Tag Archives: Dreams

The Power of Dreams

My aunty forwarded one of those inspiring videos about life and happiness. One particular message struck me. It said something about having a dream then making it happen. Of course, it is easier said than done. It is not quite that easy to turn a dream into reality but those people who are the happiest are those who had a dream then put their all into making it a reality. I have many dreams. Through hard work and luck, many of my dreams are already a reality. I got into medical school, I graduated. I applied and got into speciality training and I am gaining experience as a paediatrician. I met a man with a big heart, fell in love and married him. We bought our lovely first home, a permanent abode after my many years of moving from flat to flat.  I fell pregnant when we were in good place and the baby has been growing well with the easiest pregnancy. I am getting ready to realise one of my biggest dreams – giving birth and being a mother. So yes, my bucket is overflowing.

This is about my professional dream.  I used to think I would be happy to graduate, specialise as a paediatrician, get a consultant post and settle down to a routine. With the recent political shenanigans and the more I work in the NHS, the more I realise I want more. I want more out of my life and I also want to contribute more than the daily grind. Don’t get me wrong, I know in my current role I do make a difference to lives. There is nothing more satisfying that when I have done a good job and I know that parent or child’s life has been changed for the better, no matter how small that change is. However, many days I look back after a busy day and think was that worth it? Those days which are all about paperwork and administrative tick-boxing exercises that contribute nothing except to some faceless manager’s satisfaction.

The part of the world where my life started (Yola) is lovely in a lot of ways but there is a significant poverty. In terms of economics but also in healthcare terms. Nigeria as a whole fails to cater to the healthcare needs of its population unless you have lots of money to go private. The North-East of Nigeria is one of the poorest when you look at health outcomes. In particular, looking at childhood. The statistics (where there are any) are shocking. Nigeria, for all its wealth, regularly features at the bottom of tables for health outcomes. We are in the bottom 5 for most outcomes including maternal and under 5 morbidity and mortality. For the non-medics reading this, morbidity refers to how much ill-health and disease (sickness there is) there is and mortality refers to how many are dying.

Mothers naturally should come in a low-risk group. Most should be healthy young women doing what is most natural – getting pregnant, growing a baby and then delivering the baby. Young children, although fragile because they are not mature yet biologically are despite all of that resilient on the whole and have bodies that are full of strong healthy organs with endless potential for healing. What we are failing to provide is basic care. Basic antenatal care, trained birthing assistants, hospitals to assist in difficult deliveries and facilities for emergency caesarean sections (surgery) for those women who cannot do it naturally. Infections, on the whole preventable and most totally treatable, cause a lot of the morbidity and mortality in Nigeria. Many of the other things we provide here in the NHS is simple supportive care, allowing patients own bodies to heal themselves in a secure environment.

So here is my dream. I would like to set up a women’s and children’s health centre. Big dream I hear you say. Yes, I am aware. It will be a huge task. I worked at the FMC in Yola for 4 months in 2012. I saw how much need there was and the things that were missing. I know a lot of the patients we couldn’t help were those who lived far away from town and did not come to us until their disease was too advanced for us to be able to do anything. Mothers died in childbirth because they did not have adequate antenatal care so predictable problems were not discovered until it was too late. Preterm babies died because they were born out of hospital in environments not hygienic enough and did not get simple breathing and feeding support and early treatment with antibiotics. Term babies were born too small because their mothers were undernourished and unwell with treatable conditions during pregnancy but were not diagnosed and treated. Very few of the patients we couldn’t help needed fancy expensive medicines or surgery. It was simply too little too late.

On the positive side, those that did come to us in time had better outcomes than those suggested by the statistics I read about on WHO and the likes. Those preterm babies born at FMC Yola thrived and majority survived until discharge. Sure, their progress was slower than here in the NHS because of a lack of basic equipment and provisions like oxygen and breathing support, working incubators, labs, fluid pumps, parenteral nutrition for those too young to feed by mouth or through the stomach. But survive they did because they are little fighters.

So what I dream is to provide all those basic things to the mothers, babies and children free of charge if I can manage to raise funds or at the very least at the smallest prices possible to give those with little the chance to quality healthcare. To go with that, I would like to provide an outreach service to those isolated villages. Run clinics, provide immunisations, antenatal vitamins and nutritional support, teach about prevention of infections and when it is vital to seek early medical help. Central to that idea is to train some of the villagers to provide safe simple birthing assistance, supportive care for new-borns and how to diagnose and treat the most common infections and provide first aid. All little things but added up should cut the numbers of mothers and children suffering unnecessarily and prevent the many preventable deaths.

