Dancing in the Rain: No Silver Lining

Whenever Nurse Abigail left the children’s ward at the end of a shift; she often told herself that none of the patients or their families existed outside of the building. It would be as though she’d walked out of a cinema, and she’d left behind all their tragic stories; but there was one patient who refused to cooperate.

Onyeka was nine-years-old, the same age as her youngest son at the time, which made it that much harder. He had been brought to the National Orthopedic Hospital, Igbobi a week ago after a sudden fall on a concrete floor while dancing in the rain. Nurse Abigail first nursed Onyeka after he’d been in the hospital a few weeks. Dr Willams Abade and his team had tried every type of non-surgical treatment including pain pills, shots, and physical therapy – all with little or no improvement. It seems that day after day, it just gets worse.

According to his MRI results, the doctors learned that his disc had torn between the L5/S1 regions of his spine and was no longer hydrated; not as a result of the fall but a birth abnormality. The fall only evoked the reality that Onyeka had a spinal deviation called congenital scoliosis. On the MRI image, his disc appeared as a black shadow; spine surgery was his best bet. His parent mulled over their two options: either to let Onyeka live with an excruciating back pain; whilst confined to a wheelchair forever or take a chance to restore his life through surgery. The first options seemed more likely because his parents had exhausted their possibilities to pay for his medical bills. They had already sold a few prized valuables and were now subjected to asking relatives and friends for assistance.

Onyeka often needed to be catheterised; to drain his urine because he couldn’t do it himself and also needed help to clear his bowels. However he kept a positive attitude; holding on to his fond memory of being able to run around like a healthy child. He would zip around the ward in his wheelchair, visiting other children and sharing hope, always keen to meet the new ones. Every weekend his family would come in to visit him. His sister; Ada would rush up to him and shower him with hugs and kisses and tell him how much she had missed him. It was wonderful, but more than ever he wanted to be back on his feet. “I would walk out of this hospital unaided,” he said to Nurse Abigail each time she attended to him. His faith gave rise to the optimism that filled her heart each time she saw Onyeka.

One afternoon shift Nurse Abigail came for her regular checkups and monitoring of the pain that radiated from Onyeka’s back. She gave him a second dose of acetaminophen meds and two spinal injections, then he told her he wanted to speak to his mum who had gone into the doctor’s office. She went on to get his mum. The door was ajar and his mother was seated next to her husband while the doctor addressed them. She listened from a distance.

“Onyeka needs surgery urgently; he has a spinal disorder that could lead to a tumor that would trap his spinal cord, causing it to stretch as he grows; this could make him lose his mobility totally if not dealt with.” Dr Williams explained.

“The good news is that we can carry out an anterior/posterior fusion,” he continued, now pointing at a spinal anatomy chart. We would make an incision in the front (anterior) of his body and enter the spine through his stomach. Through this incision we should remove the disc and attach cadaver bone to the front of his spine. Cadaver bone is used to help the spine fuse. Next, we would make another incision through his back (posterior), attach a piece of his hip bone to the back of his spine, and stabilize (support) everything using titanium screws.”

Listening to the explanation of the procedure left Onyeka’s parents afraid but also excited at the possibility of their child living life again. They asked for the price of the surgery and were told that the surgery costs 1.3 million naira, they were bewildered. There were tears in the room. Onyeka’s parents had known surgery was on the horizon for their son, but it’s never an easy conversation or decision. They obviously couldn’t afford the surgery. Without surgery, Onyeka’s condition would continue to deteriorate. Onyeka’s dad explained to the doctor that they hadn’t the means to raise the money. He agreed to the sad options of Onyeka remaining in a wheelchair until a miracle.

They were expecting some money from the traders’ monthly Ajo- contributory saving scheme they were involved in. The money was to be used to clear-up the accumulated hospital bills and perhaps get Onyeka a wheelchair. The thought of that made Onyeka’s father stutter for a moment; every part of him went on pause while his thoughts caught up. “My only son!” he muttered. After a wash of cold they both got up from their seats, feeling new warmth to the day. He placed one hand on his wife’s shoulder, “It’ll be okay, it will,” he reassured his distraught wife.

When Nurse Abigail stepped outside at the end of the shift, she tried to pretend Onyeka was just a character in a film, and that his story had no life outside of that building, it didn’t work. When she looked at her youngest son, running around like a healthy nine-year-old, Onyeka came to mind. The thought that Onyeka would be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life brought about a wave of sadness that pervaded her being leaving unbearable hollows. She was sure that Onyeka had a chance at walking again if he had the surgery. “Onyeka’s parents shouldn’t have had to make the decision to stop his treatment based on financial costs if good medical care was affordable,” she cried. “Such an adorable little boy with so much ahead of him shouldn’t the bound by a treatable medical condition,” Abigail was deeply saddened. When the thought of Onyeka came, her appetite was ash on the floor. The food would get stuck, four bites and she was done. It wasn’t until she developed stomach ulcers and almost had a breakdown, that a friend asked why she was putting herself through the emotional pain. “Just quit,” her friend advised, and so Nurse Abigail did. But then she missed caring for patients. She didn’t hate the job; she just found it hard to take in.

