My Doctor Is Sick

My Doctor Is Sick
By Nathan Emmanuel

Tsiky literary means “sickness no longer in the land” a name derived from a popular river that was said to be a sanctuary of healing to those who drank of it. But today, sickness has taken over the land that was hitherto free of diseases. The worst of it all is that the remote location of my village does not attract the attention of the federal government hence we only have local doctors who still use the primitive ways of treating diseases. When there’s serious complication, patients are taken to the local government headquarters for proper medical attention. Most time, death raises its eye-brow on the patient before getting to the health centre. It has always been so for several decades until my uncle came back from abroad. Tsiky is however blessed with a school that has trees as it houses. I never used books until my uncle came back from abroad and supplied everyone with exercise books.   

I’m in the same class with Mnalara who’s nicknamed as Malaria. But you dare not call him by that name in his presence. Defy it, he’ll rain abuses on you, poisonous words that will incite your adrenalin with fury, pierce your nerves with no delay and damage your reputation beyond repair. His mouth is as sharp as razor blade, while his words are as poisonous as snake’s venom. The name given to him by his parents was Mnalara which means “have mercy”-whether from God or man, no one can really say. Malaria has caused a great havoc on him; at least that’s what the local doctor said. On seeing Mnalara, no one would tell you before you know that he actually needs mercy. He’s 17 but started walking barely when he was five years of age. He staggers on his feeble legs that are not in commensurate with his ballooned head. 

One of the few girls among us nicknamed as Meningitis though her actual name is Manygites which means “there’s hope”. She got this name the first day she resumed school. That day, our Integrated Science tutor in her usual boring class was coincidentally teaching a topic on communicable diseases.

“Hey, you girl” the teacher points at Manygites. All eyes were on her for the teacher’s fingers were directed at her.

“I’m not familiar with your face, what’s your name?”

Manygites, who looks timid, stood up and say “Me?” pointing her five fingers towards her chest.

The teacher nods her head, an obvious sign of affirmation.

“My name is Manygites”

“Meningitis?” The teacher who hardly crack jokes in class asked. 

The whole class burst into a laughter that lasted almost till the end of the lesson. After all, boredom was written on the faces of the student before the meningitis saga and the students took the advantage of the melodrama in order to dissuade the teacher from continuing with her class. That was how Manygites became Meningitis.

My own name is Sintilla which means “last chance”. All the twelve children that were born before me died at a tender age. Of course, no one can really fathom what killed them. After the death of the twelfth child, my mother was advised not to ever conceive again but she prefers to die than being alive without a child. She would always ask in rhetoric, “what then is the joy of marriage?”

I was born into an atmosphere of fear, the fear of being taken away by the unknown hands of the most dreaded phenomenon, yet inevitable. As if God was troubled by the incessant prayers that were being poured on His holy alter, He has decided to spare me. At least I’m now fifteen. But one thing baffles me-I still don’t know why my friends call me Sickler. Though I always look pale and unhealthy most time but I can’t imagine being a sickler. If I am, then “last chance” would become “no chance” and mother’s hope would be dashed with no alternative.

I seldom fall sick may be, due to the free and regular medical check-up I get at the prestigious Sicknomore Redemption Centre, the best private hospital in my state. Before my uncle came back from abroad, I was frequent in the house of local doctors. At time, I may be tempted to conclude that if my uncle was here I wouldn’t have been the only child of my parents. 

My Doctor who happens to be my uncle is one of the most intelligent doctors of the entire nine world’s best Doctors that have ever existed. Of course to be among the best, one must have studied at the exalted Lustersa School of Medicine, the University that promise to put an end to all the diseases that have been ravaging the entire human race. Lustersa University is rated as the ‘Best University of all Decades.’ All the major breakthroughs in the world of medicine are traceable to the university.

“Due to the revolution that’s being championed by this school, time would come that humans would no longer die of diseases” the Chief Medical Director of the school once promised the world.

The obvious and unique thing about this University is that it combines human medicine and tools engineering. The most potent nano-devices were invented by the year-two student of this great school. There’s a special nano-device invented that can detect diseases that are yet to manifest. Early detection means victory over the sickness.

With the above, my Doctor needs no introduction. Ordinarily, as a common man, I am not worthy of having him as personal physician but nature has his way of sharing things. While it gave our forefathers a large and unquantifiable heap of poverty, the only blessing people reckon our family with today is the fact that we have the world’s best doctor. When I was much younger, I used to think that there’s no sickness that my uncle can’t treat. In fact, people in my community consider my doctor as God’s eyes on the sick. Any sickness he cannot diagnose is the one that announces the demise of its victim to the gory of no return. People recourse to my uncle as the only man who can close the door when sickness opens its floodgate of disaster upon them.