My grandfather listened to me talking about my dream and was (rather unexpectedly) downbeat about it. He pointed out that it wasn’t as easy as I was making out. Actually, I know it will be difficult to do and as I have never done this before, it is a monumental task. There is so much to do to get this off the ground. However, here is my plan. I will start small and do this project in stages. I will deal with the complications as I get to them. A journey of a thousand miles has to start with that first step. I have taken my first step. I have dared to dream and I have written down my dream in black and white. Now onwards and upwards. Watch this space.

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Save Our NHS!

Sharing this from a doctor’s facebook wall with permission because she says it better than I could express through the mounting frustration and despair I feel.

“I would like to tell you what the NHS means to me. It means that as a doctor. I get to think about what my patients need, and what is best for them. I get to think about that, above all else. Because my patients are someone’s daughter, someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s mentor, someone’s shoulder to cry on, someone’s friend. I get to value their life over all else.

I love that. I love that when I’m driving down a busy street at rush hour, and an ambulance with blue lights and sirens wailing, presents itself to this mass of people on the road – people with jobs to get to, meetings to attend, events to arrive at, exams to sit – not one of them stops in the middle of the road and refuses to let the ambulance pass.
Not one of them thinks their schedule is more important than the stranger in the back of the ambulance, fighting for their life. They, the general public, the person on the street, the people of Britain, value a stranger’s life above everything else at that moment. I love that. I love the humanity.

Jeremy Hunt says, he wants us to provide a 24 hour NHS. I think thats fantastic. I am pretty sure I have already worked every hour of every conceivable day to make up the 24/7 ideal. I work bank holidays and public holidays and religious holidays. I work often right up until I need to leave to catch a train to a graduation or a wedding. Sometimes I have an Emergnecy and I work past that. And I send my apologies and I lose my tickets. Because the person I am working on matters. Because I value their life over all else at that moment in time.

I think a 24/7 service is wonderful. It’s the dream. It’s like dubai at night. Or New York always. The service that never sleeps. I mean. I never sleep. Not on call. But, yes, sure, things can be delayed. It takes longer for one doctor to see 80 patients at night, than it does for a team of 4 to see them during the day. It takes longer for one lab technician to process 80 blood samples vs a team of 5 during the day. It takes longer for one radiographer to image 80 patients overnight than a team of 3 during the day.

The hospital is not just made up of doctors. We cannot work without our colleagues. Nurses, phlebotomists, pharmacists, radiographers, porters, health care assistants, scrub nurses, physicians assistants, and anaesthetics techs.
We all work together as a team. At all hours of the day and night. Because we value the life of the person we are seeing.
We would love a 24/7 service. But you cannot achieve it by taking the same doctor, spreading him or her thinner to cover the gaps they are already covering regularly – and then tell them that’s what they ought to have been doing all along so let’s slash your meagre pay by 1/3 for good measure.

To achieve the sort of dreamlike 24/7 service Mr hunt is selling and we all want to buy. The answer is simple. Create more training posts. Hire more doctors. Twice the current amount. Hire more nurses. I’m tired just watching them scramble night after night, running between rooms taking care of double their normal case load. Hire more ancillary workers. If you really wanted a fully functioning service, where 3am on a Sunday looks the same as 10am on a Tuesday, that’s the solution.
Don’t fillet and tenderise your already overstretched team to plug the gaps. And don’t turn the public against them because they have said that it’s not right.

What happens to our value as human beings? As care givers? As people who place others first? Where is the logic, in destroying one of the greatest legacies of modern history? In order to reappropriate the money as bonuses for management consultants who “told us what was wrong”.

I never finished my story about what the NHS means to me. When I’m done with my job. And that isn’t dictated by the clock but by when my patients are all stable. When I’m done I go home to my mother, who is terminally ill. Sometimes she is very unwell. And at those times I return to the hospital. This time not as a doctor, but as patient and family. I cannot begin to explain the relief in knowing that our arrival isn’t heralded by piles of paperwork to determine how much money we have to pay for treatment. They wouldn’t find much. I’m always overdrawn. I once laughed when I lost my wallet, because there wasn’t any point in cancelling my bank cards. They would find nothing in the account. I am 34 years old and a “junior” doctor that has been working for 10 years. But I have nothing worth stealing. That’s because I usually just get paid enough to cover my rent and bills. And when I need to do exams or get a wedding gift or live without relying on a credit card I would pick up extra shifts, working even more weekends and holidays than I normally would, which was already a lot.

