“I can’t find my inhaler, where is my inhaler”

 

Mrs. Du Bois complained loudly, looking very uncomfortable. she expected me to start searching everywhere for it, she was fond of this attitude, and though I had been tolerating it for long, it really began to upset me, especially at the time that I was trying to make up my mind about….

 

(“Crashhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”) Something fell to the ground with much noise accompanying.

 

“What could that be at this time” I said angrily because I was getting confused,

 

“Just a minute Mrs. Du Bois” I said to her as I ran off to see to what had fallen.

 

“I know you’re never gonna come back, you’re just like your fellow stupid blacks” she murmured to my irritation.

 

I wondered why she was so difficult to please; maybe she had never had any good time in life. “Sadist, and there she was always hating the same blacks who are ever present to assist her, If she was so white, she didn’t want to be stained, she should have got herself  a white nurse.” I mumbled

 

I got to the corridor and saw Bruce on the floor, his wheel chair tumbled against him, if I hadn’t come then, who knows what would have happened next.

 

I assisted him back into the wheel chair, and as I was doing that, the senior nurse walked past us without a greeting, he didn’t even respond to mine, I felt like asking him to help me see to Mrs. Du Bois, but it was no use, he would not.

 

 “These people are so prejudiced and selfish, I suppose he just passed by without a word because Bruce is a black inmate” I thought.

 

I wheeled Bruce back to his room. We were both silent as we move down the corridor. I didn’t  ask him how he fell and he didn’t say anything either., I was not surprised anyway, because he hadn’t  been  talking coherently like he used to before he  had a partial stroke two months ago.

 

The corridor was long, dark and quiet with lamps. Each room was occupied by an old person who probably did not have any children, or had brats that were self absorbed to be of any help.

 

 In my seven years of working in Old People’s Home in Jersey City, I had seen all sorts of old people, those who came with expectancy of meeting others such as themselves in the same age bracket and had failed, instead finding boredom and monotony.

 

And there were others, who had been dragged in kicking and screaming and had, in an unexpected twist of faith found happiness.

 

Having arrived Bruce’s room, I helped him to bed and brought out pain killers, I knew he must have been aching all over.

 

“Poor Bruce” I said to myself sitting beside him and watching as he slowly fell asleep.

 

Just then I felt the cold palms of winter take me in its grip. I turned on the fire place so Bruce wouldn’t have an asthmatic attack.

 

I prayed he would recuperate and get back to the lively Bruce I used to know. Months ago before he had a stroke, we used to sit and talk of many things. He told me about Tanzania were he came from and I told him of Nigeria.

 

“Were you born Bruce Warris” I had asked him because I knew core Africans always had their native names intact, except in the Niger Delta part of Nigeria were they mixed their names with funny English corruptions, like Abie Fyne-White,

 

“Bruce Warioba is my actual name. I had to change it to Warris when I arrived England in the sixties. I was black and that was enough cause to be used against me. I didn’t want to add to the trouble by telling them a name they would not understand thereby relegating me totally.” He had replied.

 

“I used to think racism was just an excuse the blacks used against their white counterparts, until I came over” I said to him that day.

 

“There ain’t no racist action against blacks these day. What you refer to as racism is just a trifle of what we experienced in England in the sixties.” He had replied. He said it was reason why he arranged to come over to the U.S, perhaps life would be better.

 

I asked him about families and he told me he would leave that for another day. I knew then that he must have had some terrible experiences and didn’t want to talk about it. He, however, told me about it much later.

 

“Onis” he called out to me one day after I had attended to him

 

“Are you married?” he asked me

 

“No” I replied.

 

“Why” He asked further observing me.

 

“Well I uhm, I actually uhm,” I stuttered with the words; even though we had become good friends I still felt I should reserve my some things from his knowledge.

 

“You’ve had heartbreak haven’t you? He asked

 

I didn’t answer that question; I waited for him to go on talking.

 

He advised me never to refuse getting married just because of some heartbreak else I would be the one to suffer it later.

 

He also explained to me how he fell in love with a white lady Eileen from Ireland, when he was still a fresh graduate in Tanzania.

 

Eileen was five years older than he was, and tutored in a department at the University where he studied. They were so much in love that immediately he finished schooling she lured him into running off with her to Britain because she knew his family disliked her, he followed and that became a stepping stone to his doom in life.

 

In England they lived in romantic fantasy, like they were born just for the purpose of falling in love, after they got married she refused to have children saying she was scared to go to the labor room.

 

 He suggested adopting and she also refused saying she was content having him all to herself, it became scary at a point, because as an African man he knew the importance of children, he clung to her however, still infatuated with her until a day when she arrived with the police and accused him of threatening to kill her if she didn’t bare him children.

 

“I was surprised, because I only explained the importance of reproduction in Africa to her.” He said.

 

He was whisked away by the police who were core racist themselves and charged to court, after some years in custody he came out and arranged to leave for the United States on learning that she had gotten married to another Black man from South Africa.

 

While in America Bruce got engaged to a young lady, Shirley. They got married but it didn’t last because sooner Bruce discovered he had erectile dysfunction, a visit to the Doctor revealed that his reproductive organs had been found poisoned probably through food. As a result he could not have kids and because the poison had been present all these years it slowly affected the entire system making it impossible to sleep with a woman.

 

Shirley, still young and wanting to explore life left him of course and he was doomed to a life without family.

 

I had felt very pathetic about his story, No wonder he could tell from my countenance that I had encountered a heart break. Though mine was just a trifle of what he had seen.

 

It was before I left Nigeria that Steve broke my heart, it wasn’t much of a case anyway, I only caught him with my friend and he wasn’t remorseful so I decided never to have a dealing with guys, though I hadn’t fully resigned to the decision of not getting married. However with the way things went here in America and to say that for seven years I hadn’t been in a relationship, then I was well on my way to being a feminine Bruce.

