sure you’re prepared if…” His voice trails off.
“He’s a patient, Tade.”
“I know, I know. But there’s no shame in caring about another human being’s fate.”
He touches my shoulder gently, a gesture of comfort. Muhtar will die eventually, but he won’t die in a pool of his own blood and he won’t be devoured by the saltwater crabs that thrive in the water below the third mainland bridge. His family will know his fate. Tade’s warm hand lingers on my shoulder, and I lean into it.
“On a more positive note, rumor has it you are going to be promoted to head nurse!” he tells me, abruptly removing his hand. It’s not a huge surprise; the post has been vacant for some time and who else could fill it? Yinka? I’m much more concerned with the hand that no longer lingers on my shoulder.
“Great,” I say, because that is what he’d expect me to say.
“When you get it, we will celebrate.”
“Cool.” I hope I sound nonchalant.
SONG
Tade has the smallest office of all the doctors, but I have never heard him complain. If it has even occurred to him that it may be unjust, he doesn’t show it.
But today, the size of his office works to our advantage. At the sight of the needle, the little girl bolts for the door. Her legs are short, so she doesn’t get far. Her mother grabs her.
“No!” cries the girl, kicking and scratching. She is like a wild chicken. Her mother grits her teeth and bears the pain. I wonder if this was what she imagined when she was posing for her pregnancy photo shoot and making merry at the baby shower.
Tade dips his hand into the bowl of candy he keeps on his desk for his child patients, but she smacks away the proffered lollipop. His smile does not falter; he begins to sing. His voice fills up the room, submerging my brain. Everything stills. The child pauses, confused. She looks up at her mother, who is transfixed by the voice too. It doesn’t matter that he sings “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” We still have goosebumps. Is there anything more beautiful than a man with a voice like an ocean?
I am standing beside the window, and I look down to see a group of people gathered, peering up and pointing. Tade rarely puts on the air conditioner and his window is usually open. He told me he likes to hear Lagos while he works—the never-ending car horns, the shouts of hawkers and tires screeching on the road. Now Lagos listens to him.
The little girl sniffs, and wipes away her mucus with the back of her hand. She waddles toward him. When she is older, she will remember him as her first love. She will think of how perfect his crooked nose was, and how soulful his eyes. But even if she forgets his face, his voice will stay with her in her dreams.
He scoops her into his arms and dries her tears with a tissue. He looks up at me expectantly and I shake myself out of my reverie. She doesn’t notice as I approach her with the needle. She doesn’t budge as I wipe her thigh with an alcohol swab. She tries to join him in song, her voice broken by the occasional sniff and hiccup. Her mother twists her wedding ring with her finger, as though contemplating taking it off. I consider passing her a tissue to catch the drool that threatens to spill from her mouth.
The little girl flinches as I inject the drug into her, but Tade’s grip on her is firm. It’s all over.
“Aren’t you a brave girl?” he says to her. She beams and this time is willing to collect her prize, a cherry-flavored lollipop.
“You are so good with kids,” her mother coos. “Do you have any of your own?”
“No, I don’t. One day, though.” He smiles at her, showing off his perfect teeth and creasing his eyes. She can be forgiven for believing that this smile is just for her, but it is the smile he gives to everyone. It is the smile he gives to me. She blushes.
“And you are not married?” (Madam, do you want two husbands?)
“No, no, I’m not.”
“I have a sister. She is very—”
“Dr. Otumu, here are the prescriptions.”
Tade looks up at me, confused by my abruptness. Later, he will tell me gently, always gently, that I shouldn’t cut patients off. They come to the hospital for healing and, sometimes, it’s not just