9:00am, 19th June, 2025
“Hello Titilayo”
“Hello”
“Where are you?! The program is starting shortly and our sponsors want to meet all the warriors before we begin. Everyone liked your story last year so we were hoping…”
Titilayo cut the phone. She looked out of the window; the skies were dark and gloomy, mirroring her own state of mind. This anniversary had come to hold more significance than even her birthday; every year she smiled for the camera, said the right words, impressed the right people. But not today. The foundation could court another poster child for their sob story.
12:00pm, 19th June, 2007
Titilayo twirled in her pink dress. It was her brother’s birthday but one would think she was the birthday girl from the size of her dress. The full skirt made her feel a little bit grown-up even though her mother would never stop babying her. Every morning before she left for school she entreated;
“Don’t play rough with anybody o”
Feeling more confident in her impeccable gown and sparkly shoes, she approached the other girls whom she never really played with, but her mother had invited them anyway.
“Go away joor”, the boldest of the girls shoved her. “My mummy said we should not play with you”
The girl turned away from her and faced the other girls, her head held high,
“My Mummy said she’s a sickler. That’s why her eyes are always yellow”
Dazed, Titilayo burst into tears and sought out her mother.
“Mummy, who’s a sickler?”Her mother enveloped her in a familiar bear hug.“Sshhh… don’t mind them, ok, shh. Go inside. Go and find your brother”
2:00pm, 19th June, 2019
The oxygen felt cold, so cold that it chilled her lungs. Two IVs dripped incessantly into her hands. She was alone. Alone in a school clinic, miles away from home. Miles away from her mother. This was the result of an act of stupid courage bolstered by her bitterness at not being allowed to attend the boarding school most of her primary school mates had gone to.
She had gone away for university, convincing herself she was now an adult though her mother called twice everyday (morning and evening). She would take care of herself, she had vowed, and she had, keeping her clinic appointments religiously until she made new friends and had to answer why she was absent from school on so many days. “Did she not know attending class is very important in 100 level?”
It was the first time she had genuinely felt like one of her peers, so she had not told them why, choosing to forgo one clinic and then another until she stopped going altogether. And then this stupid crisis had happened. Her friends came with her to the clinic but there was something different in their countenance; pity. She was right not to have told them, she realised. She hated this pity far more than she had detested the taunts of her childhood. Once again, she was a sickler.
4:00pm, 19th June, 2022
“You don’t look like it”, he commented, his face unreadable.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t look like a sickler”
Titilayo grimaced. The word left a sick taste in her mouth.
“You should have told me”
“What?”
“You should have told me you were a sickler”
“Stop saying that!”, she snapped. “Besides what does it matter? Didn’t you say you were AA?”
“Yes, but you should have let me decide if I wanted to make that commitment”
Titilayo laughed. She laughed at the genetic lottery that meant that this good-for-nothing could get the pick of the pack because he was AA, while people with one S (that blight in the genes) had to try again several times. People like herself who got two SSs should be content to scrape the barrel.
Wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes, she looked at his bewildered face.
“You know what? Never mind”
“What?”
“We’re done”
“Hey…I didn’t mean it like that. Titilayo…”
She slammed the door shut.
5:00pm, 19th June, 2025
The lecturer sauntered in 30 minutes late. The class had been postponed on two occasions; the lecturer had not had enough time until today — World Sickle Cell Day. Fate, she smiled sardonically.
The rain pelted and she shivered. Another crisis in the offing, maybe.
“Let’s examine the clinical features of sickle cell disease. They tend to have a sickly appearance…”
Titilayo’s stomach churned involuntarily. The same “sickly” appearance that had earned her the titles of pẹlẹbẹ and alápá stainless now made agencies flock around her, trying to tease her into modelling.
“When you examine a patient, you should look out for bossing of the skull, spindly fingers and hepatosplenomegaly”
Titi stretched her fingers in front of her. That cup had passed her by. Thankfully. She gazed out of the window; watching the rain fall was more comforting than listening to a lecturer recount her entire existence.
“The recommendation for vaso-occlusive crisis is to hydrate liberally, and give mild opiods for pain. But opioids can be quite addictive you know”
He wiggled his eyebrows as if telling a bad joke. Titilayo’s face contorted in horror as he continued.
“I’ve seen some of them become addicted, that’s why I don’t give prescribe opioids anymore”
So this was why. All the times she’d been in pain so excruciating that she feared taking another breath. This was why she had not been given relief; because some people thought she was making the pain up.
Her classmates laughed as if on cue. She picked up her bag and stepped out. Nobody saw her leave.
Outside the rain fell on, oblivious—like everyone else—of her struggle. She was risking a crisis, but she didn’t care. Nobody cared anyway. Her phone rang again as she stepped in a puddle. God damn that stupid foundation.