The next month she ended up back in a pediatric ward at a different hospital. Nurse Abigail thought she could do it again, but as she heard repeated horrid cases during handover, she buckled. She couldn’t cope with the challenging experience of sharing in the emotions of traumatized children and their families. She tries not to cross professional boundaries yet it seemed almost impossible, she walked out of that hospital and never went back. Now she owns a retail supermarket in the city of Lagos away from the complexities of everyday medical practice. Her son is 21 now. He’s driving, has a girlfriend, plays professional football in Spain, and hangs out with his mates. She often thinks of Onyeka and wonder how he is at 21.

Dancing in the Rain

You know you are in Lagos when clouds begin forming and winds start blowing with people running helter skelter – depicting signs of rainfall; unannounced rainfall mostly show up when everyone is busy going about their business.

It was about 1pm. The street was filled with children in white-gray uniforms on their way home from school. They walked in pairs chatting, giggling and playing by the road side. The sky darkened with thick clouds. Most people picked up their pace, while some ran hastily holding futile hands skyward to fend off the worst. Onyeka quickly got on a motorcycle to take him to his mother’s shop in front of their house. The rain began to fall so thickly that there was an instant covering of water on the street; the city was cast into somber tones. The roads were turned into small rivulets and street children were splashing and playing in the muddy, dirty puddles. The motorcycle driver slowed down; thick sheets of rain obscured the driver’s vision. He held the handlebar firmly as they lumbered pass; the saddle clattered as the wheels sloshed through the muddy potholes.

The downpour was so heavy that they were drenched to their skin. The sound of emptiness was disrupted by the loud gregarious boom of thunder. The cold rain pierced Onyeka’s pale and wet skin. He hopped off the motorcycle as he handed the driver a wet fifty naira note. He ran across the slippery path into his mummy’s shop.

His mother and his elder sister Adaobi had already covered their wares with large polythene materials to prevent water from destroying them.

”Good afternoon mummy,” he greeted, now shivering.

“Welcome son, go inside and quickly join your sister in filling up all the barrels.”

“Ok ma,” he sprang off.

“Make sure you take off your wet uni…“ Onyeka was already gone before she finished.

All the children in the compound had come out with buckets to fetch water from the rain. They took turns under the roof top gutter channel – each person placed a bucket at the funnel- like faucet and watched the water gush into the bucket. When a bucket was full, the child carried the bucket of water into the house to fill up the storage containers. It was a lot of work and it required patience. Onyeka and his friends enjoyed this chore because it was a good excuse to jump in various puddles with their arms open wide and water running freely down their faces and already soaked clothes.

While Onyeka waited his turn, he joined his friends to dance to the beats and strums of the rain; each boy was out to show his unique afopop dance steps. One of the boys planted one leg while twisting the other leg on the ball of his foot to the beat. Once his basic stance was established, he added ridiculous hand motions and facial expressions to display his azonto dance skills. Everyone hailed him. There were various dance moves as the rain pattered. Ada also came out to shake her backside leaning forward with locked knees and lifting each leg up and down to initiate the kukere dance pattern. Her arms were in freestyle movements. It was becoming a rain dance battle. Another boy seemed to be the shoki master; his leg movement and the violent shaking of his head, biting his fingers and contorting his face into wild expressions earned him the master title. Everyone was excited. The wind howled as the water splashed in a repeated rhythm.

Onyeka in the excitement began a backwards rolling of his shoulders with one arm continually extended and the other arm placed either on his waist and alternatively on his chest in a Skelewu movement – he tried to add a leg movement when he missed his step. He slipped, and fell hard on his back. As he hit the ground with a “thud,” at first he was just shocked. The children screamed and a thunder rumbled. Adaobi ran to his side. Then the shock turned to horrible pain, stinging his back and side. He realized he’d been badly injured because he couldn’t get up. There were several failed attempt to get him back on his feet.

Onyeka was rushed to a nearby hospital but was immediately transferred to The National Orthopedic Hospital, Igbobi. He saw two different chiropractors, both of whom told his parents he’d seriously injured his back and may need surgery. In the meantime, he was given a bed in Igbobi. He was always lying on his back for it hurt too much to sit upright. Onyeka remained optimistic about his recovery. He told everyone who cared to listen how he would be going back to school soon and how much fun it will be to dance at his birthday party in October. His mum enjoyed listening to his enlarged horizon of hope; it made her smile but she didn’t want to spoil his happiness. She knew they needed a miracle for Onyeka to walk again. The doctors were still evasive about his prognosis. The only sure truth was that Onyeka needed surgery and physical therapy afterward which cost a lot of money that his family couldn’t afford.

