By Dr Wilson Orhiunu
(Babawilly)
Babawill2000@gmail.com
‘In the abundance of water the fool is thirsty’ said Peter.
He said that anytime he heard of a fuel shortage in Nigeria
‘Look, I didn’t ring you with my precious credit to hear
Majek Fashek quotations you hear’ said Mama.
‘Bob Marley Mama’ said Peter.
‘I don’t care. Do you know I have walked into the street for
a better reception? This phone cannot pick signals in the house. Now answer me.
What are we going to do about Uncle T?’ said Mama.
Peter looked at his watch. Something had told him not to
answer the phone. He wished he hadn’t. ‘Have you been to the police?’ he asked.
‘You have been abroad too long my dear. I say people have
been burnt to death like Suya forgotten on the grill, totally unrecognisable
and you are talking of Majek Fashek and
police. Ehen, before I forget. I heard Uncle T’s small wife has gone to see the
lawyer early this morning’ said Mama.
‘Why now?’ asked Peter.
‘Why now he asks. The Will of course’ replied Mama.
‘Mama, we never see dead bodi and she don dey find Will?’
asked Peter.
‘Search me’ said Mama.
‘Mama, I really must go. Surgery starts in 15 minutes’
‘You have operation to do?’
‘No, a clinic session’
‘If na clinic call am clinic. Which one be Surgery again?’
‘Mama, I will call you later. I must go. Love you’ said
Peter
‘If you love me, marry and give me grandchildren before I
die’ replied Mama.
Peter switched off the phone and resumed his car journey to
work.
The first patient was Jim. He smelt of alcohol. Peter
recognised stains on his jacket from last month’s consultation.
‘It’s the knee Doctor Makara. Killing me’ said Jim. He
pulled up the right trouser leg to reveal what looked like a snakes and ladders
board game without the ladders.
‘Those varicose veins look bigger today. You really should
have them treated’
‘No Doctor. I will take them to my grave. Can’t have no
Surgeon messing with my legs. Not unless she’s a pretty blonde’. He laughed
heartily and Peter slowly leant back in his chair to dodge the foul stream of
alcoholic breath mixed with last night’s curry. Jim never failed to mention his
grave at each consultation. He came almost very month since his wife died two
years ago. Peter felt Jim was actually trying to commit suicide using
protracted means. The frequent visits to the psychiatrist had changed nothing.
In the end they settled on pain -killers for the knee and a
pair of compression stockings for the leg veins. By now the room stank. Jim
taking off his shoes always had that effect on any room.
At the door Jim reached for the knob smiled and pulled it
open. His face lit up. ‘Dr Mukaro, why do your country men not use petrol
stations like everyone else?’. He winked as he spoke.
‘The same reason you don’t use soap’ thought Peter.
‘You heard then?’ Peter spoke out loud.
‘Some one turned the channel over to CNN last night at the
pub’. ‘Didn’t touch a drop though. Of alcohol I mean’.
‘Oil pipeline vandalization they call it’ said Peter
‘I can understand stealing petrol but why smoke cigarettes
at the scene?’
Peter knew where he was going. ‘What do you expect from dumb
Africans?’ said Peter.
‘I didn’t mean it that way’ said Jim apologetically.
‘Only pulling your leg. Just don’t drink any Cider with
those Co-codamol tablets’.
‘No problem. I will wash them down with Whiskey. See you’
joked Jim before finally leaving.
Peter rushed to open the windows and propped the door open
with a chair. He didn’t so much as mind the smell as he did the next patient
thinking the aroma was all down to him.
Jim always had something to say. Last month he had gone on
about an e –mail from Nigeria
‘I am not a financial adviser’ was Peter’s reply to Jim.
They got on well however.
Next in the black chair was Tom looking very happy with
himself.
‘She loves me’ he announced.
‘I see’
‘Oh yes. I have got love off the NHS. Could you now
prescribe me some money?’
‘The National Health Service is strapped for cash as it is.
What do you need money for anyway?’
‘We are doing what lovers do. Going out every night. All
down to the pipes being open again. I think the inventor of Viagra should be
knighted’ said Tom.
Pipes. That word triggered thoughts in Peter’s head.
Pipelines, arteries and veins. Conveying goodies from one point to another.
Then they leak or maybe get blocked. Bang!
Tom left with his repeat prescription waving in his left
hand.
‘Thanks Dr
The morning Surgery continued uneventfully till the last
patient. Fiona. She walked in with a face like thunder and sat down heavily.
The last patient had scabies. He imagined them climbing into Fiona’s clothes.
He hated that black chair. He once suggested that all patients stood during
consultations to reduce cross infections. All his partners thought the idea was
a good joke.
‘Are you trying to kill me or what?’ asked Fiona.
‘Fiona, what are you talking about?’
‘You have turned Tom into a brute. I have not slept in ages.
I demand you stop poisoning him right away’
‘Ah. Does he know how you feel?’
‘No’.
