Unsung Heroes

It is a hot Monday morning and the out-patient clinic is busy as usual.  The crowd is restless and the air, humid. The blades of the ceiling fan rotating, further pushes the stiff, pregnant air unto the faces of the distressed patients. Sweat glistens on their foreheads and slides down their faces like twin rivers, […]

It is a hot Monday morning and the out-patient clinic is busy as usual.  The crowd is restless and the air, humid. The blades of the ceiling fan rotating, further pushes the stiff, pregnant air unto the faces of the distressed patients. Sweat glistens on their foreheads and slides down their faces like twin rivers, leaving whitish streaks as it descends. The atmosphere is that of despair.

Welcome to The General Out-Patient Department (GOPD).

On this day, however, underneath the gloom is another emotion lurking in our hearts. It is there, I can smell it. The uncertainty, the dread, the fear of the unknown. Patients and health care providers are hesitant, on edge, and easily provoked. Everywhere is chaos as we attempt to control the crowds and arrange them in a single file. Each of the almost three hundred patients seen in the morning alone, is made to wash their hands from a make-shift tap attached to a bucket. The dirty water is collected in a basin and disposed of in gutters. Instructions on where to sit and maintaining appropriate distance are announced repeatedly through a microphone which the patients ignore. In the light of day, our inadequacies are glaring for all to see. There are not enough security guards to control the crowd and the hand sanitizers are not enough to go around. We are grossly understaffed and starved of space. It is not a pretty sight.

Panic, is the emotion we feel. As we go out in the mornings, each of us says a prayer of protection against the known and the unknown. Panic is what I see in the eyes of the doctors and nurses. Will this be the day I contact COVID-19? How often do I wash my hands? Is my mask worn properly? Am I putting my family at risk? Are these latex gloves appropriate? Will I recover? Or will I be one of the statistics of this dreaded pandemic?

The media bombards us every day with figures of the people who have lost their lives. More than 10 Italian doctors have died from the virus by just doing their jobs. Hundreds die, each day, while rendering essential services because the country cannot do without them. The garbage men, the cashiers at the supermarkets and yes, the healthcare professionals.

The first time I saw my payslip as a house officer, my senses received a rude shock. In Nigeria, a uniform rate of N5,000 is what is allocated as “Hazard Allowance”. Doctors, nurses and laboratory staff alike, receive a paltry sum of N5000 for being exposed to deadly diseases. And it has been so for more than 12 years! Complaints of this gross injustice, are met with statements like ‘You chose the profession, after all, you saw Sociology and walked away’, ‘This is the price you pay for being a doctor’ or my personal favourite ‘Medicine is a sacrifice, your reward is in heaven’. Sacrifice kill you there! Other doctors around the world, are they not also practicing medicine? Why is their sacrifice worth more than ours? Why does their government take them more seriously? Will they not also receive their reward in heaven? Or will the Nigerian government stage a protest at the gates of heaven, claiming that they have already received their allowances in this world?

All occupations have hazards, depending on the severity. The army are at risk of being killed by terrorists, lawyers are at risk of being blackmailed or even murdered and bankers are at the risk of meeting robbers. Which is why, we need to feel, that the profession is worth it. We need to feel that our country cares about us. We need to feel that we matter, that Nigerian lives matter. Then, and only then, will we see the kind of passion and patriotism exhibited by health workers in Wuhan, China.

Nigeria’s greatest resource, in the face of this pandemic, are her health care workers. From the doctors and nurses who treat the patients, the laboratory personnel who handle the specimens, the public health expert who controls the statistics and helps to control transmission, the records staff who register the patients, down to the cleaners who mop the wards and wipe the hospital surfaces. They are the unsung heroes.

Meanwhile, as the pandemic rages on, we do the best we can. We try to protect ourselves and give each other support. We hide our fears behind our fake smiles and pretend to be in control. We wear our scrubs and our masks. We donate drugs and sanitizers when that of the hospital runs out. We buy buckets from our pockets when the ones the hospital supplies, are not enough. I know of a doctor who bought 100 packs of Ribavirin and distributed them freely to health care workers during the Lassa crisis in Kano. We do the best we can, with the little we have.

One day, it will all be history; until then, we soldier on.