Then, like a lot of my colleagues. I volunteer. I volunteer my services to local communities. I voluntarily sit on charitable boards where I help develop plans to help the most vulnerable in society. I travel to refugee camps to help those that unlike me, cannot make ends meet, have been forced out of their homes through no fault of their own, and now have no one to care for them. Very few people value them at all, these proud, resilient, insightful people in camps and on journeys – let alone above all else.

So I am grateful for the NHS. Because as a terminal cancer patient. My mum and I show up at our A&e a lot. And often at the most inconvenient times. 3am. 7pm. Weeknight. Weekday. The tumor doesn’t care. But you know who does? NHS staff. They care. They value her life over all else when she walks through the door – even if she may not have very much life left to live. They always smile. They always listen. They are always patient and kind. They are cheerful most of the time, even as their pagers bleep mercilessly through every conversation they have, alerting them to another patient in need of being valued.

They trundle away regardless of the time, tucking my mum into bed, helping her to the bathroom, taking her blood despite the fact that her veins disappeared under the influence of chemotherapy long ago. Patiently searching for those life giving green threads in her hands and arms. Listening to her chest. Poring over her substantial medical history to make sure they understand everything. Discussing the minutiae that may unveil what the cancer is doing this time and how they can best hold it at bay. There are no shortcuts even at 3am. They value their patients and the families above all else. And I love them for that.

That’s what the NHS means to me. Service that comes full circle.

I treated someone’s mum like they were the only person in the world that mattered right then. And later on that night, some other kindly fatigued uniformed intelligent gentle soul did the same for my mum. And sometime during those 24 hours someone was late to pick their kids up from school or collect their dry cleaning – because an ambulance with the most valuable person to someone else, closed off the road they were on as it whizzed past.
That. is Healthcare delivered as a right, not a privilege. That is humanity. So the only question, Mr. Hunt. (And anyone else who backs the sham of making an understaffed workforce doing the best it can to work twice as long for two thirds of the pay, and ensuring that women who have families and researchers who seek to cure terminal conditions like my mother’s can’t do their job, which is what they value – ) the only question is – What do you value above all else? Money? The bottom line? The shareholders? Your mates who run companies that want private contracts? A shot at being PM?

None of that will matter to you when you are ill, Mr. Hunt. I promise you. At that moment in time. You will value your health above all else.

More than that, you will want a team of dedicated well trained NHS employees to value you above all else.
Value.your.health.service.”

Do Your Little Bit of Good

Desmond Tutu says: “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”

What a great saying! I fully subscribe to it. I think the world would be in a much better place if everyone believed in doing their little bit of good and did it thus creating a lot of goodness. Most of the people I meet are very good people and have really good intentions but only a few are doing anything to put their good will into action to help change the world in their little way. I suppose I am actually privileged to work in healthcare though. Nurses and doctors do so much fund-raising for charity that we almost take it for granted. Most of my work mates will have badges, hoodies, t-shirts all bought for charity. Many of them are taking part in charity runs to raise money for great causes.

Many of our amazing little patients are also into their fundraising. You may have heard about Stephen Sutton who died from cancer a few months ago. He has just been awarded a Pride of Britain award post-humously. His story has inspired so many because instead of focusing on his bad prognosis (predicted bad outcome), he thought he would raise money to help find a cure for cancer for those who have the misfortune of following in his footsteps and to support those young people and babies with cancer. Even if he had raised only a £100, it would have been amazing because of the intention behind it. The intent was to improve the lives of others when it was too late for him. The intent was to make the world better for a group of unlucky people who have or will have cancer. Great news is that he has raised £5 million pounds so far and counting and his name has been immortalised for being so brave and selfless in his time of despair and illness, for making a difference. Stephen probably never dreamt how big his fundraising page was going to be but he did what he did anyway.

Malala who has just won a Nobel Peace Prize at 17 years old and is a fellow West-Midlander is another inspiring story. Her story started out small. I am sure she never thought she would end up living in the UK making speeches that are heard all over the world and getting complimented by the likes of Barack Obama and the Queen. All she did was speak out against the injustice of being denied an education because she and her friends were unfortunate enough to be born girls in Pakistan. She got shot for her pains but instead of being cowed by the real threat of the Taliban, she remains unrepentant and continues to be the voice for her fellow oppressed girls and young women. She has inspired thousands of girls in Pakistan and Afghanistan to insist on their right to be educated. A small thing that has metamorphosed into a huge thing for so many.

