my younger brother and I sometime late last year
Many years ago, when I was about 12-13 years old, I almost lost my only brother to the cold hands of death. Looking back, I believe it is one of the most harrowing experience we've ever faced in our family. This is the story.
For some reason, everyone seemed to be down with measles. First, it was me. For days, I lied down feverish with my parents at their wit's end. They bought medicine and tried herbal mixtures all on the recommendation of friends and wellwishers. Maybe one of the medicines did work, maybe my body could fight the measles and was only bidding its time, but the illness didn't cost me my life. Long story short, I made it through.
Then my sister had her turn. Curiously, the first medicine that was recommended for me - Seven Keys to Power, a local herbal mixture - worked perfectly for her. In only a few days, she was up and doing well.
And the it was my brother's turn. Having dealt with it in two of their children, my parents were quite confident that my brother's recovery was a done deal. They used local medicine, prayed and continued their lives. They, alongside my sister and I, were in for the shock of their lives.
I remember the day like yesterday. I had just returned from school and was in the living room - one of the two rooms my father could afford to pay for. I noticed my mum and her friend trying to prepare a meal for my younger brother through the partition between the living room and the other room. Due to the measles, my brother had lost his appetite.
I salivated greedily as I smelt the aroma of my mother's cooking - tasty Ewedu Stew with Titus fish served with hot steeming red Eba. Surely, my brother was in for a treat. I sat in the the living room thinking of how I would volunteer to clear the dishes after my brother was done. Of course I didn't expect him to even eat half of the meal. Problem is, my brother didn't even eat anything out of the meal.
At the time, my mum, who is a seamstress was working at home. She also had two apprentices who were also working with her at home. One of them, the younger, took the food to my brother. My brother was lying on a sofa. She tapped him but there was no response. She did a second time and then a third and then a fourth and then...
In those moments, as she kept on tapping, my mum, her friend and the other apprentice had gathered. Surely, my brother was playing some sort of a trick. My mum wasn't one to think of the worse so quickly but the other apprentice was.
The other apprentice shouted, "Jesus, Holy Ghost fire, " and all of the religious chants she knew. She then picked up a one leg of a rubber slippers from the floor and began to beat my brother hard on the sole chanting "Jesus! Jesus!" All the while, I remained where I was, watching, waiting. The whole experience was surreal for me. I didn't know what to make of it.
The first apprentice, seeing my brother didn't respond, dashed out of the apartment and screamed with a large voice, "Marvelous don die o" -.meaning "Marvelous is dead" (As I write these words, the tears I had then have begun to surface again in my eyes)
At that moment, something I had never thought was real, had never given myself to think about, had come to pass. I had just witness the death of somebody. At that age, the only people I knew that died were villains in action movies who so deserved death. Not my younger brother, not Marvelous.
Before my watery eyes, my mum and the other apprentice carried my brother outside. There, neighbours had gathered asking questions and proffering all sorts of solutions. Someone then asked that my mum urinate on my brother. My mum is a strong conservative person. But in that moment, she did as she was told, in public glare! Water was poured on him and prayers were offered while I looked on from afar. Unable to bear it anymore, I made my way back into the apartment. I stared at the meal on the table and lost my appetite. I had just lost my brother, how could food appeal to me?
As I sat and at that young age tried to understand what had just happened, my mum apprentices rushed into the apartment, followed by my mum and her friend and between the two of them was my brother.
My brother was hale and hearty. My brother was alive. I couldn't believe it but it was real. I looked hard at his face. There was nothing different about him. He was the same brother I knew.
I'm an atheist. However, everytime I look back and reflect on what happened that day, I simply concede that there are some things I can never understand. It's still an argument between my sister and I. To me, my brother died and came back to life. To her, he only lost consciousness. I think we can both agree on one fact though, that was the day my brother didn't die.
My brother is still very much alive and well. Unfortunately, I didn't upload my brother's picture because I can't access my laptop. The picture above is from pixabay. I'll do that as soon as I can. (He's more handsome than I am)
EDIT: I just deleted the picture from pixabay and posted his real picture
This is my entry for the $45 SBD Steemit Writing Contest by @bycoleman. However, it's a true account of what happened in my family. Writing this brought sad memories but they sadness pale in comparison to the joy in seeing my brother alive and well, every day.
Thanks for reading
Blessings