Moments lost, never regained. What do you wish you said?
Silence walked the streets, and nothing stirred, not even a sigh from lips that faced defeat. The silence lingered, longer than a breath, watching, waiting.
When the Cholera first came, it showed up like an unschooled August visitor from the village, who didn’t know to call before showing up.
“Go buy me flagyl, my belle dey do me one kine. If you see septrin, buy am too.” Mama Amadi said, and Amadi nodded before bolting out of the house, the door swinging wide open and staying that way.
“Come back come lock door, you this boy! You even forget money join. Wetin I go do o, I don tire. You no dey hear word,” she lamented. She retied a wrapper loosely around her torso as she staggered to the wooden door which now threatened to fall off its hinges. She steadied it, and promptly shut it behind her.
She waited, her stomach a tumulus war.
Chimo, she called out in exclamation, seeking a surface to hold onto. She gripped the door with the last ounce of strength in her weary bones, and grabbed the chamber pot she had kept just outside the door. That’s where she used to keep it, before she decides it was best to bring it inside because her Amadi had no qualms about playing with anything.
“If I put my head down, Amadi go use am do football,” she was known to have remarked. A dizzy spell overwhelmed her, and a feeling of nausea rising up from within.
She sat on the chamber pot and deposited into it everything in her stomach. The feeling of nausea intensified so much she couldn’t see straight. She could taste the bile at the back of her throat, and her eyes went wide with fear.
“Mama, I forgot the money,” Amadi called from outside the door. She was glad she locked it from the inside.
She stood up from the chamber pot, and staggered to the pile of rags by her bedside.
“Mummy? Open the door, I won’t do it again.”
After a short while, Amadi’s voice faded. It made her glad. He’d probably gone to play with his peers, which would make it easier on her, since she had to figure out what to do. Her husband would stop harping about hygiene before now. She always believed he was doing too much.
Another wave of nausea hit, and her urge to bear down intensified. But, what was left inside of her body? She was drained of fluid, her body becoming paper white.
“Mama Amadi, open the door.” She heard her husband’s voice and a ghost of a smile passed her face. For the first time, Amadi did the sensible thing; he called for help.
That was the last thing she remembered before she collapsed.
“Give her drip, saline! She’s dehydrated. Pass at least 1L, it’ll be hard to find veins in an emergency.”
Mama Amadi could hear someone talking, and felt the pinprick of needles, but she was too out of it to notice.
“Keep her awake!” This one sounded like her husband.
“Doctor!” A shout pierced the air, but Mama Amadi was past hearing. Her breathing was coming in weak gasps, and her pulse was barely noticeable.
“Draw an IV, she needs flagyl, stat! Every moment counts.” the doctor in charge, a bearded man with years of medical experience under his belt crouched, setting the cannula with deft precision, a bead of sweat dotting his forehead, but not ruining his concentration.
“Nurse, this is complicated and highly transmissible Cholera, so, disinfect everything after you’re done,” he motioned for a standoffish nurse who placed gloves on his hands. He used the back of his hand to position his glasses rightly, a look of total concentration on his face.
She already had four IVs being pumped into her at record speed, yet.. she was blue in the face, her breathing muffled.
This was called the Blue Death, a silent devil that passed and took millions in its wake.
Mama Amadi’s home was quarantined, the entire compound put on a lockdown alert. Cholera was relatively easy to deal with, once it was identified and relevant steps were taken. But the victims sometimes bore the brunt of it. He hoped that wouldn’t be the case.
After a night’s watch, the doctor heaved a sigh of relief, heavy and filled with meaning. It was a long battle, one he wasn’t sure she’d make it out of.
Her eyes fluttered open.
“Hello, Mama Amadi,” he said, all smiles.
“Amadi, I’ll flog that boy,” she said groggily and he was tempted to laugh but refrained. She passed out again, but he was already gone by then.
The sun shone brighter in the sky, and he walked with a confident gait. African mothers were never going to change, but nothing made him happier.