Dr. Mustapha entered his office just as his phone’s flashlight blinked silently. Picking it up, he saw “Mamie” on the screen. He answered respectfully, “Mamie.”
On the other end, the calm voice of an elderly woman said, “Assalamu Alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever, his body is burning like fire. He refuses to tell me what’s wrong. Please, my son, come quickly.”
Without showing alarm, Mustapha asked, “Can he speak?”
Mamie sighed, “He barely says anything. Hameed already left for work before 8. He doesn’t know either.”
Taking a deep breath, Dr. Mustapha replied, “I’m coming. Please wipe him with a wet towel. Don’t worry, Mamie, he’ll be fine.”
After hanging up, he grabbed his car keys and phone. At forty-two, Mustapha looked like a respectable family man. He entered their hospital pharmacy, gathered medicine, injections, and drips, then drove his white Benz to Mamie’s house.
The Mansion and Hamadi
The compound was massive, with a maroon gate, wide flat, and gardens of guava, cashew, mango, and flowers. Inside, the living room displayed a large portrait of elders with five boys—one with his back turned, refusing to face the camera.
Upstairs, Mamie sat beside a young man lying sick on the bed. He was striking—about thirty-three, tall, muscular, with wild black eyes that looked lined with kohl though he had never worn any. His curly hair framed his face like a foreigner’s.
Mamie said quickly, “Doctor, you’ve come.”
Mustapha touched the towel on Hamadi’s forehead. “Hamadi! What’s wrong?”
The young man opened his red, feverish eyes but stayed silent. Mamie whispered, “He hasn’t eaten since last night.”
“Bring him breakfast, Mamie,” Mustapha ordered gently. When she left, Mustapha lifted Hamadi’s singlet, exposing his six-packs. Lowering the joggers slightly, he found infection around an old surgical site. Shocked, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Just then, Mamie re-entered. Hamadi quickly pulled Mustapha’s coat to cover himself. Mustapha calmly reassured her, “It’s just infection from the surgery. Nothing serious.” She left again.
Hamadi grabbed his brother’s coat, whispering in a husky, vulnerable tone, “Don’t tell Mamie, Yaya.” Mustapha nodded.
The Painful Dressing
Returning with his hospital kit, Mustapha cleaned the wound. Hamadi winced, muscles tightening, sweat dripping as silent tears fell. Mustapha paused, “Is it too painful?”
Voice low and broken, Hamadi whispered, “No.”
Though in agony, he clutched Mustapha’s hand unconsciously, trembling with each touch of the cotton. After ten minutes, the dressing was complete. Mustapha fixed a drip, injected medicine, and warned, “Don’t cover it with trousers. Keep it dry.”
He brought food—tea, chips, eggs, and tuwon shinkafa. At first Hamadi refused, but Mustapha insisted until he ate. Mamie returned, smiling, “I knew he’d eat if you were the one feeding him.”
Soon, Gwaggo, the eighty-year-old grandmother, stormed in crying. “My poor Hamadi! Always sick, always weak. Mustapha, you trust too much in hospital medicine. Traditional herbs would have healed him!”
Hamadi, with surprising strength, whispered, “Gwaggo.” His husky voice silenced her. “I’m fine. Don’t cry.”
Tears softened into a smile as she prayed for him. Mustapha excused himself, leaving Mamie and Gwaggo to watch over the boy.
Family Tensions
Later, Hameed—Hamadi’s twin—arrived in a suit. He was striking too, but without his brother’s mysterious eyes. Concerned, he bent by the bed, “Hamadi, why didn’t you tell me? What hurts?”
Hamadi looked away, muttering only, “I’m fine.”
Mamie suggested gently, “Eat with your brother. Maybe he’ll eat more if you’re together.” But Hamadi disliked Gwaggo’s loud remarks and stood to leave.
“Go back and sit!” Mamie scolded, forcing him to return. Gwaggo, muttering, accused him of hating her, insisting, “He loves only his mother, Batula. Not me.” She broke into tears again.
Hamadi endured quietly, used to her complaints. Hameed tried to cheer him, but Mamie sighed, knowing well that Hamadi’s world was very small—Mamie alone could comfort him.
Meanwhile, Dr. Mustapha returned to the hospital. On call, he reassured another brother, Abdallah, over the phone: “Don’t mind Gwaggo. It’s nothing serious. He’s already sleeping peacefully. Focus on your work.”
Back in the mansion, Mamie kept watch, while Gwaggo stubbornly refused to rest. Abba, their elderly father, returned from work, anxious. Entering Hamadi’s room, he touched his son’s head, whispering prayers before leaving again.
Mamie explained softly, “It’s just infection at his surgical site. Mustapha dressed it, gave him injections, and he’ll return later.” Abba nodded but looked heavy with unspoken worry.