My mama has an NGO that works primarily to empower women and young people. Part of what they do is provide support in setting up small businesses and training in crafts. They also help find and pay lawyers for victims of domestic violence and rape. But their manifest is unlimited really. Whatever a child, adolescent or woman needs that they can help with, they do. They have helped end many forced child-marriages; they have helped girls/women get away from abusive relatives and start up a new life. They help women who are desperate to support their children train in simple skills that will help them earn a living so they know where their next meal is coming from and know that they do not have to go from door to door, asking for hand outs. They provide extra tuition for young people struggling with their education and their prospects of employment. They provide sanitation and educate on public health issues. They have even helped a young lady locate her birth father. The work they do is not exactly earth-shattering to read about and does not make the news but I know how much good they have done for the hundreds of people who have come to them for help. I know what a lifeline they have been and continue to be for so many. They are doing the little good they can do with limited resources but it is changing the world for those around them in Yola and beyond to the rest of Adamawa state.

All of these people inspire me so much and as a result, I have made a promise to myself. I might not be anybody. I am certainly not rich nor am I famous. I am not extraordinary in anyway but I have been blessed with an amazing family, a few great friends, a fantastic job and a life mate (my husband) whose love is so uplifting. I guess you could say that I am extraordinarily blessed. So I try every day to do or say something that will do some good for someone. The best thing is that my patients are great recipients of my efforts. So many children just want positive reinforcement to shape them into lovely responsible adults. So I find something beautiful about them and tell them about it. I tell them how gorgeous their curly hair is. How special their rare blood group is. How amazing their natural red hair is. How beautiful their glasses are. How brave they are. How happy their hard work to get better makes me. How brilliant they are to do schoolwork when their health is failing. I say good morning to the cleaners that keep our hospitals clean and I smile every time I pass them in the corridors because their job is hard and their pay is small but they are absolutely essential in helping us make our patients better. I buy badges, hoodies and t-shirts for charity and I wear them with pride.

So I challenge you my dear reader. If you ever watch TV or read about someone who has done something and you feel inspired, do a little something each day to brighten up someone’s day. It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to cost you a lot of money; it doesn’t have to be recognised by anyone. As long as when you go to bed, you remember the feeling of having done something good for someone with no strings attached and fall asleep with a happy heart. Let us all do the little things that are easy and free in life and hopefully the sum total makes the world that much better.

Judge Me Not

Yo teach, I’m fed up with this shit!

Judge me not by the color of my skin,

This olive complexion given by genes.

Hate me not for my accent,

Trying to hide it for your pleasure.

 

My grades reflect MY knowledge!

Don’t give me that

“Cause you were taught in a white school” shit.

What you know?

Ma stayed up with me studying,

You gave up,

Saying I’ll never make it.

 

Now I’m laughing. 

Six years later and I’m graduating,

Heading off to college,

While your rich and privileged dropped out. 

Y’all could’ve believed in me,

But you refused.

So later fool, I’m out.

Off to better places and higher goals.

 

The poem above is entitled JUDGE ME NOT BY THE COLOR OF MY SKIN by NANASEVEN432 (accessed on http://www.powerpoetry.org/poems/judge-me-not-color-my-skin). It says so much about what it is to have skin that is not white in a majority white country. Britain is much more inclusive than America judging by what is said in the media. Yet, the first thing I am judged by generally is the colour of my skin.

I moved to London aged 14 and I can tell you far from rejoicing when my mama told me we were moving to England, I was very sad for many months. I did not want to be the new girl at my new school and I certainly did not want to leave my friends. I was afraid of what it would be like to be the foreigner. I was not excited about the prospect of cold winters or being away from the extended family. Little did I realise that as soon as I stepped off the plane, I would lose my identity and join the nameless mass of ‘black people’. That I would be held responsible for every bad thing any black person has ever done or will do in the future. That I would be judged even before I open my mouth and speak.

When I went for career’s advice in secondary school, I told the lady that I was going to be a doctor. I believe I was the first person from my school in Tottenham to become a doctor (I might be wrong but my teachers say so) so you can imagine this careers advisor’s expression. She took a minute to compose herself and said you need to consider other options like physiotherapy or nursing (these are probably more attainable for the black population). I was like I am pretty sure that is what I want to be. Another white tutor at College met with me to give me advice on UCAS applications and cautioned me against applying for just medicine (UCAS allows you to apply for 4 medical schools only which usually means prospective medical students apply for physiotherapy or medical science or pharmacy in the last 2 UCAS slots as backup). Well, I told him, I will take my chances. I don’t want to be a physio or anything else. I saw the lack of belief in his face but I smiled anyway, thanked him for his advice and left.

