The cold white lights of the hospital corridor buzzed softly overhead, flickering like tired eyes. Nurses moved swiftly, pushing trolleys of equipment past closed doors. Inside the emergency room, doctors leaned over Peace's pale frame, barking orders, adjusting machines, and calling out numbers. A haze of urgency filled the air.
From outside the glass, Mrs. Adeyemi's hands trembled around the hem of her blouse. Her face was pale, drained of colour, her eyes fixed on her daughter through the narrow panel of the swinging door.
"She was fine just this morning," she whispered, her voice cracking. "She helped set the table, even teased me about my gele. Why would she suddenly… collapse like that?"
Her husband, Mr. Adeyemi, gently wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Let's trust God. The doctors are doing everything they can. We'll have answers soon."
But his voice lacked conviction. He, too, had never seen Peace this still—never seen her lips so dry, her eyes so unseeing.
"I just keep asking myself—what could've caused this?" Mrs. Adeyemi muttered. "And today, of all days. Her birthday. Her twin's birthday. It's like something doesn't want us to rejoice."
Mr. Adeyemi squeezed her shoulder. "Let's not jump to conclusions, love. She will pull through."
Minutes passed like hours.
Finally, a nurse emerged. "She's being moved to a private ward now. She's stable enough to leave emergency."
The parents followed in silence as Peace was wheeled into a smaller, more serene room. She lay under thin white sheets, a drip in her hand, her chest rising and falling with gentle rhythm. Machines beeped softly beside her, tracking every heartbeat, every breath.
Soon after, a doctor appeared—young, focused, with a stethoscope draped across his shoulders. "Mr. and Mrs. Adeyemi," he said, nodding politely, "Please come with me to my office. I'd like to explain what we've found and what we're doing moving forward."
The parents followed him into a modest office down the corridor. Medical posters lined the walls, and a wall fan spun lazily above his desk.
The doctor gestured for them to sit, then opened the folder in front of him. "Thank you for your patience. Your daughter has undergone several tests since she arrived—blood work, malaria screening, electrolyte checks. We've reviewed everything thoroughly."
Mrs. Adeyemi leaned forward. "What… what's wrong with her, doctor?"
He looked up, calm and clear. "Before I answer that, I need to ask a question: Has Peace recently traveled to a rural area or spent time in any community with high mosquito exposure?"
The parents exchanged a glance.
"Yes," Mr. Adeyemi said slowly. "She followed her sister, Patience, on a 7-day outreach in Ayegbami village about two weeks ago."
The doctor nodded, as if that confirmed something. "That aligns with what we found. Peace is suffering from acute malaria complicated by hemolysis."
Mrs. Adeyemi gasped. "Hemolysis?"
"It means the malaria parasites have triggered her red blood cells to break down rapidly—faster than her body can replenish them. This is why she became weak so suddenly and collapsed. Her body was starved of oxygen, especially around vital organs."
The mother's hand flew to her chest. "Jesus…"
The doctor's tone was gentle. "The good news is, we caught it early. Treatment has begun immediately. She's on IV antimalarials and fluids. We've also added supportive medications to ease the stress on her liver and kidneys."
Mr. Adeyemi sat back, exhaling heavily. "So… she'll recover?"
"If all goes well, yes," the doctor nodded. "But she will require close monitoring over the next 48 hours. Her condition is delicate."
"And her siblings?" Mrs. Adeyemi asked quickly. "Patrick? Patience? Should we worry?"
"Not unless they show symptoms. But we'll recommend preventive care—especially for Patience, since she was in the same location."
The couple nodded.
The doctor closed the folder. "We'll keep you informed as things progress. For now, please stay with her. Reassure her if she wakes up. Familiar voices are healing."
They rose to leave, and just before opening the door, the doctor paused—his expression unreadable.
"There's one more thing," he said, his voice lower now. "But… we'll talk about that shortly."
Then he turned and walked past them.
The parents glanced at each other, concern renewed.
But for now, their daughter was breathing again. And that was enough hope to hold on to.