I

  Arrival

  I returned to the CHER early the next day. Some minutes before eight, to be exact. I remember because I kept checking the time on my phone as I cut through the sand-filled parking lot to reach in front of the physiotherapy complex, rosary in hand. It’s one straight road to the CHER from there. My plan was to arrive at the emergency early enough so those on shift the night before could do a quick hand over and get on with whatever else they had planned for the day. A nice cold bath, Mass, service e.t.c.

  Also, Ebuka was on my mind. Had their well-off relative sent money for drugs and outstanding tests yet? His uncle had mentioned something about reaching out to a cousin on Friday. Well-to-do relatives are a source of financial relief for many patients in the hospital. Had anyone secured an IV access finally? Had the haematologists had better luck finding an appropriate donor blood group? Had his symptoms subsided— the fever, pallor, lethargy, respiratory distress, hardened skin?

  This wouldn’t be the first time these questions crossed my mind. The day before, I could have texted any of the HOs on call for answers. I’d wanted to. But at times, the simplest things end up being the most difficult to do.

  I hoped the answers to all my questions would be yes. But it was a weak hope. Let things not have worsened, at least.

  The possibility Ebuka was Kanevorian irrationally excited me, like a doctor stumbling on a rare illness. Our last adventure (Onyeka’s loss, his family’s devastation, the school’s scandal, my own breakdown and resit exams) should have taught me better. Yet, my mind spun with possibilities.

  The implications were endless. For one, how? It’s not like Evorians can just step into our world, and vice versa. Was Ebuka’s grandmother hiding things then? Was the father truly dead, the mother really absent? Were they even his relations… human?

  Some implications brought fear. A Kanevorian could take on the form of a four-clawed beast, large as a mini-bus, skin impenetrable, flowing fur that could become metal spikes the next minute, exquisite sense of smell. We’d gone up against two the last time. Their diet was no different from the carnivores. If they were Kanevorians, how had they hidden their beastly nature so long? And so well? Could that be the reason they’d chosen to live in a village?

  How had Ebuka coped…e.t.c.?

  One implication specifically brought sadness. That generations of the innocent still suffered for the sin of the guilty. That was how Dr. Aliozor had put it after we’d heard the tale of the curse of Kan, disgusted.

  On that journey to the emergency (glancing at my phone, greeting colleagues and other hospital staff on the way) my mind had little space to tease out all the implications.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Despite deep reservations, I hoped Dr. Aliozor was still on the case. He’d said nothing more after I’d sent those names. That was worrying. Hopefully, he’d get back to me before the day was far gone. With these thoughts in mind, I arrived at the CHER.

  I put my rosary back around my neck, aiming to complete it later in the day. Using one face of my handkerchief to wipe sweat from my head, another face to wipe dust from my trousers and crocs, I headed straight to the call room.

  Pushing the door open, I said, “Chief good morning.” I stepped into the air-conditioned call room, shifting to the side nearest the bed for HOs, and dropped my bag on it. Someone had made it already.

  Dressed in scrubs, dark blue crocs on his feet, the tall, dark man with a heart-shaped face stopped mid stride to shake hands. “Dr. Egbo good morning.”

  I’m not alien to the joys of working with people who make work easier. As such, my mind was already performing celebratory acrobatics as Dr. Ugo followed up immediately with, “You rested well yesterday, I hope.”

  I thought of the messages I sent, the YouTube tutorials I’d started since Friday on securing IV lines, the clothes washed, going out to buy food. “Yes,” I said.”

  “That’s good. We need it. We’re not superhumans.”

  I nodded, asking the question that had been on my mind. “Chief are you the one on call this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  I was punching the air in celebration (at least in my mind) it took me a while to register the question he’d asked. The other HO on call with me. “Dr. Ugwu,” I said, still drawing up the roster from the Paediatric HO group chat to be doubly sure. I was correct. Not sure he’d recognise her by surname, I added, “Chisom.”

  “Dr. Chisom,” he said, nodding his head. “She’s from Nsukka…”

  Ugwu is a surname common to the area. So, she might just be from there. However, I shrugged my shoulders.

  “…She’s a hardworking HO.”

  “Yes Chief.” Two people it was easy working with. Would my luck hold? I found out. “Chief, what of the Senior Reg.?”

  Dr. Ugo was at the door. “Oh. It’s Doctor Ekumankah. You might not know her. She wasn’t with us last week. They just brought her back to CHER.”

  This place being my alma mater, I supposed I knew her by face if not name. Unless she’d started here in the time between induction and when I’d started as a houseman. I was also surprised because I thought only those without specialties did rotations. I told him as much, in different words.

  The image of a child slowly letting air out of a balloon might give you an idea of how I felt as I spoke. I must have given something of this away because Dr. Ugo said, “…Don’t worry. She no like stress.” He chuckled.

  I nodded. I shut the door the moment he left, changing quickly to my scrubs and crocs. The disadvantages of being unable to bolt the door from inside are many. I plugged my power bank, switched off the light and the A/C, then locked the door with a small yellow padlock that sat comfortably on the top of the fridge.

  On my phone, the time was 8:07.

  A door opposite the side of the call room leads to a quadrangle and connects to passages that shortcut to the surgical A/E and Emergency theatre. Key in one hand, phone in a side pocket, handkerchief in another, I passed this door on my way to the ward— the CHER proper. I knew neither woman in the quadrangle. One was washing clothes; the other aiding and abetting her son to urinate in the quadrangle flora.

  Patients they’d admitted yesterday, I thought. The thought wasn’t a happy one.