I went to Dubai with my sister 7 years ago and during that trip, we went on a dune surfing excursion. We were placed in a 4×4 with a couple of Russians who were rather un-exposed. When we got out to stand on top of the highest dune and admire the breath-taking sight, one of the young Russians stood beside us and said ‘You are exotic’. My sister was bemused by it and I was just a bit ‘ehn?’ Exotic meaning what? Strange like an exotic bird or fish that is rarely seen? Non-European like exotic fruits from Africa, Asia and South America? Non-white? Personally I was put off. It didn’t end there. There was a whole group of Chinese tourists in the other 4x4s in our convoy. When we got to the campsite and were sitting around, eating and watching the belly dancer do her thing, a Chinese young woman timidly came up to my sister whilst I was off fetching a drink and asked if she could take a photo of her. My sister said yes. I watched with surprise from where I was and as I walked back, a group of Chinese people descended to my sister’s side and posed for pictures with her. Like some sort of statue. I stood sternly to the side, daring any of them to want to include me in their craziness. I think the expression on my face spoke volumes because no one bothered me.

This was repeated a couple of years ago in India whilst I was travelling with a bunch of people. We were in Delhi at one of the largest grand old mosques up on a hill where you could see much of the city. I was hanging out with an 18 year old Aussie as pretty as a flower, let’s call her Audrey. She looked like the much talked about English rose and the Indians visiting the site thought she looked like Princess Diana. As we sat in the shade, tired from the walking and the heat, a father approached us with his daughter. He motioned to Audrey and mimed taking a photo. She shrugged in acquiescence and the girl sat next to Audrey whilst her father took a photo. This emboldened another father nearby who without a word, strode over to Audrey and dumped his baby in her lap then walked away to take a photo. A queue quickly formed and poor Audrey was trapped in a photo-taking frenzy. I watched from the side lines as she went from not minding being used to being embarrassed and feeling harassed. She went redder and redder and eventually extricated herself from her fans. Later I asked how she felt and she said ‘trapped’.

Over the years, I have got bored by the question of ‘where are you from?’ From fellow black people, I realise that the question is normally a way of finding common ground but in general, I feel it is a way of reminding me that I am a foreigner here. Unfortunately for those who don’t like us foreigners, I was born a British citizen (by virtue of my mum being a Londoner by birth) so this is my home too. I am entitled to be here. I have paid my way and will continue to do so. My work is essential to the population. Some people go on to say ‘you speak good English’. My reply now is always ‘of course I do. It is my first language’. In a way that is true. I learnt to speak Hausa, Fulani and English simultaneously as a little tot and actually my English vocabulary is the strongest of all 3 because I was educated in English. Indeed I would like to point out that if you were to test the British population on their grammar and comprehension, you would find that across the ethnic groups, indigenous Brits tend to score the lowest. Sad but true. So don’t patronise a black person with ‘you speak good English’. Many of us have lived here most of our lives if we were not born here. Many of us are as British as British comes.

I would call myself a Nigerian Brit. Nigeria first always because my blood is Nigerian. I was born in Nigeria, my parents are both Nigerian, my first steps were taken in Nigeria, my foundation was in Nigeria. Nigeria made me who I was so that when I came to Britain I could contribute to my school and my community. But I am British too. I learnt my profession in Britain. I have worked all my working life in Britain. My closest friends now are mostly here in Britain. I love Birmingham. I met my husband here. I married him here. I have bought my first home here in Britain and I hope to have my children here. I have aspirations for Britain. I want it to be better. I want it to grow. I want Britain to embrace all its children, regardless of the colour of their skin because I honestly believe that the colour of my skin tells you nothing about who I am. What my dreams are. What my beliefs are. What makes me special. Above all, I believe that what makes Britain great is the diversity of its population. This is what makes our country part of the UNITED Kingdom.

Allah (swt) is Al-Jabbar: The Mender of broken hearts

The words that follow were written by a lady called Asmaa Hussein who lost her love and reflects on how her relationship with God is helping her through it all. It struck a cord with me because this is the Allah I believe in and worship. The loving, merciful incredible God who promotes peace and love, not war and violence.

 

It has been a year since I got that most-hated phone call, a year since I stood over Amr’s body at the morgue and tried to memorize every feature of his face before I would have to let him go, a year since we were attacked in the graveyard by people who hated the truth and righteousness that Amr stood for.

People wonder how I was able to hold myself together. They wonder why I haven’t collapsed or given up hope in Allah or in the goodness of people.

I don’t have an explanation from myself, but the answer can be found in the story of Prophet Musa’s mother in the Quran. She was instructed to place him in the water if she feared for his life at the hands of Pharaoh’s army:

“And We inspired to the mother of Moses, ‘Suckle him; but when you fear for him, cast him into the river and do not fear and do not grieve. Indeed, We will return him to you and will make him [one] of the messengers'” (28:7).

