Hero Ozoemena slaps his desk loudly—because he is angry, because he is mad, mad again this morning, mad at many things (his secretary, his stupid dog, his colleague, his lunch, his teeth, his spilled coffee, even himself), because he can’t find some files, because he is fighting the How-was-I-to-know thought deep within, because he forgot not to buy the buy-1-get-2-free goods again, because he should have known there is no one-size-fits-it-all solution to that very problem, because just look at what they did to the masses, those bloody murderers, because he won’t meet up with that important appointment, because mama has called again to complain of arthritis, because he knows mama is turning hypochondriac, because “fug” Placebo effect, because he knows Chief Thomas doesn’t know the kids aren’t his, because he can’t think straight now, because Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead is dead, because he is tired, because he knows that doorbell tone of his door is about to usher in Nurse Njideka. He clears his throat and adjusts his tie. He glances at his watch. It’s eleven fifty-five.
“Come in.”
The door opens instantly to introduce a young woman of ebony complexion. She’s wearing clean, elegant clothes. She’s pretty, but not so pretty. She’s tall.
“Good morning, Doctor Hero Ozoemena. I am a nurse from the Federal Ministry of Health, FMH,” the lady says, raising a leg to adjust her shoe.
“Okay,” he says, sipping from his cup of coffee.
“You should know why I am here.”
“I obviously do. Sit down.”
She walks up to the seat.
“I hear you are a student nurse.”
“Used to be. It’s six months now.”
“Oh!” He rubs his forehead. “I must still be holding onto un-updated information. Pardon my ignorance.”
“It’s technically nothing.”
“Alright. Now let’s go straight to what brought you. Any other profiling?”
“No. But the John Vs Olive Hospital case donor is still raising flames. Won’t accept that things don’t work that way. Wants his money before Tuesday.”
“We can’t guarantee him that. It’s plain simple. Tell him patience is a virtue.”
“Told him. Wanted to know why the previous nurse washed her hands off. Told him it was personal.”
“Hmm. He’s turning into an overbearing astronaut. He should quit asking too many questions, I don’t like that. Tell him he will get his money once the patient snaps out of coma. We don’t have his money yet. Tell him what he’s requesting for is impossible—we can’t pay him with our money. He should understand that.”
“That’s the problem. He doesn’t want to understand. Thinks we have his money in our pockets. Threatens to sue again.”
“He’s crazy. Tell him he’s crazy. When he walked into my office telling me that he badly wants his kidney auctioned off, did I sue him? When he was frequenting my office begging me to do everything possible to rob him of his healthy kidney, did I sue him? Tell him to go and sue his community people. Nobody forced him to sell his kidney. Did anybody?”
“Take it easy, doc.”
“Don’t tell me to take it easy. I am a qualified and experienced professional. I told him I hate meddling in affairs that strictly have nothing to do with the nervous system—excuse minor neurology. Did he listen? No. Now he is bugging me with complaints and impatience. Tell him that if he annoys me I will come and take his remaining kidney from him.”
“What?! I didn’t hear you, doc. No, I didn’t. That’s a crazy joke. I hope you don’t mean it.”
“No,” he says, quietly. “Of course, I am just joking. I live by the oath of Maimonides. Just tell him we will get his money once the patient recovers.”
“Alright. I think I should be on my way. Hope you don’t get too worried over this.”
“Sure. I’ve got tougher bile for matters like this. Have a nice day.”
“You too. I will give you a call later.”
“Please do.”
***
“There are patients who don’t know they are patients, patients who try to teach you your profession and the tangents it may take. And such patients are not in the minority,” Hero observes.
