"Anna! Anna! Anna!" The nurse's voice sliced through the sterile air of the ward, sharp and insistent, reverberating off the cold, unforgiving walls. "You want to let this woman die, right? Your grandmother's diabetic foot ulcer is very bad—infected. If you don't pay for the surgery, they won't amputate her leg, and she may—hmm, you wouldn't hear that from my mouth."
"Die? God forbid," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile hope I clung to. "Nurse, please, if there's anything you can do for my sick grandmother, anything at all to keep managing the foot ulcer, I'll try to raise the money."
"Better go now, o," she retorted, her tone dripping with disdain. "Anywhere you know you can get one hundred and seventy-five thousand naira, go now, or else… or else you know the result."
Those were the exact words of Nurse Popoke.
I stood frozen, a statue of confusion and helplessness, desperately trying to hold myself together. My heart pounded in my chest as I turned to look at Mama. She lay on the hospital bed, her frail body still, perhaps asleep or perhaps lost in a world of pain. Flies buzzed ominously around her old, poorly dressed wound, which leaked mucus and emitted a terrible stench that clawed at my insides.
Nurse Popoke brushed past me, her indifference palpable as she moved to check on another patient, leaving me in a storm of despair.
"Nurse P! Nurse P!" A young woman in her late twenties called out, her voice laced with urgency. "Please, make them carry this woman comot for here now! Her family no fit pay for the private ward. I no fit breathe o, everywhere just dey smell!"
Another woman, her face etched with concern, chimed in, "Na true o, abeg, person no go fit breathe again. Na wa o!"
Their words stung me like a swarm of angry bees, each one a reminder of our grim reality.
Nurse Popoke hissed dismissively, continuing past them. "If e dey smell too much, make una contribute the money for the private ward now, yeye people."
I stared at the scene unfolding around me, my heart heavy with the weight of their words. With a deep breath, I turned and stumbled out of the ward, the sterile smell of antiseptic fading behind me, replaced by the harsh reality of the world outside.
As I walked out of the hospital gate, a single, overwhelming question consumed me: how would I ever gather one hundred and seventy-five thousand naira? Was I to rely on the meager income from the akamu business Mama and I had scraped by on? Or was I now reduced to begging for alms on the street? How on earth was I going to raise such a huge amount of money?
I didn't look back. I continued walking, putting one foot in front of the other, lost in a haze of despair. A torrent of thoughts flooded my mind. If only I knew where my mother lived. If only I knew who my father was. Perhaps I wouldn't be facing this impossible situation. If only this were all a nightmare.
Lost in these dark reflections, I walked on and on until I reached our gate. What was I supposed to do now, Annabelle Oluchukwu Amuneke? What was I to do?
*******
I opened the gate and stopped short. My heart sank like a stone. Two hefty men were hauling Mama's clothes out of our room, tossing them onto the ground with reckless abandon. The chairs, our mattress, the pots and plates—everything we owned was being unceremoniously dumped outside.
"Oga? Ogini?" I stammered, my voice trembling, panic rising in my chest. "What is it? Why are you throwing our things out?"
The tall, muscular man didn't even turn to acknowledge me. I turned to our landlord, Oga Amadi, pleading, "Oga Amadi, biko, we will pay you. My grandmother is still in the hospital, biko, biko."
"Oh, you think this is a charity home? A free house?" he sneered, his voice cold and cutting. "You lie, Oluchukwu, you lie. I have been patient with you and Mama Biyatris, but now, never again. I am chasing you out so I can put other tenants in my house. In fact, what am I saying? I have chased you out. Pack your filthy things and leave this compound."
"To where now?" I cried, desperation clawing at my throat. "Ehh, Oga Amadi, please, you're like a father to me, please!"
"Me, a father to you?" he scoffed, his eyes hard as stone. "My friend, get out of here!"
Our possessions lay in a heap, a meager testament to a life about to be uprooted. Rent had become a forgotten luxury; Mama's health was now a desperate priority. Through the grimy windowpane, I saw them—the neighbors, their eyes like stones, watching. Not a single soul emerged, not a single voice rose in our defense, despite Mama's countless acts of kindness. I remembered Akpan, Oga Calabar's son, and the mornings Mama had gifted his mother akamu for his breakfast. I recalled her fervent pleas to the landlord on behalf of Mallam Tanko and his wife, struggling to pay their electricity. And Lady Franca, so often at odds with her husband, whom Mama had soothed with gentle words. Now, silence. A deafening, heartless silence.
"What a wicked world," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. Tears streamed down my face, a torrent of grief so profound it felt as though the very earth would crack. But the world remained unmoved, the clock ticked on with cruel indifference, and I was left drowning in sorrow, paralyzed by the agonizing question: What was I to do?
With every ounce of strength I had left, I turned away from the heap of our belongings and stumbled into the street, my heart heavy with despair. The sun blazed overhead, indifferent to my plight. As I walked, I felt the weight of the world pressing down on me, suffocating in its intensity. A single thought echoed in my mind: I would find a way, no matter the cost. I had to. For Mama. For us.