CANCER

They had told me of her condition,

But her condition was beyond telling,

I paid a visit, nervous at the sound

Of my own feet,

Trembling at the beating

Of my own heart,

Unable to imagine what I would see

But then, I saw what I saw,

I saw why she took her daughter away

Saving her from the sight of a dying mother

Oh, even as death fangs approach,

A mother’s love radiates,

I had broken down in tears,

I told her, yes – I agree with you

This is hard enough for men,

It is no place for a four year old kid.

Hair, shaved – beyond recognition,

Empty stairs of teary eyes

Well rounded breast, rendered useless

Flattened by sickness, pain and sorrow

A once beautiful woman, lay stricken

Paralyzed, from spine to brain

And the cancer festers, lingers,

With no hope of ever going away,

 THE STORY

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An Indian poet (name forgotten) dropped a comment on a certain poem of mine. He said “Mitterand, you seem to always try to intelligently paint a picture of sadness”. Of course, his point was that poetry should always be used to paint pictures of beauty. I didn’t agree with him, but in practice I began to be more positive with poetry. Unfortunately, life is not only about beauty, and I wish I didn’t have to write about sadness. But that is what I won’t do, I will refuse to forget that sadness is real, and that poetry can actually be the only way out of such depressing thoughts. I find it funny, not even ironic; that when I’m sad I write poems – sad poems – and then the sadness starts going away. I call it poeterapy!

Sunday, 30 June, I visited a family friend. I knew she had breast cancer but was shocked how her situation deteriorated so fast. A combination of bad treatment and bad luck meant that she was soon condemned to a state of paralysis – unable to move any part of her body by her own self. The moment I walked into her home, saw her lying on the couch – comforted by her mother, my head began to hurt, I had never in my life found myself consumed by such depression – devastating and holistic. I asked her about her beautiful four years old daughter, she told me, she was at a friend’s. Oh a mother’s love!

3 months ago, a teenage child of a very rich man had molested the little girl. Soon enough, the girl confided in her mother and let her know. On the day she went to the house of the boy’s father, the man wasn’t around, and the teenage boy had returned to boarding school. Yet, this man, on getting home to the story, refused to call or seek out the woman who had come to her house earlier in the day. After a week, she told me she was going to call the police, I told her: ‘No, I have a lawyer friend who can serve the rich fool and his pernicious son the court documents, and in case you were bordered about the legal fees: don’t worry, I’ll sort it out with him’. She refused, she wanted immediate solutions. In Nigeria, the police is often faster in delivering justice than the court, even though serving justice is by no means a police duty. Suffice it to say that during this period she was overdosing on some energy drugs to be able to go through all those stress as a cancer patient, drugs, I heard, were responsible for her situation getting so speedily bad. She told me, ‘Mitte, don’t worry about me, Cynthia is my daughter. I know I have cancer, but I am not dying, please allow me handle it my way.’ 

I was so touched at this woman’s level of determination, and true to her word, she made the rich man come begging, embarrassed at the deeds of his mischievous son. Remembering all these made it even more difficult to believe she’s lying helpless on the couch; eyes full of emptiness, breathing through a heart were hope doesn’t live anymore. At least, she was strong, for her daughter, for herself. She stood her ground, from the slab of her lowly place, she pulled down a rich goon from his high horse, humanity will remember her as a woman who confronted evil, and prevailed. Maybe in time, death will prevail over her, but I will, we will remember, that a fearless woman was once here, and no amount of cancer can take that away.

I left, drove off – with this entire episode echoing in my head, holding back tears and emotions. I couldn’t afford to lose control on such busy motorway, but I was sure that emotionally, I was about to have a bad week. Writing was this was the only way out.