Three days after the New Year's celebration, Obinna was back in the heart of his hospital, the place where hope was built every day.
Sunlight streamed over Abuja as Dr Obinna Chukwu emerged from the operating theatre, sweat clinging to the back of his neck after the long, intense three-hour surgery. He peeled off his gloves and let out a deep breath. His patient, a boy about the same age as his daughter Erimma, had made it through. Relief eased the tight knot in Obinna's chest. He brushed a hand over his neatly trimmed beard, slid it into his coat pocket, and turned smoothly towards his office.
The surgery had taken place on the fifth floor, one of ten state-of-the-art operating rooms dedicated to paediatric surgery, where delicate procedures on children were carried out with the utmost care. Obinna had been assisted by two senior surgeons, whose expertise had been instrumental in the success of the complex operation. The boy, diagnosed with a congenital heart defect, was now stable and on the path to recovery.
Though paediatric cardiothoracic surgery was Obinna's specialisation, his experience reached far beyond a single field. Years of training at top institutions had sharpened his skill in complex procedures for both children and adults. In emergencies or high-risk operations, doctors from other departments often called on him. His scalpel didn't just mend bodies, it healed people, restored hope, and earned the respect of his peers.
As he walked through the fifth-floor hallway towards the elevator, the hospital felt full of life. A nurse wheeled a toddler in a wheelchair, bubbles drifting from a toy attached to the armrest. The child giggled, reaching a tiny hand towards the shimmering orbs. Nearby, a senior doctor spoke softly in French to a woman in a flowing boubou, while a young man in a suit offered bottled water to a waiting relative in the lounge.
The air was fresh with the scent of lemon eucalyptus, wafting from potted plants in handmade clay pots lining the walls. Sunlight streamed through tall glass windows, spilling a warm glow on a mobile of origami birds hanging in the paediatric wing. Each bird had been folded by children once treated at the hospital, a symbol of recovery and renewed life.
Though the fifth floor was best known for its paediatric surgical suites, the east wing housed something equally vital: the hospital's Innovation Suite. There, clinical staff, engineers and technicians worked side by side to refine, adapt and demonstrate next-generation medical technology, including the AI diagnostic system that had caught the attention of the Ministry of Health.
In the green heart of Maitama stood the tall Obinna Hospital, a ten-storey building with shiny glass walls. Trees grew all around it, their leaves moving softly in the wind. The roof had solar panels, and there was a garden on top filled with local herbs and butterflies. The walkways were clean and neat, and the lawns were well cared for. Some patients sat outside on benches, enjoying the fresh air while nurses stayed close to help them. The hospital felt peaceful and beautiful. In fact, someone might want to live there just to enjoy the calm surroundings. Obinna Hospital was known as one of the best in Nigeria, maybe even in all of Africa.
Inside, the hospital breathed colour and culture. Local art adorned every floor, from woven tapestries in waiting areas to portraits of smiling patients near reception. Nowhere was this more heartfelt than the paediatric wing, where every detail, from murals to handmade crafts, celebrated the joy of healing.
Throughout the building, soft piano notes drifted from hidden speakers, each one like a quiet breath, soothing patients and staff alike. A digital board blinked softly at reception: Welcome to Obinna Hospital. We do our best, but God heals.
Passing five interns standing respectfully to the side, Obinna acknowledged them with a subtle nod before stepping into his private executive elevator, accessible only by biometric scan. Unlike the hospital's multiple public and service elevators, this sleek, minimalist cabin was reserved exclusively for him. Its softly glowing blue touchscreen panels glowed with efficiency, turning the ride into a mobile command centre.
In one corner, a live feed flickered silently. On the left, real-time streams from operating theatres across departments: paediatrics, general surgery, gynaecology, cardiothoracic, orthopaedics, neurosurgery, urology, internal medicine, and more. On the right, a dynamic dashboard rotated critical alerts, vital signs, emergency calls, surgical updates, and interdepartmental notes. More than just an elevator, it served as the hospital's heartbeat in motion.
Obinna glanced briefly at the screens, absorbing key details, then closed his eyes for a moment of calm amidst the data flow. It was deliberate awareness, not just surveillance. Quiet leadership at its finest: vigilant, informed, and always a step ahead.
The hospital itself had several elevators scattered throughout the ten storeys. Public elevators, used by patients and medical staff, featured screens displaying hospital maps, appointment reminders, and soothing health tips, accompanied by soft instrumental music to ease anxious minds. Service elevators, reserved for staff involved in logistics, cleaning, and maintenance, as well as for moving equipment and supplies, were practical and efficient, with simple digital displays showing floor numbers and operational notices. But this private elevator was a different realm entirely: secure, personalised, and integrated with the hospital's critical systems to keep Obinna connected wherever he went.
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