Before his comment, he had sat so quiet as he allowed his mind to swing about with streams of consciousness. He felt the patient was rambling, and so simply chose quietude. Frank, who had worked in different cafés and restaurants in Stockholm while pursuing a degree in Creative Writing, was with him. He said for the past one week he had found it difficult to rest without his legs and arms shaking and jerking. He said his condition was worst at night, that he could swear his village people were after his life. It’s not your village people, Hero Ozoemena said. Frank couldn’t accept it was not his envious and malicious clansmen. He mentioned Ezeugo, Ojonkwo and Ozurumba, names of people he suspected had a hand in his condition. Enemies of progress, he said. All of them, even their olofofo wives. But Hero had tried to name the sickness whose symptoms he had. Rubbish! He had said. Don’t try to be creative with me. I know what I am telling you. These folks don’t rest. They are assiduous when it comes to their witchcraft and wizardry. I have been to countless hospitals before this. I am only here because my wife insists I visit one more time. I told her I’m very sure it’s my village people, those poverty-stricken old men. Those faggots! Those friggin dishonest charlatans! His wife tried to calm him down but to no avail. If you try to shush me now I will leave this hospital for you. Look what they have done! Made me start shifting an iota of belief towards jazz and otumokpo—a graduate like me! Someone had said: “What you have is Restless Legs Syndrome.” But he flared up, throwing his hands into the air. I said it. You are trying to be creative with me. You have found a term for it, haven’t you? Ha ha. You think you can fool me? You want me to pay you for something you can’t treat, right? I am sorry. I wasn’t raised by fools. You are getting no dime. The solution is to face them with what they have been using too. Woman, let’s leave.
First procession in Broken Chronology: “There are patients who don’t know they are patients, patients who try to teach you your profession and the tangents it may take. And such patients are not in the minority.”
“Now, what exactly do you mean by that?” Frank asks, as though he had been touched by a benevolent spirit of attention. He pushed his seat forward. “You want me to believe there is a thing like Restless Legs Syndrome? Where have you put your wisdom, doctor?”
“Well, it’s also called Willis-Ekbom disease. It is a condition of the nervous system that causes overwhelming, irresistible urge to move the legs. It appears there is no obvious cause of this in the majority of cases.”
“It’s my village people then. Believe it or not. If science can’t explain it, then it’s my village people. Period.”
“No. It can be related to how the body handles a chemical called dopamine. You will need medication to regulate the levels of dopamine and iron in your body. In fact, it can even be caused by kidney failure. Iron is needed alone if it was caused by iron deficiency anemia. I will put you under treatment so your village people would be astonished, if not disappointed. Let me prescribe some drugs.”
“Doctor, if they don’t work I will come back for my money or I burn this office.”
“No. It is your father’s house you will burn. Rubb…Foo…Just forget. But it is not this office you will burn down. Local set of people.”
***
“Download a Brochure Today And Apply For a Scholarship,” Says Blythe McIntosh.
Those are the words on his computer screen. He clicks on the link. His doorbell rings. He didn’t hear from the Interpol, no. He didn’t hear from his secretary. He feels uncomfortable. Who now? He removes his tie. He breathes hard. He doesn’t believe much in those bloody superstitions, but he knows the devil can use anyone. He hibernates his computer. Why didn’t the secretary inform me about the visitor? If it were somebody familiar or that belongs to the hospital environment, he or she wouldn’t take so long to open the door. He stands on his feet. He knows the saying: Trust people, but not the demons in them. He checks the time. It’s four forty-five p.m.
“Come in.”
Two men walk in through the open door—a policeman and a man that looks somewhat like a convalescent.
“Are you Doctor Hero Ozoemena?” the policeman asks.
He looks behind himself before answering: “Um, sure, I am. Is there a problem?”
“No. We hear this man here gave you his kidney.”
“It’s not as if he gave me his kidney…”
“Where is the kidney then?” the policeman asks.
“I don’t have it—don’t think I can have three in any lifetime. Do you?”
“Doctor, where is the kidney then?”
“With the buyer.”
“Where is the buyer?”
“Um, I don’t think you can see him now.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because he is asleep.”
“We will wake him.”
“You don’t understand. He is in a coma.”
“Does someone in a coma bite?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous now.”
“Take us to him then. I guess you don’t want this to turn into a serious legal case.”
“Well, if you insist, let’s pay him a visit.”
“Take us there.”
Hero Ozoemena walks them out of his office and down the corridor to Room 17B. He opens the door for them.
“Go in first,” the policeman instructs. “Don’t know how you guys end up having people’s kidneys. Go in, my friend.”
Hero laughs. “Alright.” He walks past them. The others walk in too, ensuring the door is being left open.
“Where is the buyer?” the policeman asks.
Hero looks at the bed to realise the body has been moved—or has disappeared. He gasps. “Good lord of mercy!”
“Keep quiet, doctor. Where is my kidney?” the donor asks.
The doctor is baffled, if not frightened. Where has the body in comatose gone to? He can swear he saw the body in the last seven hours. But seven hours is enough time for anything to happen.
