Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

28- Walls Fall

Saheed:

The sickening snap of my bone breaking fills my ears. I hear the thwack of canes hitting skin, the smack of hands connecting with flesh, the thud of my body connecting with surfaces. Worse, I hear her words, filled with so much malice, "Saheed, Son of Shaitan." I jerk awake, startled out of the fitful sleep I had succumbed to on one of the metal seats in the hospital waiting room. The elderly man beside me notices and smiles knowingly at me, showing a few empty spaces where teeth had been.

"What keeps you here?" he asks.

I roll my shoulders to ease the knots in them. "My sister is in a coma."

He shakes his head, which has uneven tufts of white hair. "I am sorry. I hope she wakes up soon."

"Thank you, Sir."

We lapse into silence, and I look around us to observe the environment. Despite the bright lights and colorful decorations, the atmosphere here is tense, like any other hospital waiting room. No one comes here to cheerfully say hi to the doctors and nurses, obviously. Everyone seems to be anxiously awaiting some news, good or bad. It comes to my mind to ask the elderly man why he is here, by 10 pm in a hospital waiting room instead of home, resting. I do so.

He sighs. "My grand-son was involved in a road accident. He's on oxygen as we speak. I can't leave, I don't want to."

"I am sorry."

I understand his reason. It is the same reason I am here, instead of a hotel room with Baba. The fear of missing out on good or bad moments.

He shrugs helplessly. "I suppose we're here for similar reasons."

I nod in agreement. "But where are his parents?"

"They died five years ago, when he was ten. I've raised him since then. It's just been the two of us."

"Oh," I blurt, stunned. I look at his eyes for the first time and see sadness, weariness. But I also see hope, determination.

The man rubs a hand over his head slowly. "He's a fine young man, top of his class, respectful. He has a bright future ahead, and I hope and pray he pulls through."

"Have you settled all his hospital bills?"

He smiles sadly. "I've paid enough for a deposit. I hope to borrow money from my kinsmen tomorrow morning."

I think for a few minutes. The man relaxes back in his seat, setting his walking stick on the floor. A nurse walks in, and summons him. He gets to his feet, excusing himself. Despite his walking aid, I observe the silent dignity in his movements. He leaves the waiting room with the nurse. Alone now, I lose myself completely in my thoughts. I think of Ola, alone in her bed. I wish I were there, her arms wrapped around me, offering comfort. The need leaves me hollow inside. I acknowledge it this time, resign myself to it. For how long will I have to deal with this longing?

Amina comes to mind, my sweet, happy-go-lucky sister who was left behind by Baba because Ma threatened to go ahead with suicide if he took her with him to America. I wonder how she had felt, having to live with Ma's relatives and visiting Ma at the psychiatric home all those years until her release. When we met on holidays, Amina never bore any resentment towards me. She would always follow me everywhere, boasting to anyone with ears about her big brother.

I had been unable to reciprocate initially. The guilt never left, and I felt I was undeserving of my sister's love. Slowly, over the years, she grew on me. She bombarded me with letters, emails, calls. By the time I turned twenty, Amina was fourteen and I began staying awake at night to speak with her over the phone because of our different time zones. When Ma got out from the psychiatric home a few years later, Amina had called to tell me even before Baba could break the news.