I have always thought that life flows like water in a river-one day normal, the other rough. Every morning we wake up with plans and sometimes we never know what God or fate has stored up by the end of the day. I found this inconvenience with the most painful emphasis, on a day which I am not likely to forget.
It was Monday. Always heavy with me, Mondays. The type of day that you wake up to and don t even brush your teeth and get into an argument with your spirit about whether or not you're going to drag yourself out of bed yet. My little store waits for me, where I sold foodstuff. People were purchasing pepper and customers were waiting to purchase garri, rice, beans and even gist. This is what my life was. Banal, dull, unsurprising.
We had a weird chill in the harmattan breeze that morning. As my daughter, Adaeze, was getting dressed to school she was dragging her school sandals. She was reminding me with her little voice, "Mummy, you said you can buy me new shoes."
I will my love. This week, I replied, and gave my wrapper a good working up.
She smiled and only that smile could make even bricks of stone tender. I filled her food flask with rice and plantain and took her to the gate of the school. During my journey back I experienced something strange, a whisper of some sort passing my ears. Yet I shook it off.
The market was vibrant at the shop. Women were shouting prices, men had loads on their heads, and children were running. Live indignity noise. I settled my provisions, smiled at my neighbours and sang in the survival melee. Hours passed.
Well then it came.
A call.
My phone has rung and I could see a number that I had not stored. At first I considered for a moment not to take notice. But that is fate.
I said, returned, hello.
There was an official tone in the voice on the other end. Mrs. Chidinma?
“Yes. Who is he?”
This is St. Luke#s hospital. Please, do come at once! It concerns your daughter.”
My pulse stopped. I got my mouth open but there were no words. What of my daughter? Finally I whispered.
“Yes. Hurry on, please.”
I did not even lock my shop. I ran. There was a slapping of my slipping into my slippers on the dusty ground. My chest felt like the fire belonged in it. I prayed step by step. God, please. Take care of her.
By the time I got to the hospital, I was getting weak in my legs. I was busting into the glass door with my gaze on her. Then I noticed her Adaeze in the emergency ward who was lying on a bed.
She had blood on her forehead, her school uniform had been torn. Tubes were in her tiny arms. Machines were beeping next to her.
“Jesus!” I shrieked, and started to her side.
Mummy, whispered feebly.
I was tempting her hand. “I’m here. Here I am, baby. What has occurred?”
One of the nurses pressed my shoulder. She had a car accident. A keke was attempting to avoid a lorry. She was knocked down in the road across to her school.”
The world went round and round. I heard loud ringing in my ears. “Accident?” I repeated.
“Yes. We are trying our best but she is in a critical state.”
I could see Adaeze. My Adaeze. Then only that morning she had been drawing about her shoes. This morning she had beamed with all her little teeth. She was struggling now to live.
In came the doctor. "We must work at once. Please, you are supposed to put some money on the cashier now. Otherwise, we are unable to move on.”
How much?” I trembled in my voice.
Seven hundred thousand naira. He said
I was broken hearted. Seven hundred thousand? I have not even seventy thousand. The amount of money that I had saved all my life in my shop could not even match that.
I went on my knees. God help you, doctor, save her. I am going to get the money.”
The face of this man was hard. We can't start madam, without the deposit.
I ran out of the house with tears not able to stop. I phoned my friends, relatives, and neighbors. Others sent little two thousand, five thousand. And it was as though it were an uphill task to put drops of water in a drum.
Time was marching. My girl was losing hold.
I returned to the ward. Adaeze was half staring at me. Hush, “Mummy, don’t cry,” she whispered.
She wounds me like a knife. I smiled (I forced the smile). I am not crying, baby. You see, you will get along all right.”
And within me I was shattered.
Then destiny stuck the dagger in deeper.
The man who walked into the hospital was one I knew all too well sitting in there pleading in my prayers to God. My younger brother, Kenechukwu.
He was not alone however. He had on a fine agbada, gold chain dangling around his neck and two bodyguards. I had not seen him in months. He was wealthy at present. Too rich. But everyone knew the how, fraud, scams, blood money, they said.
So he said, with the appearance of a smile, Chidinma. Word got around about Adaeze.
I retracted there. Kene pleez, oh doe. Help me. Seven hundred thousand is what I require to be able to free her of surgery. Please.”
Then he looked at Adaeze, and at me again. He sighed. I will be able to assist you. But here is one condition.”
I was all alarmed. “Anything. I will, anything.”
You will have to pardon the past. both And take me, and be My brother. Publicly. Under the eyes of the family. No more of my being a criminal. That ends the insults. Take me in, and then take the money.”
I froze. Face memories came out, the day he played a trick on our uncle, the day the police raided our mothers place due to his activities and the day he threatened to slap me when I labeled him a disgrace.
I had broken off with him, to save my daughter his example. But here he was, playing with my daughters life like it was a bargaining chip.
My heart got constricted. And how was such a fate?
And I stared at Adaeze with her frail self there. Kene had cold calculating eyes and I gazed at him.
Tears would come rolling off my face.
My pride or my daughters life?
I shut my fists and trembled all over. All right, I said. “I accept. You are my brother.”
And he smiled content. Good girl. He gave a gesture to his body-guard, who delivered me an envelope. What was within was money. Sufficient medicine over and above the operation.
I ran to the cashier, paid and the doctors wheeled Adaeze into the theater.
Hours passed. Endless hours and hours. I knelt down, I wept and walked up and down the hall like a lunatic.
At last the physician came out. He was weary, and serene. She did it. The operation passed successfully. She is going to require rest and observation, but she is living.”
I fell on the chair, and cried. Thank you Jesus. Welcome.”
They allowed me to see her. She was lying asleep, with heaving bosom. I rubbed her hand, saying, in a low voice, You are my miracle.
However, in my heart I knew. My heart already had fate written of a scar that could not be healed. And still I sold a little part of my soul to save my daughter.
And my life never after the dread day was the same.