I have surprised myself to write along the lines of this post. From the outset, this blog was meant to be about me and things apart from my job. Simply put: the non-doctor me. However a recall of the events of this afternoon, stirred in me an urge, strong enough that I have made this post. I might even make a series of this title if the urge is sustained.
To start with, I woke up today with the temptation not to go to work. I had a strong alibi and I had told those I spent the weekend with that I did not feel like working on Monday. Well, I made it to work eventually and the morning went without much ado. As I made to park my car upon returning from lunch, my work place colleague called. His words were along the following lines: the out-patient was crowded; there is pregnant female being taken to theatre whose CTG reading indicated foetal distress; could I just go to straight to the theatre and commence anaesthesia; he will make an attempt to reduce the queue of unseen out-patients and then join me as soon as soon as the pregnant woman has been “doped”.
On getting to the operating theatre, I went to the waiting area, introduced myself to the pregnant woman - one of those un-booked ones, confirmed her consent to the procedure including to blood transfusion if it was necessary and then got her into a conversation on the size of her family; the latter a ploy of mine to calm an obviously apprehensive patient. She was also HIV positive and I did well to let my colleague know before he started the Caesarean Section.
Indeed it all went well until the infant was delivered. With an estimated weight of about 1.5kg, my colleague went on to “scout” if there was a twin. The woman had repeatedly said she was about 8-month pregnant and her baby-bump was quite a size. Before the futile search for a second infant was given up, the one already delivered was handed over to the nurse to take to the Radiant Warmer by the operating table. Within a minute, I was called to see. I left my position by the anaesthetic machine to inspect the infant. He was limp, blue and showed no obvious respiratory movements. I proceeded with the resuscitation process. In between this, I shouted out instructions to the make-do anaesthetic assistant. Within the seven minutes or so that resuscitation lasted, I really thought we had lost him. But then, he came around and started that whining, much to the jeer of the theatre workers.
As I made to return to the “head” of the table to continue with the monitoring of the anaesthesia, my colleague who all this while kept on with surgery said to me with relief: “you have brought him back!” I replied, “The theatre nurse and yourself did not want him to go to heaven yet”. We all laughed. It was routine stuff and as it were nothing extra-ordinary had happened.
As I recounted part of the event to someone later this evening, I thought to myself that the life of that limp, blue and non-breathing child was saved. I cannot take the credit for it. Maybe indeed the child was meant to live but we did our part to ensure that. It gives me a sense of privilege.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Friday, October 1, 2010
I AM FROM WEST AFRICA
Last year, following the death of Michael Jackson, I watched on TV as hundreds of people from across the globe turned out at the Hollywood Walk of Fame, to catch a glimpse and trod the path where MJ’s position is etched. I recollect the TV reporter covering the event took time to interview a cross section of the crowd just to emphasize the international presence it was. Amongst those he interviewed was a lady whose attire and accent was very familiar. When asked where she is from, she said “I am from West Africa”. To this, my friend and I watching together that night chorused: “Nigerian”.
In my young life’s sojourn, much to my amusement I have found more and more people (mostly Nigerians) refer to their selves as being West Africans. Yes, I find it funny because I know people from West African countries do not refer to themselves by such christening in their home countries. One was a Nigerian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, etc. It’s like a Canadian saying he is North American when asked about his origins. It is ambiguous and an almost unconventional way to describing oneself.
This unorthodox nomenclature is another way Nigerians have tried to avoid the travails of being called one. Yours sincerely has had his own fair share of such experiences (CF blog post “My Passport is Green”, Heymeyville (c) November 2009) and I dare say that people who have had the inconveniences of being Nigerian loathe her identity. I do not blame those who have taken this path of anonymity because much that is known by the world is the guile and desperate measures employed by my country men in order not to beg for a living. While this in itself shows a people who are industrious and who have a value for their self worth, every Nigerian who is on the path to building a responsible life does not want to be identified with their country of birth. Of course when their reputation has been established, they proudly refer to themselves as being from “9ja”.
Incidentally, as much as we Nigerians try to conceal our identity, it is never hidden. Many times I have gone to the mall and at payment point; the cashier has asked if I am an “Igwe”. The latter is a commonly used word in the now ubiquitous Nigerian movies. Now and again, I am told of Nigerians in strategic places all over the world. I remember going to proudly “google” the name Remi Adefarasin after I watched “Elizabeth” (he was the director of cinematography). My work place colleague referred to Things Fall Apart earlier this week. ASA’s song was being played on the local FM and I sang so loud in my car the other day. Interestingly too, I have started watching games involving West Ham United and West Bromwich Albion because they now have Nigerian players!
I am sure it is not only nollywood that non-Nigerians admire about my country. Indeed the heterogeneity of Nigeria is broad and almost all-encompassing: the good- very good, bad and urgly. This ambiguity is what a non-Nigerian can never comprehend. He is hence filled with awe, fascination, disdain and distrust, all of these wrapped into one. Perception and attitude towards Nigerians then depends on which of these is dominant in an individual.
As my country celebrates her 50th independence anniversary today, I have found an unusual feeling about being proudly Nigerian. It is home after all. I am ever drawn to its generosity, perspective of life, fun, energy, resourcefulness and overall human warmth.
To all of this and more, I say Happy Anniversary Nigeria.
In my young life’s sojourn, much to my amusement I have found more and more people (mostly Nigerians) refer to their selves as being West Africans. Yes, I find it funny because I know people from West African countries do not refer to themselves by such christening in their home countries. One was a Nigerian, Ghanaian, Senegalese, etc. It’s like a Canadian saying he is North American when asked about his origins. It is ambiguous and an almost unconventional way to describing oneself.
This unorthodox nomenclature is another way Nigerians have tried to avoid the travails of being called one. Yours sincerely has had his own fair share of such experiences (CF blog post “My Passport is Green”, Heymeyville (c) November 2009) and I dare say that people who have had the inconveniences of being Nigerian loathe her identity. I do not blame those who have taken this path of anonymity because much that is known by the world is the guile and desperate measures employed by my country men in order not to beg for a living. While this in itself shows a people who are industrious and who have a value for their self worth, every Nigerian who is on the path to building a responsible life does not want to be identified with their country of birth. Of course when their reputation has been established, they proudly refer to themselves as being from “9ja”.
Incidentally, as much as we Nigerians try to conceal our identity, it is never hidden. Many times I have gone to the mall and at payment point; the cashier has asked if I am an “Igwe”. The latter is a commonly used word in the now ubiquitous Nigerian movies. Now and again, I am told of Nigerians in strategic places all over the world. I remember going to proudly “google” the name Remi Adefarasin after I watched “Elizabeth” (he was the director of cinematography). My work place colleague referred to Things Fall Apart earlier this week. ASA’s song was being played on the local FM and I sang so loud in my car the other day. Interestingly too, I have started watching games involving West Ham United and West Bromwich Albion because they now have Nigerian players!
I am sure it is not only nollywood that non-Nigerians admire about my country. Indeed the heterogeneity of Nigeria is broad and almost all-encompassing: the good- very good, bad and urgly. This ambiguity is what a non-Nigerian can never comprehend. He is hence filled with awe, fascination, disdain and distrust, all of these wrapped into one. Perception and attitude towards Nigerians then depends on which of these is dominant in an individual.
As my country celebrates her 50th independence anniversary today, I have found an unusual feeling about being proudly Nigerian. It is home after all. I am ever drawn to its generosity, perspective of life, fun, energy, resourcefulness and overall human warmth.
To all of this and more, I say Happy Anniversary Nigeria.
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