AIR CLINIC WRITING CONTEST: AT MY DEATH END

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As I heard the morning cockcrow, I remembered the night before. My eyes, mouth and heart had not had enough sleep for days. The top of my chest now looked red like a fire brimstone due to the consistent cough and spitting of thick reddish liquid . My hands could barely hold a cup, they are completely wiped out....their strength and purpose clog unto the perfect instincts of survival.

This predicaments are mine. My AFRICAN self has always follow this cliche " diseases no dey kill Africa man" . I have dwell on this right from the outset of my early life so why should I change now...my fore-fathers are steadily behind me-this I always emphasised. This illness actually started like a drop to water. My timid self first thought that it was one of those silly and temporal cough that would just stay for a day or two so I persisted on self prescription of paradol , anti- malaria drug and typhoid....and lastly, my herbal- ogogoro(hard local gin) which I take every morning and evening.

I have been on this bed for an hour or two with the intense contemplation of getting down but my mind and body couldn't... I haven't eaten much in days. I have completely lost the appetite to even try. Cough!, Cough!!, Cough!!! ....here I go again. My God!... I m at my end. No help or assistance from no where. My mom and my siblings were totally done with me. My self- medication has always been a bone of contention between my mom and I. She did promise to never render her help whenever I fall into one of those deep sickness of mine. I can't blame anyone. My stubbornness is a disease that could keep even a patient doctor at arms-lenght.

I gathered myself up, put on some cloths on and off I went to the government clinic. The doctor took a look at me as she said...this could be tuberculosis....my eyes and mouth could barely reject this claim. Go inside and take a seat, she said in pity.