the possibility of staying back for many doctors. And it’s because of many little rubbish like not having sample bottles to take blood samples, or being owed salary and still being expected to show up. Is it the call rooms with rats as landlords? What of overnight call food which is definitely not fit for human consumption? Nobody cares about the house officer.
I’ve left them to their rubbish. In the middle of house job, I wrote IELTS and told God: “I’ll not die in this country.” I also wrote PLAB 1 exams as the first step of japa.
In my 500 level, I had the privilege to practice clinical medicine abroad, where it works, and trust me it’s sweet. Forget all the dragging doctors get on Twitter, medicine is a noble profession. Doctors are badass and it’s not beans. I know that if I stay in Nigeria I’ll never get that feeling of fulfilment. Anyone that has seen the miracles of medicine where the system works will always want that feeling. In addition to that nice feeling, the money also correlates.
I’m not ashamed to say that my ideal future involves a shit load of money. I have dreams of owning a house in the countryside, running a small yoghurt shop as a hobby and being a plant mom. I’ll also throw in a little travelling and some random rich people’s activities in the mix.
If I stay back to practise medicine in Nigeria, I fear that I may never achieve those dreams.
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