“Where is the kidney?” the policeman asks, looking Hero Ozoemena dead in the eyes. “Hope you don’t take us for fools. You could end up in jail right now. We aren’t saying give us the kidney, we just want to see the kidney. Is that too much to ask?”
“I swear, the body was here.”
“We don’t want to see the body, we want to see the kidney.”
“I mean the body having the kidney.”
“Then who moved the body and his kidney?”
“I don’t know.”
“Alright, Doctor Hero Ozoemena. I put it to you that you are a fraudster, a liar and a cannibal. You will follow me to the station.”
“No, I have to ask the nurses.”
“Whatever that means, you have only fifteen minutes. Find that kidney or you will rot in jail.”
“I will, give me more time.” He rushes out of the room.
“Slow down, Doctor Ozoemena.” the policeman says. “We are coming behind you. By the way, come close this door.”
***
Hero, followed by the desperate donor and the policeman, ambles into a room where he whispers to a nurse to inform the whole hospital staff that a patient in comatose is missing. The policeman is looking impatiently, as is the donor.
“Can’t we just take him away now?” the donor asks.
“Let’s give him the benefit of doubt,” the policeman replies. “If he doesn’t find the kidney in the next fourteen minutes, he’s going to jail.”
“But how do I get my money?” the donor asks.
The policeman turns to look at him well. “My friend, we are looking for your kidney and not your money. You didn’t give the man your money. What you gave him is your kidney, and that’s what we need to find. It’s when we find it we can begin to talk about your money. Pray he doesn’t even deny your donating any kidney.”
“That’s impossible. Deny? What rubbish!”
“Do you have any witnesses?”
“Um…witness?”
“Look, in matters like this, one needs to tread softly. But don’t worry, let’s handle the current situation on the ground.”
“I must get my money o!” the donor says.
“Your kidney, not your money. How many times do I have to tell you that? Your kidney, not your money,” the policeman says.
“Alright. I want my kidney.”
“Good boy.”
“Where is the patient?!” the donor shouts. “I want my kidney now!”
“Hey, hey!” Hero Ozoemena shouts. “Don’t disturb the hospital. We are going to give you your kidney.”
“When?!”
“In the next five minutes or less. We’ve found the comatose patient.”
“You’ve found the sleeping man?” the policeman asks.
“Yes,” Doctor Ozoemena replies.
“Where is he now?”
“He will soon be back in the room.”
“Hmm. Sounds strange. But anything is accepted as long as we can see the kidney. We need to have that kidney there, it’s all we need right now.”
“No. I don’t want the kidney back.” the donor corrects. “I want my money.”
“Oh! What is wrong with you? Why can’t you understand that it’s seeing the kidney that will lead to you getting your money? Are you daft?”
“Sorry. But I can’t just…”
“Just keep quiet, Mr. Osondu! I will handle the matter. At least, he hasn’t denied your giving him your kidney. Just keep quiet. Will you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” the policeman replies and turns to face Hero Ozoemena. “Can we go now?”
Hero waves at a nurse who nods her head in affirmation: “Yes,” he says. “We can go.”
“Beautiful,” the policeman says. “Just what we want. That kidney better still be alive too. We won’t even accept a sleeping kidney.”
***
They enter the room again, Room 17B. There, now lying on the bed, is a man who’s probably 6ft tall.
“Is this the man?” the policeman asks the donor.
“I don’t know. Have never met him.”
“Hmm. Well, it’s alright. Doctor, show us the kidney.”
“Alright. How do you want me to do that?”
“What nonsense!”
“I mean, we’ve stitched his body.”
“Alright. Let’s see the stitches. Oh! By the way, how did the body leave the bed?”
“A nurse moved him out to another room.”
“Alright. Now, the stitches.”
The donor is fuming with rage now: “Are you saying without the stitches I won’t get my money?”
“Nobody has said that, Mr. Osondu,” the policeman corrects. “Be careful and watch.”
“Hmm. I want my money o.”
Hero flips the white cloth covering the man’s waist and the two fix their eyes down to observe.
“Okay. I can see stitches,” the policeman says. “Now you must pay him what you owe him.”
“No one said he won’t be paid. We just asked him to be a little bit patient. The family of the patient hasn’t really paid up. We gave him a little money before the medical surgery began. He agreed on the percentage and the process. We didn’t force him.”