My Journey as a Single Dad

In April 1997, I lost the love of my life; I was forced to cope with not only her death, but the death of my newborn son, it was a tragic Thursday in Trans–Ekulu, in the coal city of Enugu. My name is Chinwuba Nchedo, I was fondly called Chuchu by my late wife. I was left with the responsibility of raising our 4-year-old daughter alone. After the shock of my wife’s death, I became aware that I knew nothing about raising a daughter by myself.

During the grieving process, I sometimes wondered if the wrong parent had died. “Mothers raise daughters. Fathers are supposed to financially support the family,” I often thought. I was brought up in a patriarchal Igbo family where mothers were the only nurturers. I grew up as an only son among five sisters. Now, I had to learn a new role, one I hadn’t anticipated.

My daughter’s greatest fear initially was being left alone. She had already lost her mother. She didn’t want to lose her father as well? Who would take care of her then?

On one occasion she announced, “Dad, I know what you can get me for my next birthday present, and it won’t cost you one naira. You can find me a new mum.” It was too soon for me to consider taking such a step, but her question helped me to understand the depth of her need. She was hurting and she was scared.

After the initial shock, denial and bargaining phases had run their courses; I went through lingering anger and depression then I started to put our lives back together. For the first few months I sucked at been a single parent. I failed at every attempt to make a meal. I consecutively burnt our dinner until I got my youngest sister; Ndidi to come over fortnightly to help me out with cooking, shopping and cleaning of some sort. She was a student at Enugu State University of Science and Technology at the time. She was very helpful and supportive although she benefited largely from the gratuity she received.

I am an architect. I have a Master’s degree and have been working a professional job in my field for eleven-and-a-half years. Although I was passionate about my career and loved my job at Fusion & Fealty, I knew I’d to be part of my daughter’s life. Not just providing for her, but being actively involved in her life as she grows.

I worked for 48 hours a week, I often found myself torn. It was difficult to juggle work life and raising my little girl. In August that same year, I resigned my job and started out my private practice. I had time to drop off and pick up my daughter from school. I also took up cooking lessons from my sisters. My daughter and I did life together; doing dishes, tidying up, solving math sums and visiting fun places. I became my daughter’s “go to person”. I encouraged her involvement in church activities so she would be spiritually grounded. I enrolled her in charm school and we joined a sport club in New Haven to foster her swimming and tennis skills.

For regular exposure, we visited our home town Ezeagu. It is renowned for its undulating plateaus, rich cultural diversity and scenic views. My daughter always loved it there. Her favourite site is the 30 meter high waterfall in Ezeagu complex and the 3-kilometre cave, as well as the lake, the cold and warm spring. Ezeagu Tourist Complex is our perfect place for picnics and several leisure activities. I tried to be involved by balancing my work and caring for my daughter.

So many memories: her first real date, graduations, tennis games at the arena, the first formal dance, her first ball dress, visits to the saloon, learning how to ride a bike, her cultural dancing. These are memories I hold so dear. One of my fondest recollections was…

On a certain morning, my daughter was taking longer than usual to get ready for school and we were running late. I went up to her room.

“Knock, knock, sweetheart are you ok? “ I asked from behind the bathroom door.

“It is so weird dad; I think I am really sick. I am pooing blood. And my tummy badly hurts. Am I going to die like mum?”

For a few seconds I was numb. I wanted to freak out but I had to stay calm.

“What part of your bum is bleeding hon?” I asked.

“Is it the poo part or the pee part?”

“I guess it’s my pee bum,” she answered.

Ok, sweet heart. “Wash up nicely with water and soap. Then stuff toilet paper in the back of your pants and come out of the bathroom.” I had an idea of what it could be.

She did as she was told. When she got out, I gave her a warm hug. I confirmed from her stained underwear that it was her first period. Then I began to explain the menstrual process to my little angel in my best way possible. I also reassured her she wasn’t dying. She was so happy and relieved even though her tummy did hurt.

We drove to the pharmacy to get her sanitary towel and some pain relief for the cramping. While in the car, I answered several other questions and clarified her assumptions. I was so excited I was part of my daughter’s big day and that I got to be there for her.

My daughter went on to joke that she deserved a treat like when her tooth falls out, so I decided to oblige her with the Igbo puberty celebration.

We skipped school for that day; I nipped to the market to get fresh scent leaves (Nchawun) and a life local fowl to be used for chicken soup. It was a meal offering for my daughter – celebrating her womanhood and her advancement into adolescence as it is in our Igbo tradition. I never missed an opportunity to teach my daughter our rich cultural heritage.

My daughter is 23 years old now. Like any parent, I didn’t know it would turn out this great, until it did. I learnt this: Ultimately, the best gift I could give my daughter was my time, my love and my encouragement. Daughters need their fathers; one doesn’t have to lose his wife to be an active dad.