My wife is tapping her right foot repeatedly. Tap tap tap. I look at the chart on the wall, the stain on the floor that looks like blood, the folder on the table. I look at everything but her. She had always warned me that my philandering habits would cause trouble someday. But ever the perfect wife, she never denied me. Not even after she woke me up in the middle of the night in tears, begging me not to infect her with HIV. A bitter laugh almost escapes my lips; she had forgotten one other virus. My yellow eyes meet the doctor’s as he comes in. I know the results before he opens his mouth hesitantly. I look at my wife now. She should be fuming, but she is not. I cannot read the expression on her face. The doctor reassures us before dropping a silent bomb; “there is no cure”. But it can be managed, he says, trying to sound enthusiastic. I look at my wife again. I have brought this on us. We are together in this.
I lie on the bed, looking at the cobwebs. The doctors are stiff, but the nurses show more pity. “Tut tut tut…how did it happen…what a waste…such a young girl…” The students who crowded around me when I first came—haranguing me with questions when I felt like I was dying —now keep their distance. They are more conscientious now, wearing gloves, washing their hands when they leave my bedside. I glance at the folder at the foot of the bed. The indictment is bold and red, for what I know nothing about. When I first came, one doctor asked me if I had taken the hepatitis vaccine. Ask my mother; I wanted to respond. Ask my mother, who has seven children, and a husband that sleeps in the gutter most nights. They broke the news to me yesterday. I have cancer of the liver. My mother used to say I was useless because I could not contribute any money to the house at my age. I hope I die. Then my mother would have less mouths to feed.
Everything feels so rough and scratchy. The lights are too bright. I like quiet, but this place is too quiet. I have not seen my mother in several hours. My mother, the only person that feels familiar in this new harsh place. Why have I been taken from her? There are some people in white coats leaning over, peering into my eyes, poking and prodding. They look so large and scary. They come every day, and sometimes more than once. When my mother is here, they speak to her too. Most times I cannot understand what they are saying, but one of them shouted at my mother once; asked her why she didn’t give me the drug that would have prevented the disease I have. The people in white coats are loud now, and I am in pain. I muster the remaining strength in me and stretch my tiny arms and legs. I let out a scream. What comes out is a pitiful whiny cry.
These doctors think they are God. Asking what I drink, if I smoke, if I have any tattoos. I said no, but they found the tattoos when they examined me. I don’t care. They took blood from my undamaged arm yesterday, and came back to tell me I had a virus they called hepatitis. There is fluid dripping into the same arm now. The chief doctor came this morning and told me I could leave tomorrow, but I would need to come back for re-assessment because of the virus. Why? I feel better than I did before the accident. I want to pull the needle in my arm out, but I like the nurse on duty and I don’t want to stress her. Besides Fatai will give me an earful because they have spent so much money since I was brought here. I can’t wait to go home. Those boys think they have liver? I’ll show them why I’m called Scorpion.
Aisha Ibrahim