Description
The Urgent Call
Dr. Mustapha entered his office just as his phone’s flashlight blinked silently. Picking it up, he saw “Mamie” on the screen. He answered respectfully, “Mamie.”
On the other end, the calm voice of an elderly woman said, “Assalamu Alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever, his body is burning like fire. He refuses to tell me what’s wrong. Please, my son, come quickly.”
Without showing alarm, Mustapha asked, “Can he speak?”
Mamie sighed, “He barely says anything. Hameed already left for work before 8. He doesn’t know either.”
Taking a deep breath, Dr. Mustapha replied, “I’m coming. Please wipe him with a wet towel. Don’t worry, Mamie, he’ll be fine.”
After hanging up, he grabbed his car keys and phone. At forty-two, Mustapha looked like a respectable family man. He entered their hospital pharmacy, gathered medicine, injections, and drips, then drove his white Benz to Mamie’s house.
The Mansion and Hamadi
The compound was massive, with a maroon gate, wide flat, and gardens of guava, cashew, mango, and flowers. Inside, the living room displayed a large portrait of elders with five boys—one with his back turned, refusing to face the camera.
Upstairs, Mamie sat beside a young man lying sick on the bed. He was striking—about thirty-three, tall, muscular, with wild black eyes that looked lined with kohl though he had never worn any. His curly hair framed his face like a foreigner’s.
Mamie said quickly, “Doctor, you’ve come.”
Mustapha touched the towel on Hamadi’s forehead. “Hamadi! What’s wrong?”
The young man opened his red, feverish eyes but stayed silent. Mamie whispered, “He hasn’t eaten since last night.”
“Bring him breakfast, Mamie,” Mustapha ordered gently. When she left, Mustapha lifted Hamadi’s singlet, exposing his six-packs. Lowering the joggers slightly, he found infection around an old surgical site. Shocked, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Just then, Mamie re-entered. Hamadi quickly pulled Mustapha’s coat to cover himself. Mustapha calmly reassured her, “It’s just infection from the surgery. Nothing serious.” She left again.
Hamadi grabbed his brother’s coat, whispering in a husky, vulnerable tone, “Don’t tell Mamie, Yaya.” Mustapha nodded.
The Painful Dressing
Returning with his hospital kit, Mustapha cleaned the wound. Hamadi winced, muscles tightening, sweat dripping as silent tears fell. Mustapha paused, “Is it too painful?”
Voice low and broken, Hamadi whispered, “No.”
Though in agony, he clutched Mustapha’s hand unconsciously, trembling with each touch of the cotton. After ten minutes, the dressing was complete. Mustapha fixed a drip, injected medicine, and warned, “Don’t cover it with trousers. Keep it dry.”
He brought food—tea, chips, eggs, and tuwon shinkafa. At first Hamadi refused, but Mustapha insisted until he ate. Mamie returned, smiling, “I knew he’d eat if you were the one feeding him.”
Soon, Gwaggo, the eighty-year-old grandmother, stormed in crying. “My poor Hamadi! Always sick, always weak. Mustapha, you trust too much in hospital medicine. Traditional herbs would have healed him!”
Hamadi, with surprising strength, whispered, “Gwaggo.” His husky voice silenced her. “I’m fine. Don’t cry.”
Tears softened into a smile as she prayed for him. Mustapha excused himself, leaving Mamie and Gwaggo to watch over the boy.
Family Tensions
Later, Hameed—Hamadi’s twin—arrived in a suit. He was striking too, but without his brother’s mysterious eyes. Concerned, he bent by the bed, “Hamadi, why didn’t you tell me? What hurts?”
Hamadi looked away, muttering only, “I’m fine.”
Mamie suggested gently, “Eat with your brother. Maybe he’ll eat more if you’re together.” But Hamadi disliked Gwaggo’s loud remarks and stood to leave.
“Go back and sit!” Mamie scolded, forcing him to return. Gwaggo, muttering, accused him of hating her, insisting, “He loves only his mother, Batula. Not me.” She broke into tears again.
Hamadi endured quietly, used to her complaints. Hameed tried to cheer him, but Mamie sighed, knowing well that Hamadi’s world was very small—Mamie alone could comfort him.
Meanwhile, Dr. Mustapha returned to the hospital. On call, he reassured another brother, Abdallah, over the phone: “Don’t mind Gwaggo. It’s nothing serious. He’s already sleeping peacefully. Focus on your work.”
Back in the mansion, Mamie kept watch, while Gwaggo stubbornly refused to rest. Abba, their elderly father, returned from work, anxious. Entering Hamadi’s room, he touched his son’s head, whispering prayers before leaving again.
Mamie explained softly, “It’s just infection at his surgical site. Mustapha dressed it, gave him injections, and he’ll return later.” Abba nodded but looked heavy with unspoken worry.