The Crazy Nigerian

Warning! Evil spirit straight ahead

I had a bad habit of rubbing my eyes. You might think I would only stick my finger in my eye because a speck of dust or an eyelash got into it, but I didn't need a good reason. There was this tickly sensation I enjoyed when I rubbed my eyes. Some people like to bite their nails, others like to pick their noses, and I liked to rub my eyes. Of course, this habit had its consequences. I never took the pains to wash my hands before having a good rub, so I eventually managed to get my eyes infected.

It all happened when I was nearing completion of primary school. I had rubbed my eyes so much they had become very red and watery. Some of my classmates were even convinced that I had 'Apollo' so they kept their distance. My parents were deeply concerned and decided to take me to an optometrist. A visit to the hospital was scary enough as a child, and a visit to the eye clinic was certainly no picnic either. It was like a trip to the London Dungeon where you paid to partake in a tour of horrific images. I was surrounded by large and disturbing photos of eye infections. One photo caught my attention though-it looked just as red and watery as mine. The infection had a medical name twice as long as my birth name and the causes were boldly stated: smoke and dust. I knew the cause of my infection, so I thought, 'There's nothing to worry about. My condition is not even charted here. It's probably not an eye infection. Maybe I'll be given some eye drops and I'll be fine.' WRONG!

'Dr. Doom', as I remember him, examined my eyes and did a series of tests while my parents sat and watched anxiously. Once he was through, he sat at his desk, took out a piece of paper and began to sketch something. He used the drawing to explain to my parents that there was a growth at the top of my pupil that was gradually covering more and more of the surface area. My heart skipped a beat at this point, and my parents bombarded the eye specialist with a number of questions. At no point did I hear the word 'BLIND' during the conversation, and I was no rocket scientist, but what else could 'covering the pupil' imply?

Dr. Doom dropped another bombshell when he outlined my eye treatment. It consisted of manual eye-cleaning procedures, eye drops and eye ointments. Basically, if it involved molesting my eyeballs in any way, then that was part of my treatment. It was almost as if Dr. Doom was indirectly saying to me, 'Boy, you liking rubbing your eyes, eh? By the time I finish with those eyeballs, you'll be begging me to cut off all your fingers!!!' There was yet another bombshell that I almost forgot about: the bill. But as a nine-year-old kid with little concern for the value of money, I didn't let it bother me . . . that was my dad's problem.

My eye treatment ordeal lasted about a month, but it felt like a year. On the first day of my treatment, the nurse sat me in a tilted chair and grabbed hold of what looked like a body-thermometer. She then told me to sit still. Sit still? I thought. What is she going to do? Poke my armpit to death? Let's just say I later looked like a terrified passenger caught in a high-speed car-chase after she had rammed that apparatus under my eyelid and proceeded to give me an aggressive eye scrub! That experience was more uncomfortable than it was painful. Each day before going for 'eye therapy', I would drown my eyeballs in eye drops, although they should have been called pocket-size pepper sprays. All of a sudden, taking oral medication seemed like a walk in the park; at least taking pills didn't leave me jumping on hot coal and going, 'Aaaaaaargh . . . sshhhhhhhhhhhhhugar!' (I went through a phase where I tried to cut down on swearing).

So whilst my afternoons after school were spent at the opticians, the torture continued at home when I applied my eye drops every morning and night. Thankfully, I noticed improvements after two weeks: I was looking a lot less like a conjunctivitis patient and my eyes hardly missed my intrusive fingers and weren't producing as many uncontrollable tears. A month later, I received the all clear from Dr. Doom-I was cured! My next unbearable experience was a pain in the neck, literally.

My cousin was the 'jack of all trades' when it came to children's outdoor and indoor games. There was one particular game she introduced me to, which she called, 'Father Abraham'. It was a simple game that involved singing and performing body movements that increased in number each time the song was repeated. The fun part was that if you started off with your head looking up, then you had to stay that way throughout the game. The song went something like this:

'Father Abraham . . . had many sons.

Many sons had Father Abraham.

I am one of them . . . and so are you

So let us praise the Lord-

Look up, look down, look left, look righ-'
AAAAAARGH!!!

That was when my fun ended. I threw my neck into a spasm that caused my vocal chords to break the sound barrier-simply put, I screamed like a girl. Now, in an emergency, Americans call 911, Britons call 999, and Nigerians call Mum. Well, if mobile phone technology had been readily available in Nigeria during the early 90s, then I would have done that. Instead, I just waited anxiously for my mum to come home. What an agonizing long wait that was.

About five hours later, my mum and dad got back home and took me to the hospital. I don't remember saying much when the doctor asked what was wrong. I just wanted the pain to stop. Believe it or not, the doctor diagnosed . . . wait for it . . . MENINGITIS! (The doctor must have been related to Dr. Doom, the eye specialist). I was admitted into the emergency ward where I had tubes wired into me. I was stripped naked and confined to a bed. That's about as much as I can remember. My mum narrated the rest of the humiliating ordeal for me after I woke up from the anaesthetic. Apparently, Dr. Doom's brother took a sample of my spinal fluid. He left my parents feeling very squeamish by inserting a larger-than-normal syringe into the base of my spine, causing me to squeal till I passed out (as in 'fainted' and also as in 'urine', unfortunately).

I never knew something as trivial as a muscle-pull could earn me a stay in the emergency ward, a month of physiotherapy and a collection of photos of the unforgettable birthday I spent with my head straight and my neck slanted as if I was a lunatic eavesdropping on the invisible man.

There have been other disturbing events in my life. One was something I heard when I was working as a door-to-door charity fundraiser in London. I had just finished my Master's Degree and I was desperately looking for work after a series of failed job interviews. I reluctantly took the charity job, which was commission-based and involved late hours (5 p.m. to 9 p.m.). My job was to go door-to-door to solicit for monthly payments towards aid for abused children. I covered a number of routes in Angel, a town in North London. I would usually be equipped with my brochures and direct debit forms for my ventures out into the residential streets. After knocking on the doors and ringing on the door bells along one particular street, I reached a cross-section. In the centre there stood a tall withered tree. As I passed the tree on my way towards the next street, I suddenly felt a presence by my right ear with a distinct female voice that whispered, 'Wait!'

There wasn't a person in sight. There was no wind, nor was there any other sound in the distance. The only thing near me was the tall withered tree. At that point, the average white man would have probably said, 'Hello? Is there anybody out there?' Well, I've got news for you-I'm black . . . so I ran like hell! I don't even remember officially tendering my resignation. I've had a couple of friends who've had similarly spooky experiences. Some told me that what I heard must have been a ghost; others told me it must have been my guardian angel. All I know was that a clear voice told me to wait that day. Was I to wait for a further message from the 'ghost'? Was my guardian angel trying to stop me from ringing the doorbell of a serial killer or a homicidal Nazi? Thankfully, I will never know (Thank you, guardian angel!)