The sense of smell

The sweet, exotic, smoky smell of incense after the rain reminds you lovingly, of home.

The fragrance, like a lover’s arms, wraps itself around you tenderly, permeating the entire household, until it settles like a pregnant cloud, above the street you grew up in. Over the years, and many complaints later, the neighbours have come to terms with ‘the house with the funny smell’. Some of them, like the Tiv family down the street, have adopted the ‘turaren wuta’ culture, while a few others still hold on to the ridiculous notion that the incense is used to ward off evil spirits.

As you drive home from the hospital, in the wee hours of the morning, dog-tired and bone-weary, it is this smell that welcomes you, when you make the turn to your street. The house is quiet, as expected, but you know your mother will be on her prayer mat, with her prayer beads, awaiting your return. And although she will never admit it- lest she is mistaken for having a crisis in faith- her prayers have become longer and more fervent in the awake of this pandemic.

The weekend is spent lazing at home and helping your mother in the kitchen. A new shipment of incense had arrived from Tchad and you are in charge of testing the samples before arranging them in bottles for sale. Your mother is excited about their fragrance and so are your brothers. Your complaints about the funny smell are waved off, the majority has spoken.

At work, some of the patients you attended to, were reported to have died in the ICU. The rumours were rife and had spread like wildfire across the hospital community. Their death previously thought to be due to Pneumonia was now being reconsidered. Health care workers were getting agitated and demanding for better protective services from the management. The management, on their part, complained of lack of funds and blamed the government, while the patients continued to cry that they were being neglected. When the mortality rate increased to more than fifteen patients in the past week, your HOD demanded that all doctors in the department be tested. Everyone was given a form to fill, which would serve as a screening tool to determine those eligible for testing as few kits were available.

You sat in your car and studied the questions. Your feet felt numb, heavy even, while your heart hammered against your rib cage.

Cough? You ticked the ‘No’ Box. Fever? Again ‘No’. Shortness of breath? Nope. You were beginning to feel that you might just escape the horrible test when you saw ‘Anosmia’. The loss of sense of smell. Your hands tremble as you remembered the sauce you burnt the day before. You had earphones on and your back was turned to the stove as you chopped vegetables when suddenly, your mother who was in the living room, stormed in angrily and hit your shoulder. The stir-fry had turned to black char in the pan, but you had not noticed. Still in your car, you sniffed a bottle of perfume you kept in your bag for emergencies. Nothing. Other questions passed by in a blur: Headaches? Yes. Diarrhoea? Yes. And so on.

You called your mother and made up some story about staying in the hospital to study. That night, you moved into the hospital call-room and spent the night reading about various treatment methods. Sleep was out of the question and by the time the testing team had arrived, you were already at the venue. As uncomfortable as it was, you were glad your sample was taken. After three days of gut-wrenching panic, the results returned: positive.

Strangely enough, you were not surprised. The body pains and weakness had become worse and, so you did not resist when you were transported to the Isolation Ward. Your greatest fear was your family. They were still blissfully unaware. The tears came when your brother called to tell you that your mother was coughing. You immediately called relevant authorities and arranged for the entire household to be tested.

Days passed in a blur of medications and prayer. Your symptoms, though not severe, were weighed down by guilt. The apple of your eye, your mother, was positive. Amazingly, other family members were not. Many nights, you held her hand and cried while she was asleep. When her cough worsened, and her oxygen saturation dropped, you sat by her bed and monitored as oxygen was delivered. You bargained with God, to spare her life and take yours instead. She had other children, you reasoned. What did you have? Nothing! Only a medical degree that was causing your family grief. The guilt wore you thin and threatened your faith until your colleagues in the isolation ward rallied around you with words of comfort.

Nowadays, the smell of incense reminds you to be appreciative instead. That warm, exotic smell, that radiates from the pores of your mother’s skin when she hugs you reminds you of the transient nature of life. That fragrance, which you now actively seek, on your way home, reminds you to be grateful. For survival. For family. For Life. And for second chances.