But some times last week, I went to the hospital for my monthly and quotidian medical check-up, I couldn’t believe what I saw. There were so many patients who lined up for treatments. There’s nothing unusual about this but the most bizarre of it all was that my doctor was among the patients. I couldn’t believe it because he hardly falls sick. He’s a workaholic fellow, who empathizes with others even to his own detriment, but he was rather busy bearing the pains all alone, no one cares. 

On getting to my uncle’s office, there was a heavy onslaught of fear that gripped my soul due to the horrible scenario that stood in front of me like a ghost. I put my hands to the sides of my head and begin to squeeze the skin that covers it in disbelief. There lies my Doctor, just like any human being.

While standing, patients were just trooping into the hospital as if an embargo was lifted. At the entrance of the gate, there’s a signpost with a bold inscription “You’re Welcome to Sicknomore Redemption Centre (SRC)” with its intriguing slogan as the “The Greatest Gift is Good Health.” No wonder, my uncle considers this project as “the greatest gift for mankind.”

One of the patients named Lukas suffers from HIV/AIDS. He has come for his free treatment. SRC collaborate with some international Non-Governmental Organizations that are committed to giving free HIV treatments to the patients. The most prominent among these NGOs is the New Order for HIV/AIDS Patients (NOHAP). I read in NOHAP BRIEF, a monthly publication of this body that the basic thrust of this body is that “for us to have an HIV free generation there must be free-medical treatment for all, free-accommodation for all, free education for all. This is what we have come to do and these are the only ways we guarantee free life for all HIV patients.”

Though many people believe that the dream is unrealizable but currently the body has about 20,000 registered members who’re enjoying free life. This figure, the Director of the body said on Chicken Noodle Network (CNN), the only National Television station in my country “would triple tremendously by the first quarter of the year.” The greatest challenge however is that of distribution.

“Many drive exotic cars and live in glamorous mansions because they pilfer from the coffers of HIV/AIDS. Many are living large from the misfortune of their fellow humans”. This was the response my Uncle gave to me when I wanted to know why drugs were not available for an AIDS patient who has come for his regular drugs. Some of these drugs are being sabotaged and hoarded by some business moguls who serve as local representatives of NOHAP but has turned it to opportunity of making money. 

Lukas was the only one who summoned courage to move closer to my Uncle before my arrival. Everyone seems to be scared as the doctor could no longer raise those hands that he uses to punch the buttocks of many people.

“I am sick” The doctor said what was obvious.

“What do I do now?” The doctor continues. But who among the patients can answer the doctor’s question?

“You’re the Doctor, you should know what to do” Lukas rather answered leisurely.

Of course my Doctor knows what to do but it seems to him that those poisonous substances called drugs are more effective when injected on others. Lukas still stands in awe and in disbelief, just like other onlookers.

“Why should the world’s best Doctor fall prey of sickness he has studied and cured for several years?” Lukas queried nature.

Lukas later discovered that he was rather too harsh on my Doctor. When Lukas remember those soft and gentle words that my uncle normally pour on the patients which a times even heal more than drugs he begins to talk to my Doctor with softness.

“Doc, I’m sorry. But you should know what to do” Lukas tendered an unreserved apology with remorsefulness.

“I…I mean inject yourself with those poison-looking substance called drugs and you’ll be fine” Lukas is now talking to doctor as if himself is a doctor.

“Yes, I know. It’s an abuse for me to inject myself. I now know how stinky and irritating those substances… I mean those drugs are…it’s as if, more pills make me ill, even the more. May be I’ll have to travel abroad for to meet my colleagues for treatment.” The Doctor gently and slowly coughed these words out.

“But Doctor, is going to abroad the only panacea? Our home-based doctors should be able to treat you. After all, it seems the sickness isn’t as serious as those you frequently treat” I suggestion to my uncle. 

“Who treats the sick while my Doctor is away?” I asked a question that would obviously have no answer.

“Can the patients be patient enough until the Doctor returns from abroad?” Dunamm, whose daughter suffers a complication from an abortion done by one of the local doctors in the community asked.

“But death may be imminent, one can’t really say” I simply said. 

“My Doctor is sick; our Doctor is sick who’ll treat the sick?”  I continued, as if it was one of those Kindergartens or Nursery School rhymes.

“While he’s away, sickness will prevail without delay” the poetic proclamation continues.

“Please, help me call my driver” my Doctor beckoned.
I went out to call the driver. The driver came and took my uncle away, definitely to the airport before flying abroad. Everyone was looking but no one could utter a word.

This is three months since my uncle left the village for abroad. The hospital is now desolate, no one to cater for the sick. The most pathetic and hopeless of it all is that my Doctor, the only uncle of mine, though being attended to by the other eight world’s best medical experts but he’s still sick. 
                    ________The End_________