Binta’s eyes roamed around, checking out the new apartment, she dropped her bags and changed her clothes to more comfortable ones. As she arranged the apartment, fleshing out the plain room and adding little bits of her to it, her eyes fell on a dog eared book poking out of a couch she had moved, she pulled it out and saw it had Clara written on it, curious to know what is in it, she flipped through the pages and her eyes caught the first line “My name is Clara Okoro”.
“Who is Clara Okoro”? She mumbled, like the cat she was curious and wanted to get more details, she opened the book again and moved back blindly until she felt the edge of the chair and sunk into it.
My name is Clara Okoro, I am 28 years old, a fair Igbo lady from Imo state in Nigeria, my tiny stature made me look a fragile vase which would break at any slight mistake.
I dropped out of University of Nigeria (UNN), to be a caterer, sounds foolish but cooking and baking have always been my passion, it relieves stress, makes me happy and when I bake or cook I find myself in another world; so I decided to ditch school and go into catering fully.
I am a sickle cell patient, there I said it. Three major things were inserted into my life; Sickness, Pain and Medicine. I am the third and last child and unluckily for me the only one with this curse. My older brothers luckily escaped.
I can vividly remember when I was five years old and asked my parents why I was home schooled and couldn’t go to a normal school like my neighbors, why I couldn’t play with my cousins for long hours, why I drink water too much, why I fell sick and had to take bitter medicines all the time; Dad said “you are different” Mom told me” you have a weak body”.
The world was shut against me during my childhood days, I was always indoors, and everyone treated me like an egg, it was frightening to live life, expecting to die the next minute or to wake up with pains.
I started going to a normal school in high school; school was a place of freedom, where no eyes were watching and would restrain me from being myself. My nickname in school was “The broom stick” because of my stature, the name didn’t faze me. I was the most agile person in school, although I could count the number of times I was present in school against the times illness held me captive at home.
It was when I got to high school, my questions were answered. Mom and Dad have the same genotype which made them give birth to a Sickle cell child; they are literate people, I still don’t understand why they got married despite the flaw. At first, I was furious with my parents, they caused it, days and weeks would roll by without me talking to them, sometimes I will give them cold treatment. Then I thought they were selfish but after some years I got over it.
In SS3, I was seriously ill. Everyone thought I would die, I couldn’t write my final paper. As I laid on the bed, spams of excruciating pain rocked my body, my joints and muscle aching, I was just waiting for the pain to pass away like how it had been. My room was decorated with get well soon cards and flowers. I watched as my family doctor whispered some words to my mom who was sitting close to my bed, she thanked him and stood up to walk him to the door.
Then I wanted to hate her for giving birth to me, for making me like this but what could I do? This is my fate and I have been forced to accept it.
I was so scared, I still wanted to have a boyfriend, know how it felt like to be kissed, I still wanted to wear a wedding gown with tiny sliver stones on it, I wanted to have babies. Different thoughts ran through my mind, then there on my sick bed, I vowed to live life to the fullest if I survive, try different things, maybe skip medication sometimes (besides, the doctor said, I won’t live up to age 18, so what’s the use of effectively taking drugs), I won’t be cooped up, hidden from the world and waiting for death to embrace me.
Binta’s phone rang, she dropped the book and went into the kitchen to pick the call.
TO BE CONTINUED
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