Passing through the second stage of grief

Ayodele Olofintuade: Nigerian writer, journalist and feminist

In the beginning was the flu… no, I lie, in the beginning was chaos, the chaos Nigerians have become familiar with and are, somewhat, resigned to (except for a few thousand activists referred to as ‘children of disobedience’ by politicians). This chaos is so widely known it’s become a stereotype— of inept and corrupt government officials bankrupting the nation in order to line their pockets, leaving Nigerians to deal with resultant poor infrastructures.

So, in the beginning was chaos, and then came the flu— COVID19.

Denial

COVID19 cannot ‘come’ to Nigeria. It’s in Wuhan, and we were so sure it would be contained by the WHO, after all China is being upfront about this disease, its genetic content and effect, but oh the poor people of Wuhan, then Thailand, the horror of people falling sick and dying in the global north played out, right there in the news, on social media- the Italians, Americans, French, Germans— the horror of people dying because they couldn’t breathe.

While CNN and other news outlets were wondering about Africa and her nations, while they were asking questions, trying to find out if the governments were covering up mass illnesses and deaths— the certainty that this virus would soon reach Nigeria, if it hadn’t already, kept me up at nights. Kept me wondering who had it, where they were being hidden. Every cough was met with suspicious looks and social distancing became a reality for me as I went about my daily business.

By the time the first confirmed case was announced, it turned out to be a government official, who had recently arrived from Germany. Unfortunately, I had just come out of a workshop that had been led by a colleague and photographer, who also flew in from Germany a few days before the workshop. During the course of the one-week workshop, I also met with another photographer documenting authors worldwide and we’d shared a few cigarettes after his session with me.

I went into a fourteen-day self-isolation as soon as I got home, all the while hoping that the response team that kept Ebola off the shores of Nigeria would be activated by the government to re-enact their heroics during that pandemic. Alas this was not meant to be, for like most Nigerians, the government was in denial and refused to close borders as advised by experts.

Rumours were abounding about how black people were resistant to the flu, how the virus couldn’t withstand the African sun (maybe die of sunburn?), how we defeated Ebola and how this should be a cakewalk…

When they could no longer keep it under wraps, the government informed us that Abba Kyari, the president’s Chief of Staff and close friend, along with some governors and several members of the senate, had contracted the virus. This eventually forced them to announce border closure and then the lockdown of Lagos, Abuja and Abeokuta— the three cities with the highest burden of infections. Then came the first case of community contact. We took a collective breath of relief, our first stage of grief was over, COVID19 had officially ‘come’ to Nigeria.

Anger

I’d never been angrier with the Nigerian government, the manner in which they fumbled the first few weeks. If only borders had been closed and COVID19 response put in place since December or latest January, we wouldn’t be in this mess. People wouldn’t be dying and there wouldn’t have been the potential for the mass burials I see looming in the horizon!

My anger was heavily laced with fear. My first son, Feyintola, was deathly ill and the only hospital I could trust to handle the case, the University Teaching Hospital (UCH), had just sent almost all its healthcare professionals into isolation because the Chief Medical Director, who had just returned from a trip to somewhere in Europe, had infected all the board members during a meeting, and they in turn had been casually walking around the hospital halls without masks, putting more people in danger. So he had to go to my mum’s community healthcare centre.

I received a call on the evening of my fifteenth day of self-isolation that Feyintola’s state had become critical. I should make a payment for the ambulance that would convey him to UCH’s emergency unit.

Anger, fear, anxiety— misery— anger!

I remember sending the money then tearing out of my house, my housemate hard at my heels, reminding me that I had to change my clothes, that I had to compose myself. We grabbed the first okada that passed by, unheeding of the danger to our health, and made for the hospital. We were stopped by policemen, but my anger prevailed, they let us go within a few minutes, and I was finally able to access the boy.

Anger.

When I got to the hospital, they insisted that I must pay a huge sum of money before they could admit Feyintola— before they could give him first aid—no transfers please, we only take cash. I was livid! I paced the corridor of the hospital while my housemate went to search for the closest cash machine in order to make payment— I’d never felt more helpless as I watched my son gasp for breath underneath the oxygen mask, before my housemate returned he’d gone into septic shock because his appendix had ruptured.

I yelled and raged as they finally started administering first aid… but I could only do it in my head. I knew the health-workers themselves were risking their lives just to be in that place at that time, they were doing their possible best under the circumstances. I knew they were yet to be given protective gear even though there’s an ongoing pandemic, I knew they were working with outdated equipment, they were short-staffed and their hazard pay was less than €3, what right do I have to be angry?

That night, as I paced the corridors of the emergency unit, I realised that the difference between life and death, in most cases, is your access to wealth. I watched deathly ill people being turned away. They were using temperature guns to decide who to admit, who to keep away, they used the depth of your pocket to determine who lives, who dies.

So I paid, and paid— I dozed off on a chair nearby the theatre as he was taken into surgery, slept on hospital corridors because hotels had closed. I paid, and stayed angry, but I paid, to keep the people attending to the boy safe, to keep the boy safe.

Fear, anger, anxiety— COVID19 was ravaging the world, but the world has to keep turning on its wheels.

Although they were able to save Feyintola’s life, for which I’m grateful, I still can’t get the image of the COVID19 victim who was redirected to an isolation facility out of my head— of the woman who had cancer and was desperately trying to reach her doctor. The young woman who was begging so she could complete the payment for her baby’s medicine. Of the possibility of thousands of people dying if the government’s ineptitude and corruption continues… I’m still angry.

In the beginning was chaos, and then COVID19— is this the beginning of the end?