“Is what he said at least partly true, Mr. Osondu?” the policeman asks.
“Yes.”
“Now, did he add any lie you may want to bring to light by virtue of statements?”
“They just didn’t make it clear to me. What if the man dies?”
“But you signed a document.” Hero says.
“I didn’t really read it,” the donor confesses.
“Oh, Mr. Osondu!” the policeman says. “Because you were in a hurry to sell your kidney? How many times do I have to tell you that you have to care about your kidney more than money? Anyways, thank you doctor. Let’s meet in your office.”
“Alright, officer. The transaction was simply legit.”
The three men leave the room gently. Hero closes the door.
***
It’s an uneventful Saturday morning. Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead’s wife is greeting and waving to Hero from the balcony of their apartment. Her husband, his very good friend, had died while dancing at a political rally. He just slumped and died, just like that. Hero is also their family doctor as well as their landlord. He was a good man, apparently, and with enough laughter to last him a lifetime. He cared about his country’s affairs and politics. He had decided to vie for the position of a local government chairman despite his wife’s disapproval. His kids were five, seven and eight years old. People said someone must have poisoned him before the rally—dangerous politicians. They said when he fell, his comrades didn’t even want to lift him. He was a capable man, a man capable of taking your sorrows away in a moment’s encounter. He also had a big heart, heart big enough to accommodate love for his fellow man and even his enemies. But his fellow countrymen had killed him, allegedly. Before deciding to join politics, he trained and worked as a lawyer and had traveled extensively to places like Cyprus, Slovenia, Japan, Germany, U.S.A., England, Liberia, Wales and Kenya. He was once stationed for work at the Centre for Science and the Imagination, where he worked with and for popular contemporary writers. Hero had known him from Germany where Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead stayed for a short while—and where Hero studied Medicine at Heinrich Heine University in Düsseldorf. It’s just barely eight months since he relocated to Nigeria, and now he’s gone—gone to his early grave. Now, Hero has once again confirmed one of his earliest convictions—that politics is a bloody dirty game. Now he only wishes that anybody who has a hand in Sizwe-Bansi-is-Dead’s death suffers what he calls “Onion Effect”. His death has brought enormous pain to his wife, who is expecting their fourth child. Her day dreams had been swapped for sheer nightmares against her wish. Hero wished Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead was rushed to his hospital when he slumped—he wanted to be sure if it was food-poisoning or his underlying health issue related to hypertension. But he had been informed two days after his death. He was a man who loved and read all the oeuvre of Athol Fugard, hence the name Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead. The name was foisted upon him by his university colleagues, and it came to stick even in professional and political circles. His real name was Desmond Ogenechovwe. Now, Hero suspends entering his car to climb up in order to meet Sizwe-Banzi-is-Dead’s wife who has requested to be helped with a door that just wouldn’t open. He has decided to shove his classic “I am late for work” down his throat. He climbs as fast as possible. He is doing this for his friend who had returned to invest in his own country because, of course, the land is greener on the other side. But now, Irony says he had invested in his own sudden demise. He attended to the lady of his late friend with real patience before excusing himself and telling her to visit Eastside as soon as possible need be. She thanked him and went in to wait for her brother-in-law who promised to come drive her to a distant town, her gratitude flying so high and nearly reaching the sky. She takes a cushion and holds her breath like a thunder ready to shake a thousand rooftops. Outside, Hero Ozoemaena tries damn hard to clear his head.
GLOSSARY:
1. Fug: an intentional or euphemistic misspelling of the vulgar word.
2. Otumokpo/Jazz: in Nigerian English or colloquial English, otumokpo or jazz means black magic or charms.
3. Olofofo: this is a Nigerian word, particularly Yoruba, that refers to anyone who gossips.
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About
Marvel Chukwudi Pephel is a Nigerian writer who writes poems, short stories and other things besides. A graduate of Applied Biochemistry from Nnamdi Azikiwe University, he combines scientific thought with literary art. In 2021, he was invited to the Sixth Chinua Achebe Literary Festival. His poem “Ogene” appeared on 10, 000 socks printed in Sweden which resulted from a collaboration launched as a project to tell African stories through socks. Apart from literary art, he has a keen interest in artworks (especially the works of Salvador Dali). He is the author of I, Robert’s Robot and Other Stories.
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