Children Are Vulnerable: How My Mother Saved My Life

That morning, my mother had asked me to come downstairs and wait for her while she put a scarf on her head. Holding the railing and the wall, I walked the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of our family home in Onitsha, Nigeria. My strength was failing, and my legs could barely support me when I reached the bottom of the stairs.

To my left, next to the gallery on the ground floor, there was a storage room. I went in and collapsed on the floor. Darkness surrounded me. All I needed was a quiet resting place to lay my head. I was too young to understand what could happen. Without the strength to stand up and wait for the Mother as directed.

“Where are you where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice screaming. Her voice was the kind you find in people who are about to suffer a tremendous loss. If she could, she would have responded. Still today the echoes of her voice sound in my memory. All children are likely to jump up and respond when their mother calls in that voice. My deep apologies. Mother, because I had no breath left to utter a word, no muscles to get up off the ground.

Mother had started searching frantically for me. She found me lying on the floor when she opened the storage room door. She must have assumed that I had died. “Wake up,” I heard her say, and she took me into her arms.

I drew my strength and walked out of the room reunited with her holding me close to her waist. She put my body in a vehicle and took me to the Borromeo hospital in Onitsha. I was too young and too sick to remember how we got there.

Behind one of the wooden counters was a nurse. I could tell by the way she dressed and the way she talked. On her head was a triangular or square cap fastened with pins. The color was white or blue. I’m trying to collect; it’s hard to remember every little detail after fifty years. I know the nurses reminded me of the injections.

Mom talked for several seconds with the nurse and then invited me to sit on a wooden bench. Life kept coming back to my body, opening my eyes a little more. It was a quiet, well-lit room. Giant wooden cabinets containing brown charts leaned against two of the walls. There were one or two kids my age who were on the bench. They didn’t look as sick as I felt. Of all the dangers I faced, the one I feared the most were injections. The smells of alcohol swabs and cotton balls were unmistakable.

My mother sat down next to me again. She with the back of her hand touched my forehead and began to sob, but then she regained her composure. “Son,” she said, “you’ll soon be better.” I nodded.

Next, we were in the doctor’s consulting room. A nice man is what I remember of him, perhaps in his middle age. He was wearing an immaculate white robe. For some reason, he acted fast. Was she that sick? I wondered. He quickly exchanged information with Mother and quickly wrote something on my file.

My suspicion had come true. A few minutes later, the nurse with the triangular cloth pinned to her head invited me into an injection room. “Come hug me,” said the mother. She would have run but she didn’t have the strength to. As my mother hugged me tightly, the nurse pulled down the right side of my panties and gave me an injection in my buttock.

Whatever was tormenting me disappeared after the shot. We brought home some bitter medicines. It was about 10 in the morning when we left the Borromeo hospital. On the way near home mom stopped and bought me some Akra (round fried bean balls) and akamu (Ground corn). I ate and felt better.

Looking back on the incident now, it scares me to realize how helpless children are and how mothers, fathers and caregivers must make life and death decisions for them on a daily basis.