Harmattan is my favourite time of the year. With its cool daytime breeze and freezing nights, wrapped up in my blanket enjoying a good book, it’s the time of the year I look most forward to. It is that time of the year when I travel home and visit friends and relatives that I have not seen all year. The Almighty designed it as a time of rest, with its long nights and shorter days and much to my delight, a time when fewer people visit the hospitals and we are able to count empty beds.
Unfortunately for some, it is not.
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When the news of the kidnap of the Kankara school boys broke, I thought my heart could not sink any lower. What is with this 2020 that keeps delivering blow after blow? Which one are we to deal with: Insecurity, the COVID-19 second wave, or the Nigerian recession? It is no wonder that patients, colleagues and friends are reaching out with symptoms of anxiety. There is simply too much being served on this year’s plate.
There is a widow’s story, however, whose December makes me grateful and reflect on the blessings we tend to overlook in our lives. For her, the harmattan brings about vivid flashbacks, and memories she would prefer to remain buried forever in the bottom of her heart. It is a time of increased palpitations and tremor, a period when she is overtaken by fear and nightmares such that she is forced to return to the hospital for admission.
I first met Hajia Rabi, five years ago in Murtala Mohammed Hospital, Kano. She was brought in by neighbours around 4:30 am, coughing and in acute confusion with minor burns on her hands and feet. Her three children were also brought in comatose. A neighbour narrated how he had woken up to pray when he saw the glow of flames from her closed window. The widow lived with her children in a small rented room, among several others, the popular Nigerian ‘face-me-I- face-you’. An alarm was raised and the door promptly broke down. The source of the fire was a curtain, which had been ignited from a splinter of charcoal brought into the room to keep them warm from the harsh December harmattan winds.
By morning, Rabi was stable and her wounds were being treated. A diagnosis of carbon mono-oxide poisoning was made and treatment instituted. Her children admitted into the paediatric ward, however, did not make it. None of us, doctors and nurses alike, could summon the courage to tell her. Three children dead, from smoke poisoning. Like Omawumi sang ‘E heavy for mouth’.
Two days later, when her inquiries about her children’s health became too much, her older sister offered to break the news to her. By then, the doctors had determined that she was stable enough to be discharged home. Surprisingly, she took it well, sitting calmly on her bed, surrounded by family. She shed silent tears in our presence and wondered aloud why God was testing her so. I learnt her husband, a tricycle rider, had died in a road traffic accident two years ago and that she was forced to take up petty trading to make ends meet. The situation was pitiable, to say the least.
Years passed and as with all things related to time, the memory of Rabi became vague, until a chance meeting with a colleague. She had seen my writing in her Rabi’s case note and updated me about her condition. Apparently, she had become increasingly agitated and aggressive. She, who was previously calm with a cheerful disposition, had suddenly turned into an easily irritated, bitter woman. She slept poorly and was paranoid about sleeping with the doors and windows closed. She often slept outside, on the pavement outside her room, despite the mosquitoes and cold weather in harmattan. Her family was worried when despite several incantations by their ‘Malam’ her condition was deteriorating. A friend mentioned going to the psychiatric hospital and they took a chance. My friend told me that she was currently on admission and being managed for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, commonly called PTSD. I decided to visit her.
The medications sedated her and she seemed not to recognise me. I decided it was best not to remind her of the awful circumstances in which we had met in the past and claimed I was just there to visit. She slept off, while I stayed a while longer staring at her sad face. Life indeed is a mystery. Eventually, she was discharged months later, when the nightmares subsided and she was able to cope with her emotions better.
It is a fact that life exposes us to stressful situations. Whether it is the death of a loved one, a kidnapping, or a meeting with armed robbers, life will always show us highs and lows. To not be affected in some way is sociopathic. In the immediate aftermath of a psychologically traumatic event, it is perfectly normal to have flashbacks, intrusive images, disturbed sleep, altered appetite, nightmares, mood swings, anxiety, depression or anger. PTSD can result from a single psychologically traumatic episode or from an insidious exposure to events over time. However, for PTSD to be diagnosed, the symptoms must fit certain criteria and be present for up to 12 weeks. Some people do well on medication and psychotherapy whereas others battle with it throughout their lives.
The news of the kidnapping and subsequent release of the schoolboys brought back the memories of Rabi. Every year, around this time, her symptoms return with a vengeance. She is unable to cope with the nightmares and flashbacks until she is admitted into the psychiatric ward. Every single year since that incident, like clockwork. I have met young children, who stammer in their speech (stutter) because of a fearful incident they witnessed in childhood. And while I am not saying that all those schoolboys will develop PTSD, it is a fact that traumatic events affect us in different ways. I pray those children overcome the trauma and are given all the emotional and psychological support they need.
Decembers always remind me of Rabi’s story and the need to appreciate life the way it is. Like an ECG, the rhythm will always rise and fall. The prayer is for us to be able to cope whenever life deals us a bad hand.
These are indeed trying times. May Nigeria heal.
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