Children are vulnerable: how my mother saved my life
That morning, my mother had asked me to come downstairs and wait for her while she tied a scarf over her head. Holding the railing and the wall, I walked the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of our family home in Onitsha, Nigeria. My strength was failing and my legs could barely support me when I reached the bottom of the stairs.
To my left, next to the gallery on the ground floor, there was a storage room. I walked in and collapsed on the ground. Darkness surrounded me. All I needed was a quiet resting place to lay my head. He was too young to understand what could happen. He didn’t have the strength to stand and wait for Mom to give him instructions.
“Where are you where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice screaming. His voice was the type found in people who are about to suffer tremendous loss. If I could, I would have responded. Even today, the echoes of his voice still echo in my memory. All children are likely to jump up and respond when their mother calls in that voice. My deepest apologies. Mother, because I had no breath left to say a word, no muscles to get up off the ground.
Mother had started desperately looking for me. He found me lying on the floor when he opened the storage room door. He must have assumed that I was dead. “Wake up,” I heard her say, and she took me into her arms.
I gathered my strength and left the room with her holding me close to her waist. He put my body in a vehicle and took me to Borromeo Hospital in Onitsha. He was too young and too ill to remember how we got there.
Behind one of the wooden counters was a nurse. I could tell by the way he dressed and the way he spoke. On his head was a triangular or square cap with pins. The color was white or blue. I am struggling to remember; it’s hard to remember every little detail after fifty years. I know the nurses reminded me of vaccines.
My mother spoke to the nurse for several seconds and then they invited me to sit on a wooden bench. Life kept returning to my body, opening my eyes a little more. It was a quiet, well-lit room. Giant wooden cabinets containing brown graphics leaned against two of the walls. There were one or two other children my age who were on the bench. They didn’t seem as sick as I felt. Of all the dangers he faced, he was the one who feared injections the most. The smells of the alcohol swabs and cotton balls were unmistakable.
My mother sat down next to me again. With the back of his hand he touched my forehead and began to sob, but then regained his composure. “Son,” he said, “you’ll get better soon.” I nodded.
Then we were in the doctor’s consulting room. A nice man is what I remember of him, perhaps in his middle age. He was wearing an immaculate white robe. For whatever reason, he acted fast. Was he that sick? I wondered. He quickly exchanged information with Mom and quickly scribbled something on my chart.
My suspicion had come true. A few minutes later, the nurse with the triangular cloth pinned over my head invited me to an injection room. “Come, hug me,” said Mother. I would have run but I didn’t have the strength to do it. While my mother held me tightly, the nurse pulled down the right side of my panties and gave me an injection in the buttock.
Whatever was tormenting me disappeared after the shot. We brought home some bitter medicines. It was around 10 in the morning when we left the Borromeo hospital. On the way, close to home, mama stopped and bought me Akra (round balls of fried beans) and Akamu (Ground corn). I ate and everything was better.
Now when I look back on the incident, it scares me to realize how helpless children are and how mothers, fathers and caregivers must make life and death decisions for them on a daily basis.