I often wonder about what kind of strength she must have possessed when she placed her infant child into a basket, and pushed him into the water without knowing where he would end up, or whether she would see him again. She did one of the most difficult things a mother could do. But she held herself together with the help and guidance of her Lord, and watched him drift away.

Musa was accepted into the house of Aasiya, but he refused to breastfeed from any woman and his sister who had been following him, led them to take the baby back to his mother.

What was the purpose of Allah (swt) returning Musa to his mother? Musa could have breastfed from any woman without returning to his mother and still grown up to be the messenger of Allah, not decreasing anything from his righteousness or his remarkable journey and story.

But there was a reason Musa had to come home to his mother:

“So We restored him to his mother that she might be content and not grieve and that she would know that the promise of Allah is true. But most of the people do not know” (28:13).

Allah caused Musa to return to his mother simply so that she wouldn’t grieve, so that her heart would be at ease and that her faith would not waiver.

Allah (swt) cared about this woman. He mended her heart, not so that the course of history could change or some big momentous event could take place. He mended it because He is Merciful and Loving to the believers. And so that when we read her story, we can know the extent of His Love and Mercy. That is all. And that is enough of a reason.

Allah (swt) doesn’t wish for the believers to grieve, and He wants them to know that His promise is true. I’ve lived it this past year. Every time I was about to reach a breaking point in my despair, or to fall into the darkness of losing hope, I would receive some news that would lift my heart. Someone would have a beautiful dream of Amr, someone would perform ummrah on his behalf, or establish some charity on his behalf. I would receive words of support from people I love and respect, or encounter some verses in the Quran that would take me by the hand and hold me steady.

I remember a few months ago sitting one day after I had prayed Asr. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my heart was aching and I didn’t know how to rid myself of the immense pain. I raised my hands to ask Allah (swt) to help me be able to somehow visit His sacred house to come closer to Him and for that to be a part of my healing. Before I was able to even make the dua, my phone rang. It was Amr’s parents calling me to tell me they were just at the Ka’bah making dua for me to be able to visit it. And I thought – how strange that this dua has yet to come from my lips, and Allah (swt) has put the same dua on the lips of people beloved to me in such a blessed place.

My heart was lifted so much in that moment that the tears of sadness turned into tears of joy.

None of these things are coincidences. And none of these things happened because I am particularly good or worthy. They happen because Allah (swt) cares about the hearts of His slaves. I know that He cares about me and about my daughter because I’ve lived in the realm of this immense Mercy this past year…every ounce of pain was met with some inexplicable beauty and serenity that no human effort could produce. And it was from Him. All of it.

If you believe in Allah alone with no partners or intermediaries, and you worship Him alone, and you sacrifice that which you love in order to come closer to Him alone, you will see wonders in your life. Your difficulties will become blessings. Your heartaches will become healing. Your duas will be answered in ways that you could have never imagined. He doesn’t want you to grieve, and He wants you to know that His promise to the believers is true.

It’s not any more complicated than that. It happened to me, and it’s still happening.

Alhamdulillah.

Straight Up Nigerian

Nigeria is a humongous country so I will not even attempt to write about it all in one little blog. It would take a whole book to make a dint in the story that is Nigeria. This blog will focus on my memories of growing up in Yola.

Yola City. 2 words. Enough said but just in case you have not sampled the delights of my hometown, I shall expand on the 2 words. Why do I love Yola so? Biggest reason is because my mother is the happiest there and whatever makes my mama happy, I love. Yola like me is full of contradictions. It is still small enough in Yola town (different from Jimeta a.k.a Yola North) that most residents either know me or my mama and will definitely know who my granddad is. So I cannot go round being naughty willy-nilly because they will come round to my house and make me feel like I am 3 years old again.

Knowing so many people is a great advantage. When I visit Yola, I get lots of food brought round and somehow these people know all my favourite foods, all the food I spend many hours daydreaming about back in Birmingham. Every morning is like a lottery and throughout the day, I intermittently check on the little dining table by the fridge to see if there have been any food deliveries. This time, I got at different times: Dan-wake, waina, masa, sinasir, dakuwa, kosai, gari basise, okro soup, this tapioca-type grain which I had with yoghurt, zogale (a.k.a moringa) seeds which were awful, a traditional kanuri drink made up of milk with bits of chewy yumminess in it, dambun nama, zobo and more. I was in food heaven. I ate small portions often in an attempt to get through a bit of everything. I didn’t remember half of those who sent the goodies to thank them but you know what? They probably got report that I stuffed my face with all of it and are satisfied they have done their bit to feed me.

