Adaobi Nwaubani - I Do Not Come to You by Chance

The lead actress had just discovered that the man she was about to marry was her long-lost father, when I heard the first scream. I assumed the noise came from the television. But when Godfrey lowered the television volume, we knew it was there in the house with us. We rushed to our parents’ bedroom.

My father was sprawled like a dead chicken by their bathroom door. My mother was crouched over him with her hands on his shoulders and her head close to his chest. She was shaking him, listening for his heartbeat, and screaming.

‘Hewu Chineke m o!’ she cried. ‘You people should see me o! Hewu!’

Her face was wet with tears. We threw ourselves to the floor and gathered around my father’s still form. Charity burst into tears. Odinkemmelu and Chikaodinaka, having heard the commotion from the kitchen, also rushed in. I pushed everyone aside and listened for a heartbeat. With relief, I confirmed that my father’s life was not yet finished.

‘Mummy, what happened?’ I asked.

‘Hewu God help me o… God help me o… hewu!’

I pulled myself together and recovered some of that level of thinking that sets man apart from the beasts of the field.

‘Godfrey… quick! Go upstairs and ask Mr Nwude if he can come and help us drive Daddy to the hospital in his car. Hurry… hurry…!’

I turned to the rest. ‘All of you go out… just go out. He needs air.’

I shooed everybody away and closed the door. My mother was still crying. I checked my father’s pulse again and again. Godfrey returned from his errand.

‘Mr Nwude said we should start bringing him out. He’ll meet us downstairs.’

I turned to my mother.

‘Mummy, please wear something.’

From the wardrobe, she dragged a boubou, which had black stains from unripe plantains covering most of the stomach area, and pulled it over her nightdress. I bent down and held onto my father’s arms beneath his shoulders while Godfrey held his legs. We lifted his body from the floor. With his head balanced carefully on my belly, we carried him out. A quick thinker had already opened the front door wide – the main entrance to the house that we reserved for special visitors. That exit would be closer to Mr Nwude’s sky blue Volkswagen Beetle.

Mr Nwude rushed out, dressed in an outfit that he ordinarily should have been ashamed of. He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and bathroom slippers, with his short-sleeved shirt buttoned halfway up. His wife stood beside my mother while we arranged my father into the backseat. I and my mother squeezed into the front passenger seat and forced the door shut. The old car sped off as best as it could, leaving the members of our household staring in distress.

‘What of your card?’ the nurse asked.

We were at the Government Hospital Accident and Emergency Unit.

‘What card?’ I asked back.

‘The one they gave you when you made your deposit.’

‘We didn’t make any deposit.’

‘OK, hurry up so I can arrange for a doctor to see him soon.’ She pointed her chin at my father, who was lying on a wooden bench with my mother standing beside him. ‘Go and pay then come back and fill out the forms.’

What was she talking about?

‘Just walk down the hall,’ she explained. ‘Turn right and walk to the end of the corridor, then turn left, and you’ll see a blue door. Three doors from the blue door, you’ll see another door that is wide open. Go inside, then look to your left. You’ll see where other people are queuing up. That’s the cashier. Pay your deposit and bring the receipt back here.’

Deposit? I looked at Mr Nwude. He looked at the nurse.

‘Madam, please, this is an emergency,’ Mr Nwude said. ‘Let the doctor have a look at him now and we’ll bring the money by morning.’

She almost laughed.

‘Madam,’ I begged, ‘please, first thing tomorrow morning, we’ll bring the money.’

She folded her arms and looked back at me. I wondered if the feminine of brute was brutess.

‘Nurse, please…’

She patted a pile of forms on all four sides until every single sheet was perfectly aligned. We pleaded and beseeched. She strolled to the other end of her work space and started attending to other matters. We beckoned my mother. Reluctantly, she left her husband’s side and leaned on the counter.

‘Please, my daughter,’ she said in a mournful, motherly voice. ‘My husband is very ill and we need to get him some medical attention as soon as possible. As my son was telling you, by tomorrow, we’ll bring the money. I can’t lie to you.’

Pity clouded the nurse’s face.

‘Madam…’

‘Please… please,’ my mother begged, shedding some tears for emphasis.

‘Madam, please. It’s not as if the doctors and nurses here are heartless. We’ve just learnt to be realistic that’s all.’

She explained that after a patient was admitted, it became almost impossible to discontinue treatment if it turned out that the patient could not pay. The doctors and nurses were now tired of contributing from their own pockets towards the welfare of strange patients.

We rushed back to my father’s side and held a quick consultation. My father did not conceal an emergency stash inside his mattress. All the banks were closed. There was nobody we knew in Umuahia who could afford to loan cash readily.

‘What do we do now?’ my mother asked. Her face was drenched with worry.

We carried my father back to the car and went searching. The Ndukaego Hospital told us that they were very sorry. The King George Hospital promised us that we were wasting our time. The Saints of Mount Calvary Hospital assured us that there was nothing they could do under the current circumstances. My mother lost her mind.

‘Hewu! God, please help me! My husband is dying o! My husband is dying!’

‘Mummy, please.’ For the billionth time, I confirmed that my father still had a pulse. ‘Mummy, please calm down.’

She continued babbling to God.

‘Let’s try another hospital,’ I said to Mr Nwude.

A light bulb flashed above his head.

‘My wife’s brother has an in-law whose aunty’s husband is a senior consultant in the Government Hospital,’ Mr Nwude said. ‘Maybe we can go and ask if they can help.’

We sped to the wife’s brother’s house. He gave us directions to the in-law’s house. At the in-law’s house, my mother flung herself against the floor and uttered a cry that shook the louvers. The in-law got dressed and accompanied us to the aunty’s house. At times like this, I had no grudges at all about Umuahia being such a pocket-sized town.

After assuring us that the hospital would have no qualms about shoving my father out the next day if we did not produce the cash, Senior Consultant Uncle gave us a signed note addressed to the hospital emergency ward. We sped back to the Government Hospital, flung the note across the desk to the nurse, and got my father attended to pronto. Thank God for ‘long-leg’.

‘He’s had a stroke,’ the doctor declared.

He said that my father’s blood pressure was too high, that he was in a coma. He could not give any definite prognosis, but gave instructions for my father to be admitted.

The hospital lift was not working, so I and Mr Nwude carried my father up via the staircase to the medical ward on the third floor. After every few steps, we would lean on the wall and pant before continuing.

At the ward, some junior nurses took my father from us, while a militant senior informed us that we could not go in. Visiting time was over.

‘You can sleep in the car park if you want to spend the night,’ she insisted. ‘This is not a hotel.’

Mr Nwude dashed back downstairs, retrieved the senior consultant’s note from the nurse at reception, and brought it to the ward. The militant nurse changed her mind.