‘Then I suggest you discuss this with him. Patient
confidentially exists and I cannot go into his medical treatment with you’
Peter said picking his words slowly.
Fiona walked out looking dissatisfied.
The practice nurse put her head through the door.
‘Sign this script please. Fiona complained to me in the
corridor. Something about the Viagra you gave to her husband’
‘People are dying all over the world and she worries about
four little pills’ Peter remonstrated.
The mail was brought in along with some little tasks needing
to be done that morning. Among them was a request for time off work for Mrs
Richmond. A post-it attached to her notes read –2 weeks for bereavement please.
‘So Mr Richmond has finally died’ thought Peter. He remembered what his grand
father always said when he got to the obituary pages of his Daily Times; where
there is life there is death.
Three home visits later he decided to ring his mother. He
dialled the pin number on his international calling card and was told by a
distant voice that he had 4 minutes remaining.
‘Mum, how are things?’
‘The family is getting hysterical. Your Uncle T is dead.
When are you coming home?’
‘How do you know?’ asked Peter
‘You better come home o! You know your father has died and
left me with all this trouble. Now his younger brother has decided to go’. He
could hear his mum crying.
‘Mama calm down. Have you seen a body?’ asked Peter
‘No. But many have confirmed they saw him scooping fuel from
the vandalised pipelines. Hold on’
Peter fixed his eyes on his watch. Two minutes later his mum
spoke.
‘I had to leave there. You know his wife. She has already
been to the life insurance people o! Uncle T’s life was insured for 20 million
Naira. All going to her. A friend rang to tell me she was smiling when she
walked out of the place. Now she is in the house rolling on floor and shedding
crocodile tears.’
‘And what of the Will’
‘All the houses to
her. She has really hit Bonanza. We are due to set out for the hospitals and
mortuaries now’
‘Alright mama. We will talk later’.
‘Is that all you will say? I thought you were close to your
Uncle. Has your heart grown cold?’
‘Mama, I cannot start crying at work now. Remember, no body
has been found’.
Peter struggled to shake the image off his mind. Petrol
haemorrhaging from pipes which had been forcibly violated. It had happened so
many times before. In search of quick profit they go in the early hours with
tankers and steal.
‘No burglar repairs the broken window on his way out’. Those
were the exact words used by Tony in defence of the oil pipeline vampires. It
was two years ago and that statement left an indelible mark in Peter’s memory.
At the time Tony made no secret of his second job in the illegal fuel
business. Tony called it the redistribution of wealth. Tony White was an
old class mate who suddenly became a ‘Lagos Big boy’ due to his frequent
business trips to the Niger Delta.
‘A hungry man
cannot sit and starve. He will do what must be done. By whatever means. Those
pipelines have run through the communities for years without any problems. Why
now? Hunger is the answer. Not greed. Not the devil despite the 666 kilometres
of crude oil pipelines. Not lawlessness. It is pure hunger’ said Tony.
Tony was in
fine form that day. His wife was celebrating her forty second birthday with a lavish
party at their Lekki ‘high brow’ residence. Wine glass in one hand and a cigar
in the other Tony went around boasting. He did not spare Peter who was then on
a two week holiday in Lagos
‘Peter, when will you come home and help build the nation?
Are you not tired of that your fish and chips existence?’
Peter had mumbled something and walked off. Tony was shot
dead four months later. A deal had gone wrong.
Back at home that night he rang his mum for an update. This
time he was fully armed with a new international calling card promising fifty
minutes of talk time.
‘What your mother has seen today eh!’ she exclaimed.
‘Mama calm down’
‘I went from mortuary to mortuary. Hospital to hospital’
Mama lamented.
‘Doh Mama’
‘In the end, that Uncle T’s wife choose a burnt out skull as
her husband. I almost slapped her. She is so desperate for a body’
‘Mama, are you not being a bit harsh?’
‘Peter, call back in 20 minutes. Our Pastor just walked in’
As soon as she hung up Peter dialled a familiar number.
‘Uncle T. Been trying you all day’
‘Accra
‘Big trouble! Lagos
‘What this time?’
‘Explosion at the leaking pipeline near your house’
‘I was there. Na God save me. A narrow escape. Not had the TV on since I arrived here with
this babe’
‘Na woman go kill you o. Where is your car?’
‘After I scooped fuel, I dropped it for servicing and went straight
to the airport with Uche’ replied Uncle T.
‘Your wife thinks you died in the explosion’
‘But I told her I was coming to Accra
‘You owe me. But tell me, a big shot like you scooping fuel.
Why?’
‘Fuel scarcity my brother. I couldn’t resist free fuel’
‘Please ring home and let the crying stop’ replied Peter.
After the call Peter
sat staring into space for a few minutes then sighed heavily.
‘In the abundance of water the fool is thirsty’ he said out
loud. He sat staring for a while before the thought hit him. There are no
thirsty fools there. Just victims; victims
of circumstance.
THE END