Yola’s geography is awesome. We are in the North-east corner of Nigeria. In the old days, we were definitely in the savannah but now with all the aggressive deforestation by unethical businesses, we are part desert and part savannah. When you drive to Adamawa from Jos/Bauchi sides, you can see the more abundant greenery and exotic plants give way to Neem and baobab trees and green green grass in the rainy season dotted with low shrubs and anthills. I think Adamawa has cleaner crisper air and I can almost taste Yola when I drive into the Adamawa region. The river Benue goes through the state and is an amazing sight to behold in the rainy season. In the dry season, the water level is so low that the river Benue is reduced to a network of streams. In these months, you can see families fetching water, doing their laundry and bathing in those streams. I always want to stop the car and go down into the river bank, feel the sand underneath my bare toes like those families. In the rainy season, it is very different. The banks of the river are full to bursting. In fact more and more these days, we get floods as the effect of global warming is felt. Around Numan if you look carefully enough down at the river from the bridge, you’ll see how there is a clean side of the water and the dirtier muddier side of the water and curiously, the 2 seem separate as the river gushes past. I cannot remember the explanation my mama gave me when I asked decades ago but it doesn’t even matter to me. All I know is that the clean water somehow knows not to mix with the dirty water despite there being no physical barrier separating the 2. Incredible.

I love Yola market especially on ‘market’ day which has always been on a Friday. Back in the day, my mama banned us from going to the market unless in the company of adults. Most of the time, we obeyed that rule but not on Fridays. Every Friday, we would find a way to sneak out of the house with all the pocket money we had managed to save and head to the market. The biggest draw was the snake charmers who would display their trained cobras and even pick on members of the public in the audience to help them out with their tricks. My mama hates snakes so although I was less afraid of them, there was still a healthy dose of fear that I inherited from her. I used to have to look away from time to time during those displays as the excitement crossed the border into fear. However, I never turned down a chance to go there as long as my sister and I were in town on the Friday.

The other act we loved was the monkey owners. These people were less reliable and would turn up randomly. They even went house to house to perform and get given change. I loved the monkeys best and would pray for them to turn up every day during the school holidays. Sadly, my house was never visited. I am not sure whether it is because of our scary dogs or maybe my mum or stepdad were not receptive. Anyway, I was resourceful enough to catch them at the market or neighbours’ house. Another reason for my love of Yola market is the contraband fast food on sale. Contraband in my house meant any cooked food from a kitchen whose owner we didn’t know personally. Naturally I loved everything not cooked ‘at home’ so I was a regular customer and my favourite buys were Dan-wake and allele (bean cakes) cooked in tins with a drop of palm oil to make it glorious. Mmmm, these 2 foods are still my absolute favourite snacks from home.

Other delights I will never forget in Yola market include Amani who had a bad scarring infection on his face once upon a time and his vegetable stall. I loved the exotic fruit sellers sitting in the fruit section who came with their fruits picked fresh from the villages in our state. I loved the goruba sellers right at the back of the market especially because they had sacks of the thing and I always wondered if they ever sold it all and what sort of tree the gorubas came from. I loved the ‘odds’ lane where everything from nails to tree gum for charcoal ink and batteries were sold. I also loved the sweets man near the Fulani ladies with their fresh milk and yoghurt. I was a regular at his stall and especially loved it when he went to Cameroun and came back with the little pink mint balls with green stripes called bon-bon. On the rare occasion we needed to buy yoghurt, I would speak to the Fulani ladies and be amazed they spoke my language because these were the nomadic Fulanis (the bororos) and they were so pretty and different from us. I would watch in fascination as they tipped a ceramic dish of yoghurt into the one I bought without disturbing the smooth set of the yoghurt. I was so happy then. Le sigh.

I will finish on one final point about Yola. I loved the neighbourly spirit in the community when I was little. I rarely ate a proper meal at home in those days. I was always round one neighbour’s house or the other eating their meals because it was different from the meals at home. You know as a child, the grass is greener on every other side. There was always food in these homes and I was always welcome to it. I ate to my fill and said thank you then off I went. Mango and guava trees were abundant in those days (and I guess still are) and when those fruits were in season, I would forget about meals and just gorge myself on those fruits, sitting high up in the trees. So much so that I was constipated half the time because in my impatience, I would eat the fruits half raw particularly the guavas. I, of course, kept my medical problems to myself because I knew fully well it was self-induced and that actually my mama was clear on the rule that we should not be eating unripe fruit. One year, we discovered the delight of climbing up date trees and we were round Amadi’s home daily, eating so many dates that I still cannot handle more than 1 date at a time these days. I had a whale of a time growing up in Yola despite all the naughtiness. I have no regrets fortunately.

