Chapter 2: Rounds and Routine

"Dr. Ifedike, time for rounds o."

Seyi voice soft, e dey try form confidence but I fit see small fear for e face. The boy just enter housemanship, na from Ibadan he come. Even as e dey talk, e eyes dey shine like person wey dey fear make oga no vex.

"Okay, I hear you."

I nod, stand up, come waka comot from my office.

Na steady routine—stand up, dust lab coat, check stethoscope. Na so e be for hospital, everything get e own time like church bell.

For corridor, seven or eight medical interns dey follow for back as we start our rounds.

Dem dey try arrange themselves, hold case notes, dey observe me steady. Some go dey whisper, some dey quick jot down anything I talk. For our side, you go know who be sharp intern and who still dey sleep.

"How you dey feel today? Your head dey pain you?"

I dey use calm voice, dey talk to patient like person wey dey talk to pikin. The old woman smile, nod small. For her eyes, I fit see small hope—na that one dey make me happy pass.

"Family people, abeg make una check wetin the patient dey chop—make e light, no dey give am oily or peppery food."

One aunty stand by bed, dey nod her head like agama lizard. I add, "Na pap and moi-moi better pass now. No try suya or fried plantain yet o."

"You dey recover well after the operation. Try make you dey happy."

I smile, pat the young boy for shoulder. "No let sadness keep you for ground. Na God dey heal, doctor just dey assist."

I check each patient well, give their people instructions.

For each bed, I fit dey see family—mama dey hold anointing oil, papa dey count rosary, small pikin dey sleep for chair. Sometimes one woman go burst out for Yoruba: "Dokita, e jowo, e gbadura fun mi o!" (Doctor, please, pray for me o!) I go just nod, reply for pidgin or small Yoruba, make dem feel at home. Na hospital, everybody dey hope.

"Dr. Ifedike, my husband..."

Na middle-aged woman, her face tired. She hold my hand, her hand dey tremble like generator wey no get fuel.

"Dr. Ifedike, my papa..."

This one na young man, eyes red from crying. I squeeze his hand, give am hope.

"Dr. Ifedike..."

Na so so call my name—some go call am in full, some go use short form. My name don turn prayer point for this ward.

After every ward, family people go gather, dey ask question. Some wan know when surgery go start, some dey ask when dem go fit discharge—na normal question be that. Some, their mind dey fly, dey ask if brain surgery fit make person wise.

Dem go ask you, "Oga doctor, after you touch my papa brain, e go sabi mathematics?" I go laugh, tell dem, "Na God dey give sense, but we go do our best."

Even with all these, I answer everybody with patience.

I dey hold their hands, dey nod, dey explain with Yoruba, Igbo, small pidgin—anyhow wey dem go understand. Sometimes, na story I go use calm dem down.

One hour thirty minutes later, rounds finish. I go back office, dey arrange medical records.

Na so my leg dey pain me small, but work no dey finish. I go dey adjust files, dey write with biro wey ink dey leak. Hospital wahala no dey ever end.