Clad in a simple leaf-patterned navy blue and white kaftan made from traditional adire fabric, Molade watched the cars speeding by on the Ibadan-Lagos expressway. Her thoughts drifted to another time when she made a similar trip. The road wasn’t this terrible back then; it took just a little over an hour to get to Ibadan from Lagos. Just like now, Jamiu was driving, as he had since her teenage years. Molade’s brow furrowed in thought as they journeyed toward the ancient city. Despite its proximity to Lagos, she could count the times she had travelled this road.
Her musings were interrupted when the car swerved off the main road onto a muddy path, dodging deep potholes. She jerked forward, saved by her seatbelt from hitting the headrest in front of her.
“Sorry, madam,” Jamiu apologised.
She waved him off, knowing it wasn’t his fault. A little effort from the government could fix the road, she thought, glancing around. Her mind wandered to the reason for her trip today, wondering if her findings would confirm her fears sparked by a document she had seen that morning.
Jamiu slowed the car beside a woman roasting fresh corn to ask for directions. As he prepared to drive off, Molade handed him a few thousand naira notes to give to the woman. The joyous woman quickly wrapped some roasted corn in newspaper to give them, but Jamiu declined and drove away. Molade watched in the rearview mirror as the woman danced with joy; the money would cover her sales for the day and more.
They arrived at what appeared to be a hospital. Molade gazed at the small building; its white paint had faded to grey and peeled off, and some broken windows were replaced with wood. A queue of people spilled out from the entrance, making her wonder how much busier it would be on a weekday.
“Do you want me to go in for you?” Jamiu asked, his voice filled with concern.
Molade offered a small smile. Jamiu knew her well, but why wouldn’t he? He’d been her driver since she turned sixteen, becoming more like family over the years. She had built a house for him, sent his children to school, and seen them graduate and secure jobs. To Molade, Jamiu was more than a driver; he was a father figure. Her friends often remarked on his long tenure, but Molade felt lucky to have him by her side. She trusted him like no one else.
“No, thank you. I’ll do this on my own.”
Molade stepped out of the car and joined the queue at the hospital entrance. A woman with a baby asked her in Yoruba, “Madam seti gba kadi yin wanni dayin loun laisi kadi”, meaning if she’d gotten a card yet and she would not be attended to without one, then kindly directed her to where she could get one. Molade was grateful; she was used to seeing her personal physician by appointment and wasn’t familiar with the public hospital’s protocols.
At the registration desk, she gave a false address and registered under a pseudonym, “Bimbo Jimoh,” wanting to remain inconspicuous. The young lady behind the desk eyed her sceptically, commenting that she didn’t look sick and the doctor was busy with patients. Molade grimaced, noting the abundance of unsolicited opinions in this place. She nodded politely, holding back a retort, and took her place in the waiting area, her mind racing with the potential revelations ahead.
Molade must have sat there for over two hours, the minutes ticking by with excruciating slowness. The air was thick with the murmur of conversations, the occasional cough, and the rustle of paper. Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed when her pseudonym, “Bimbo Jimoh,” was called. It took a moment to register that it was her turn.
As she stood up, a mix of anxiety and anticipation washed over her. She walked into the doctor’s office, the door closing behind her with a soft click. What she saw next left her stunned, a cold shock settling in her stomach.
Share this:
21stcenturybelle 