A Day In The Life Of The Average Naija Doc

The boisterous wind and heavy downpour from last night meant you had to be up extra early today if you were going to beat the Monday morning rush, also you’d have to hurriedly dust off the sandy mess that has splattered onto your car exterior and windshield.

You rush off without breakfast as per usual, nothing is packed in your lunchbox either. The coffee machine at the office also stopped working 6 months ago after a thunderstorm triggered a voltage surge and burnt the fuse.

Ah, speaking of dysfunctional, you’d have to consider the traffic gridlock and radio station-changing-potholes you have to meander through daily. It is little wonder that your back feels arthritic and you’re always exhausted before noon.

Before you make it into your consulting room, you’d have to stomach endless “hailings” ranging from “Senior Man” to “Dockay” from Wasiu at the parking lot and the 2 hospital attendants cleaning up after a child that just vomited on the entrance mat. You call them Mama di Mama interchangeably because you haven’t bothered to learn their names even though it’s your 10th month at the hospital. You’d also have to squeeze 100 Naira into their palms if they are going to let you be.

As you settle into your recliner hoping to catch up on the happenings on social media, you are besieged on Whatsapp by pictures of herpetiform canker sores sent by Evangelist Chuks, your neighbor from years ago who is still trying to sell you bitcoins and your impatient mother asking you to give her grandchildren of her own. Your morning is already ruined.

You hurriedly archive these messages hoping to reply much later in the night when they’re most probably asleep, thus skillfully avoiding a lengthy lecture.

You’ve barely scrolled past 5 Instagram posts when you hear the emergency bell toll, work has begun in full effect.

On the emergency couch, there’s a young lady in her mid-twenties, writhing in pain with blood seeping from the corners of her bruised lips, accompanying her is a scruffy looking man wearing an Alobam T-Shirt tucked into his skinny jeans, his frame resembles that of a roughly squeezed toothpaste tube. He beat her up moments earlier for daring to fry 5 eggs along with Indomie noodles. “5 eggs in these Buhari times, if that’s not callousness, then I don’t know what is”, he exclaimed. She nodded in agreement, a sombre mea culpa.

You make an effort at speaking up against domestic violence but you’re greeted with cold stares and subtle reminders of how it is a family issue and ultimately none of your business.

Despite claiming to be a self-made business mogul with many shops scattered across town, Amadi refuses to pay the full hospital bills because times are hard, again Buhari is at the wheel.

A lengthy clinic day is marred by multiple power outages , patients who favor anointing oils over medication, and the ones who scream “God Forbid, I laid it at the cross with my Lord” when you ask whether they’re regular on their drugs.

A middle-aged woman who drinks holy water and crushed kolanuts for her Osteoarthritis admonishes you to believe in the power of miracles when you attempt to counsel her on drug compliance.

While one patient has offered his granddaughter’s hand in marriage as a token of appreciation, another has tried to purchase a death certificate for himself, his reasons remain unknown till now.

At 5 pm, just as you’re getting ready to leave, 2 sales reps from the newest pharmaceutical company that doubles as a diagnostic centre waylay you and woo you into prescribing their newest products for a 20% rebate at the end of the month.

Iya Ramotu’s Amala and 6 pieces of assorted meat helps you get over the rigors of the day. As you calculate your bill, thoughts of how broke you are filter through your subconscious but you wash down those thoughts with another bottle of Orijin as you watch Arsenal lose another match.

Problem as they say, no dey finish.

You nestle into bed at about 10 pm and rummage all the social media platforms, another message from Evangelist Chuks asking if you’re ignoring him because he owes you money stops you in your tracks, reminding you of the plethora of unread messages waiting for you on Whatsapp. You drift into REM sleep while trying to respond to all the messages, a noisy generator from the neighboring flat jolts you back to full consciousness.

The power holding company had indeed withheld power for the night.

You roll over, let out a long hiss, a heavy sigh and go back to sleep.

Another day as a Naija doctor awaits you in the morning.