"Anna! Anna! Anna!" The nurse's voice, sharp and insistent, echoed through the ward. "You want to let this woman die, right? Your grandma's diabetic foot ulcer is very bad, infected. If you don't pay the money for the surgery, the leg won't be amputated, and she may—hmm, you wouldn't hear that from my mouth."
"Die? God forbid," I replied, my voice barely a whisper. "Nurse, please, if there's anything you can do for my sick grandmother, to keep managing the foot ulcer, I'll try to raise the money."
"Better go now, o," she retorted, her tone dismissive. "Anywhere you know you can get 175 thousand naira, go now, or else... or else you know the result."
Those were the exact words of Nurse Popoke.
I tried to be strong, holding myself together, desperate not to cry or break down. From the nursing station where I stood, confused and helpless, I looked at Mama. She lay sleeping, or perhaps unconscious, flies buzzing around her old, poorly dressed wound, which leaked mucus and emitted a terrible stench.
Nurse Popoke walked past me, heading to check on another patient.
"Nurse P! Nurse P!" A young woman in her late twenties called out. "Please, make them carry this woman comot for here now. Her family no fit pay for private ward. I no fit breath o, everywhere just dey smell!"
Another woman, in her fifties, responded, "Na true o, abeg, person no go fit breath again. Na wa o!"
Those words stung me, like a swarm of angry bees.
Nurse Popoke hissed, continuing past them. "If e dey smell too much, make una contribute the money for the private ward now, yeye people."
I continued to stare for a few seconds, then managed to pull myself out of the ward and out of the hospital.
Walking out of the hospital gate, I was consumed by a single, overwhelming question: how would I ever get 175,000 naira? Was I supposed to rely on the meager income from the akamu business Mama and I used to scrape by on? Or was I now reduced to begging for alms on the street? How on earth was I going to raise such a huge amount of money?
I didn't even look back. I simply continued walking, putting one foot in front of the other, lost in a haze of despair. A torrent of thoughts flooded my mind. If only I knew where my mother lived. If only I knew who my father was. Perhaps I wouldn't be facing this impossible situation. If only this were all a nightmare. I walked on and on, lost in these dark reflections, until I reached our gate. What was I supposed to do now, Annabel Oluchukwu Amuneke? What was I to do?
I opened the gate and stopped short. Two hefty men were hauling Mama's clothes out of our room and throwing them onto the ground. The chairs, our mattress, the pots and plates—everything we owned was being unceremoniously dumped outside.
"Oga? Ogini ?" I stammered, my voice trembling. "What is it? Why are you throwing our things out?"
The tall, muscular, dark-skinned man didn't even turn to acknowledge me. I turned to our landlord, Oga Amadi, pleading, "Oga Amadi, biko, we will pay you. My grandmother is still in the hospital, biko, biko."
"Oh, you think this is a charity home? A free house?" he sneered. "You lie, Oluchukwu, you lie. I have been patient with you and Mama Biyatris(Beatrice), but now, never again. I am chasing you out, so I can put other tenants in my house. In fact, what am I saying? I have chased you out. Pack your filthy things and leave this compound."
"To where now?" I cried, desperation clawing at my throat. "Ehh, Oga Amadi, please, you're like a father to me, please!"
"Me, a father to you?" he scoffed. "My friend, get out of here!"
Our possessions lay in a heap, a meager testament to a life about to be uprooted. Rent was a forgotten luxury; Mama's health, a desperate priority. Through the grimy windowpane, I saw them – the neighbors, eyes like stones, watching. Not a single soul emerged, not a single voice rose in our defense, despite Mama's countless acts of kindness. I remembered Akpan, Oga Calabar's son, and the mornings Mama gifted his mother *akamu* for his breakfast. I recalled her fervent pleas to the landlord on behalf of Mallam Tanko and his wife, struggling to pay their electricity. And Lady Franca, so often at odds with her husband, whom Mama had soothed with gentle words. Now, silence. A deafening, heartless silence. "What a wicked world," I whispered, the words catching in my throat. Tears streamed down my face, a torrent of grief so profound it felt as though the very earth would crack. But the world remained unmoved, the clock ticked on with cruel indifference, and I was left drowning in sorrow, paralyzed by the agonizing question: What was I to do?