The mosquitoes in the clinic that particular night were built different. Their persistent buzz and relentless attempts to attach their little pipes to my skin were driving me mad. I was tired of being bitten, so I fought back, swat after swat, clapping and hissing into the night.
I reached for my phone to check the time. 4%. Great. I instinctively reached for my charger but remembered there was no light. The only source of light was a few poorly charged solar bulbs. NEPA was supposed to restore power, according to the calculations I had made, but alas, we're in Nigeria. The clinic wasn't doing well financially, so we could only afford to put on the generator when absolutely necessary.
Life hadn't been good. Working long, odd hours for a meagre salary and constant workplace disregard. When I applied to study nursing ten years ago at age nineteen, I was filled with passion and hope. I loved helping people, and what better way than through healthcare? Also, a professional course was definitely the answer to the hike in unemployment, I thought. Little did I know that, in addition to my academic qualifications, I needed to be industrious, entrepreneurial and business-minded. Academic certifications and qualifications alone weren't enough.
I was never built for business, so I had to try hard to utilise my nursing degree. After seven years in school and interning, getting a job worthy of my qualification was very difficult. So, when I got a job at a private clinic in my community, I took the offer. Half bread is better than puff-puff, I thought. I believed I'd definitely scale with time. After all, I was fresh out of school.
Well, I thought wrong.
Now, I want to leave. Start a business. Anything to escape this loop.
I was on duty with two other nurses. We had administered medications to the in-patients and were so engrossed in our argument about a supposed romantic relationship between Dr. Bashir and the matron that we barely noticed the time passing. I didn't believe it, especially since the matron was a Christian and somewhat religious, but the rumours had already made their rounds. It was in the heat of this argument, at about 9:17 p.m., that a man was rushed in by a group of men.
Apparently, he had been badly beaten and was bleeding profusely. We wheeled him into the treatment room and immediately got to work, controlling the bleeding, checking his vital signs and stabilising him.
While we were working, we overheard another nosy patient trying to get the story out of the men who had brought him in.
One of the men said he was a friend, but just as he tried to explain what had happened, another man interrupted him.
"He was attacked by street thugs."
"Taa!" the other man snapped, to the surprise of my colleagues and me.
"Person wey women gang up beat. Better de talk true make dem for treat am well."
"Ah," the nosy patient whispered. "Was he domestically assaulted?"
"No o. Na him go find trouble for the wrong people hand."
"What did he do?"
"Tor, him be gateman for New Market. Every day, he de close the market gate by 6pm sharp. This evening, he lock the gate con block two women wey wan comot."
"Dem pass two o," another man added.
"The women de beg am but he no gree. Him say them must pay am 200 naira. Them no gree. Small time, them begin shout for each other. Na him con go slap one of the women. Big mistake."
"But why did you all just watch without doing anything?"
"Aunty, we no de there o," one of the men said. "We just hear some women de talk as them de pass front of the bar wey we go drink. We call one ask her wetin happen, na she tell us."
The first man continued, "We con rush go check o. Na for there we see our friend for ground as he don faint."
I set my lips to a grim line, refusing to let my face betray me.
Not in front of a dying patient, Asabe. I reminded myself.
We excused ourselves when the patient was stable. The moment we stepped into the reception, it was as though we had planned it. We all doubled over each other laughing, Nurse Amina almost losing her balance. Luckily for us, the multitude of men who had brought the patient in had reduced to just one person, and he wasn't in the reception.
"I just love market women," Nurse Bilkis cackled.
Just then, the light was restored and "Up NEPA!" echoed in the distance. Relief washed over me and, just as I was about to go into the nurses' office to charge my phone, I saw a figure walking slowly towards the hospital entrance.
I paused and looked intently.
It was a girl. A little girl.
She reached the doorway, managed a faint, "Help me," and collapsed.
We all rushed to where she lay on the floor.
Torn clothes. Blood-stained streaks running from high up her thighs down to her ankles. Her hair was dishevelled. Bruises marked her face, neck and shoulders. Her feet were caked in mud, not the kind that comes from walking, but from something far more disturbing, as though she had been dragged through it by her hair.
"She's still breathing!" Nurse Bilkis yelled.
That brought me back.
I was supposed to do something.
Check vitals.
Medications.
Treat her wounds.
Change her clothes.
The next hour disappeared in a blur. One instruction after another. One procedure after another. Before I knew it, the bleeding had stopped and her breathing pattern restored to normal. For the first time since she walked through our doors, I allowed myself to exhale.
Standing by her bed, her chest rising steadily and her face looking peaceful, I locked eyes with Nurse Bilkis and Nurse Amina.
A knowing look.
We knew.
"Your phone," Nurse Bilkis reminded me.
"Make I go charge am," I said, walking out.
I plugged in my phone and turned on my data. The wholesaler from Aba I had contacted had replied to my message.
I stared at it for a while
I typed a reply.
Then I deleted it.
I locked my phone, placed it on the table and returned to the girl's room.
She was alone now.
Still asleep.
I looked at her and noticed a tear slipping from the corner of her eye. I wiped it away and held her hand.
She couldn't have been more than sixteen.
I wondered how long she must have walked before finding us.
It was already 12:34 am.
I wondered what had happened to her.
Just then, a mosquito buzzed past my ear, I followed it intently until it settled on my arm,
smack
“Idiot!”
Looking up, I let my eyes wander around the room. The worn-out walls. The ageing equipment. The solar bulbs that had struggled to keep the clinic lit all night. A poorly financed establishment. Tired staff. But that night, we were enough.
For the man.
For the little girl.
Maybe that was my dilemma all along.
For months, I had been plotting my escape. Get another job. Start a business. Earn more. Leave this place behind. I still want all of those things.
But I can't leave just yet.
Not when this place, despite everything it lacks, can still be the difference between life and death for someone.
Perhaps one day, I'll be a grumpy forty-year-old. Still in this community. Still in this hospital. Still in this uniform. Still waiting for NEPA to bring back the light.