Colourful Snakes

Over the years, I have had a number of recurrent dreams. The one I am about to describe I’ve had since I was around the age of 11 or 12. I usually dream it when there is a lot going on in my life, when there are many balls to juggle. So I guess it is a reflection of my overworked brain leading to an overactive imagination.

Here it is:

I wake up slowly after a lovely sleep. I am in a white room; the walls are painted white, the lace curtains fluttering in the gentle breeze are white and there is bright light made softer by the curtains. The bed is king sized dressed in white sheets, lots of white fluffy pillows and a really soft freshly laundered duvet or blanket. I sit up and stretch slowly, enjoying the peace filling the room.

As I gaze about me, I suddenly spot a flash of bright green in the corner of the window. I watch in fascination as the colour resolves itself into a small snake. The snake is maybe 1cm thick and 12cm long. I am not afraid of the snake. I watch it slither down to the floor. Just as it reaches the floor, a red flash catches my eyes. This time from the opposite corner of the window. I follow the red snake’s progress but midway through its descent, a yellow one appears this time coming through the lower corner of the door. Followed by a bright blue one, then an orange one, then a ruby red snake…

Within minutes, there are dozens of small snakes creeping into my white room and they are all heading towards the bed. My fascination and admiration of the bright colours soon changes into unease. I tuck my feet under me and pull the duvet in towards me so that it bunches around my still body in the middle of the bed. I don’t want the snakes to climb up the bed from the hanging duvet. As the numbers grow, I become afraid. My tummy churns, my breath becomes rapid and shallower and I begin to tremble. I remain frozen there, watching helplessly as they approach the bed and begin to slither up its sides. I feel a scream beginning deep inside me. All I know is I cannot step off the bed and escape because touching the snakes would freak me out. Yet, I know they are coming and they will soon be all over me. There is no escape.

 Always, I wake up with a start. I feel sick with fear; my heart is pounding, my breath panting, my muscles trembling. I am wholly unrested and I feel unprepared to face the day with the challenges that are stressing me out.

 

Do you have any recurrent dreams? Have you dreamt of these colourful small snakes? Do you think there is a deeper meaning to my dream? I wonder…

Vivid Dreams

I am a dreamer.

 

I mean literally. I am the dreamer in my family. My mother and sister rarely have dreams that they can recall the next morning. I, on the other hand, for as long as I can remember dream highly detailed dreams most nights and in the morning can remember them. So much so that it became routine for my big sister to ask me in the mornings: ‘so what did you dream today?’ And I would recount my dream and we would both shake our heads at each other as we tried to understand the puzzles that I dreamt of.

 

Before I tell you about my most vivid dream, I will tell you a bit about myself to put it in context.

  1. I am a Muslim. I believe in God. As a Muslim, I do not believe God has a shape or form like you and I, like the animals and plants we see. I believe God is omnipotent, omnipresent. God is as small as the smallest particle yet larger than life itself.
  2. I am the younger of 2 girls and I am very close to my mother. As a child, I was borderline hyperactive and would run and climb anyone or anything in my way. People, trees, walls, gates. You name it, I would climb it and I would do that all day if left to my own devices. The only times you would find me sitting still would be tucked into my mother’s side as she tried to have an adult conversation or do some work at home. I was a homebody even at that age.

The snippet of a dream that I want to share was dreamt at dawn, sometime in the 5th year of my life.

I am lying still on my side. It feels like I am floating or lying on a cloud. I am in a large crowd of strangers. All dressed in white – all of varying ages, sizes and shapes. All looking towards someone or something somewhere ahead of us. I feel at home despite being in the midst of strangers. No one moves or says anything. Curious to see what everyone is looking at, I sit up and lean forward, craning my neck to see through the heads ahead. My eyes widen and my head spins as I try to figure out what it is I am seeing.

My best description would be a white presence. In front of us is a white mass, like a wall of feathers that ripples and shifts so it has no lasting form. I cannot say it is like a large white balloon, a huge white bird or a massive cloud. As I try to identify this ‘thing’ is, it speaks to me and I know in that instant that I am in the presence of God. I cannot say what He is saying, in what language He is saying it in, whether in fact the voice is a He or She but He is speaking to my very soul. I know this is Him because in this instant, I feel a joy and peace so profound that I immediately pray I can freeze this moment forever.

Even as I pray the moment remains forever, I wake up with a start. I am on the verge of tears as the moment escapes. I mourn that loss for many days after and think about it in quiet moments but the dream has never returned. However, I remember it vividly today as I do in every moment of extreme happiness or sadness. Every birth and death. Every birthday. On my wedding day…

Although my sister heard about most of my dreams through that time, I never shared this one dream.