 

When I left Nigeria for the US I had in mind that I would make Steve envious and want to come back, true to my desire he had been writing to say he wanted us back for old time’s sake, so he can stay with me in the US and become a citizen.

It amused me greatly, I got other letters from relatives and friends who asked me to send them prospectus for universities and help them submit Visa lottery applications, because they believed that since I made it through the lottery, they could also do same.

 

I wished they could understand that life in Nigeria was even more interesting and rewarding, I wrote to my younger brother, Tariah once, telling him that I regretted coming to live in the US, he replied, sounding very disappointed in me, that I wondered what I had said wrong.

 

He said I was only looking for a way to discourage others from coming so I would be the only one living in the land of opportunities and the only person sending gifts from oversees, According to him that was the problem with our tribesmen we never wanted to help our siblings when we were in the position.

 

This was the same person I sent school fees for, of course he couldn’t have understand what it meant, because the money was received by mama who paid for everything, rent, fees hospital bills and other things.

 

If he had known how much I sat up at night and walked about during the day only to take care of these old people he would never have written me such letters.

 

It wasn’t  their fault anyway, after all I had the same feelings before I came over to the US, I remember how I struggled to save five thousand  Naira each year just to give Oga Pitan, who worked in the Immigration office at Lagos.

 

“No worry e go come out this year” he said each year after I submitted the forms to him, I did that for six years before I was successful, parties were arranged on my behalf  by friends, family friends extended families and all those who wished me well.

 

Some embraced my mother and others gave Oga Pitan a manly handshake, promising to start paying their five thousands early enough so as to get the lottery.

 

I left and  Seven years later, yet I was not happy, never been happy because it had been from one old peoples home to the other, they refused to let me practice as a registered nurse because they said Nigerian certificate  was not valid.

 

I had been planning to go for another nursing training but I kept procrastinating. It was not so much of my fault anyway; there were pressures on me from home that made me keep working. “Send money for Dede’s burial”, “Send money for Aunty Megs treatment, Dada has not been feeling fine she needs help and helps in Nigeria need money, send money, send money send money.” Was all that I worked for.

 

I really wanted to go back home because truly I was fed up.

 

“Hey Miss. Why are you sleeping on duty” The senior nurse said angrily tapping my shoulders. He didn’t say any other thing to me, only looked at Bruce and looked back sternly into my face.

 

I jumped up only to see Bruce coughing badly.

 

“Oh my God I hope he hasn’t had an attack” I said rushing him into the wheel chair and off to the clinic.

 

I went home from there so I could pick up some things, refresh and go back to see to him, since I was the only person that would have to take care of him,

 

Getting home I saw a mail, and opened it as I walked in.

 

“God it’s so cold” I said as I removed my winter coat.

 

Surprisingly the letter was from Dele, a friend in Nigeria.

 

I had written him six months ago after I heard over the new Nigerian television International station that he had been appointed commissioner for health in Delta state. He was a medical Doctor and used to be in little politics, I never knew it would pay him until I heard the news.

 

After putting my food in the microwave I sat down to a glass of milk while I read his letter.

 

 

                                                                        12th November, 2006.

Dear Onis,

 

How are you? And hope your Job is going pretty fine? I was supposed to come over to the US for a brief holiday but I can’t because the work load here is serious I think it will save me the winter cold anyway.

 

I’ll probably come by April next year.

 

I got your letter and was not able to reply because I wanted to make the reply come with good news. You talked about your job and how you hate it. It’s quite a pity that even in the US where every Nigerian is longing to live, life is not as better as we expect it should in our ignorance.

 

I spoke with the medical director of the hospital in the presidency Abuja about you because there was an advertisement for the post of chief nursing officer for the Presidential clinic.

 

Without much ado, he asked me to send for you. Enclosed in this letter is a letter of appointment from the presidential clinic. You are to resume in two weeks.

 

I hope you will make arrangements as fast as possible to come back home.

Call me on the following numbers 234-0803 3312457 so I can give you details about the flight that will pick you from Lagos.

Will see you when you arrive.

 

Your Friend,

 

Dele

 

 

I was almost crying. That was the best day of my life. I had to start the arrangements as soon as possible, firstly I had to write a letter of resignation, but before then I would  check on Bruce to make sure he was well.

 

I hurriedly had a hot bath, rushed my meal and took off to the hospital.

 

Walking into the ward where he had been admitted I couldn’t find him

I was almost hit down by the doctor as we meet face to face at the entrance.

 

“Where is Bruce?” I asked wondering if he had been changed to another room.

 

“Are you from St Joseph’s?” He replied.

 

“Yes of course” I responded wondering if he hadn’t noticed me when I came in with Bruce, or was I so black I could have been dismissed as a shadow?

 

“You should know then” he said to me.

 

“Know what? I only went home to freshen up”

 

“I’m afraid we’ve lost him, His attack was severe and efforts to resuscitate him failed.

 

I was speechless, how could he have died so soon, he could have waited for me to give him my good news and perhaps invite him to Nigeria after I would have settled,

 

 I ran off to somewhere, anywhere, to mourn him.

 

Later that day the Director of St Joseph’s issued a statement saying He would be buried in two days, cremated rather in line with his will.

 

If nothing else e was glad I would make it to his funeral before leaving for Nigeria.

 

“Poor Bruce, May his soul Rest in Peace”

 

I left St Josephs to my home so I could start reconciling some documents for my journey home.

 

As I passed by Mrs. Du Bois room, I noticed she was crying.

 

“So she had some feelings after all?” I said to myself.

 

I was glad that I would be going back home.