“Religion, sir?”
The man looked up. “Religion?” A laugh immediately came from him. Sharp and humorless.
“I don’t believe in God. Write it down. No heaven, no divine intervention. Kosi Olorun Kankan.” His angry eyes locked on mine, daring me to argue.
I nodded and moved to the next question. “Kilo gbe yin wa si hospitu.” Around us the A&E breathed chaos with footsteps, people screaming for doctors, nurses, mercy. Blood had seeped through his bandage.
Three hours later. I heard a preacher’s voice cutting through the triage. “Oluwa, wo awọn ọmọ rẹ wọnyi san. May the Lord heal—“
“Amen”
I turned towards the familiar sound. The atheist, still in the same bed, trembling. His gown twisted around him, tears running down his cheeks.
“Amen! AMEN!”
His voice broke on the second cry. His hands were wrapped together so tightly that they shook. Eyes shut like a child desperately trying to hide. The preacher’s words washed over him as he drank them in, gasping, drowning.
When his eyes opened and found mine, I saw no belief in them.
Only terror.
Only need.
Only the look of a man with no options left.
I wrote nothing down.
