Chapter 1: The Seventh Day Gathering

On the seventh day after my papa die—the traditional seventh-day wake-keeping—over one hundred members of the patient group just rush enter our compound.

As if dem dey pursue something, you go just hear slippers slap ground, head ties and faded Ankara everywhere. Plastic slippers kpokpo for cement, children scatter like fowl. Some women tie wrapper anyhow, some men wear shirt inside out, all of them with face like people wey sleep run from them. Even old Baba Idowu follow drag for the gate, cough dey worry am but e still dey waka with stick. Neighbours peek from their windows, children begin gather for fence, dey gossip say 'see wahala, dem don come again.' That morning sun wey suppose shine for mourning, just dey hot anyhow, sweat dey pour for everybody body.

Their group leader announce, "Nobody kneel yet! Abeg, bring the medicine first."

E be like say na rally dem dey do. E raise hand up like referee, voice sharp, and people respect am quick. Even the small pikin wey dey suck sweet, stop. The air just get thick, as everybody dey wait, hope say miracle go happen. The group leader eye me, as if I go produce magic from pocket.

After one moment wey everywhere just quiet, the group leader begin vex.

E shift body, hands akimbo, mouth bend like woman wey taste bitterleaf soup without salt. Small breeze blow, but nobody gree move. The silence come turn heavy, as if everybody dey wait for rain to fall from dry sky. You fit hear person heartbeat. E clear say tension dey—everybody dey expect wahala.

"True true, we collect some things from your house that time, but leave that one for now. You fit just siddon dey look us dey die like that?"

E talk am with strong face, like say na ordinary thing to break house and carry another person property. Some people for crowd nod, some even hiss, but nobody talk say sorry. That kain attitude for Naija, if you too soft, dem go carry you play football.

Seven days don pass. Their medicine don finish, so fear and wahala just full everywhere.

You know how e be, when hope don finish, person go hold on to anything like wrapper. Some dey rub chest, others dey pray for mind. I fit see am for their eye—dem dey reason say if nobody give dem medicine, na burial cloth dem go dey sew next.

The group leader climb go on top the mourning platform, talk with serious fire: "My fellow patients, na just to survive we want—abeg, e bad to want to live?"

E climb that small wooden stage, leg dey shake but e still balance. Even wind respect am that moment. The way e talk, e voice get power, e remind me of market women wey dey sell pepper—sharp, clear, and full of wahala. E raise hand as if e dey do crusade.

People wey dey back raise hand, shout together, "No o! No o! No o!"

The chorus loud, voice echo for compound. Even the goats for backyard stop dey chew. The thing touch me for body, as if dem dey call for judgement.

"My people, person dey here wey fit help us live, but e dey look us dey die. Wetin we go do that kind person?" His voice hang for air, like pastor wey dey wait for Amen.

Somebody for corner shout, "No mercy!" Another say, "Na wickedness!" People wey never talk since begin murmur, ground dey vibrate small. I fit feel the anger rise, like say rain dey gather for horizon.

The crowd answer, voice high: "Make e die! Make e die! Make e die!"

If you see the way dem talk am, e get as e be—no fear, no respect for mourning. Some dey even stamp leg for ground. One old mama for front cry, "If my pikin die, na you go take blame!" Even breeze wey pass that moment cold for my skin.

The group leader turn face me from on top the platform. "So you go just dey look us dey die? You dey wish make we all die finish?"

Him eye red, voice tremble small. Everybody face me like say na me be enemy of progress. I just dey swallow spit, my throat dry, sweat dey salt my tongue.

More people gather, dey point finger, dey gossip as dem dey hear the patient group story.

Some even dey record with phone, others dey whisper, "No be the boy be that?" Small pikin begin draw sand for ground, play 'hospital' with stick, not knowing the real wahala wey dey happen. My neighbour, Mama Ngozi, just dey shake head, her wrapper drag for chest.

"All of us na cancer patients. Our family dey suffer. We dey depend on one native medicine every day. Now, e don cut us off—na die he want make we die!"

The thing pain dem true true, because for Naija, medicine no dey cheap, hope na gold. One young man remove cap, kneel, begin cry. Another woman hug her daughter, tears dey fall. The crowd dey move closer, some dey talk for low voice, "God go judge."

Emotions just dey high. Some people even wipe tears as the thing dey pain dem.

That kain crying no be small thing—e dey choke person. Some people beat chest, others dey pray for inside mind. I see one baba wipe eye with handkerchief, nose dey run but e no send anybody.

The group leader, like say na hero e be, stretch hand towards me: "See am! You suppose do like your papa—continue to give us the medicine. If e too stress you, abeg just give us the prescription. That one sef good."

E stretch hand as if e wan carry me join altar call. E voice dey crack, crowd dey cheer, like say e just talk gospel truth. One old man for back shout, "If you get the paper, abeg give us! God go bless you!" Everybody dey reason say, make e no too hard to do good.

This their way of using pity and emotional wahala dey always work before.

In this kind matter for Naija, na so dem dey do—dem go beg you with sweet mouth, cry small, then use anger finish work. If you soft, dem go carry your head as trophy. My papa dey always pity, na why dem dey take am play.

But me, I no be my papa. I no get that kain soft heart.

My own heart don strong, life don show me say, if you too dey give, people go finish you. I stand, chest dey pain me, but I no let am show. My eye just dey look ground.