By Tunde Odesola
After a five-week break, I’m back at my desk, thankfully. Where the heck did I go? I went to the Land of Moriah. Tunde tun ti de o; where on planet Earth is the Land of Moriah? Moriah was the land where Abraham, the Father of Faith, took his son, Isaac, and bound him hands and feet, clutching a razor-sharp knife, ready to spill blood by the jugular.
Only a handful of friends and family know I bear Isaac, a name I grew to dislike for a couple of reasons, one of which is that it sounds like I-Sick. Another reason is that the name is utterly unrelatable to me. And, if Jews don’t bear Nigerian names, why should I bear a Jewish name? For me, nothing is special in Isaac; if you gave a rose another name, it would smell just as sweet.
As all Yoruba names, all the variants of Tunde – Babatunde, Awotunde, Oguntunde, Ifatunde, Omotunde, Ayotunde, Olatunde, Yetunde, Iwintunde, Sotunde, Obotunde, etc, carry the weight of family history. The name Tunde connects a symbolic thread between an unpalatable past and a palatable present. I don’t feel Isaac in my core, probably because my father was not 100 years old like Abraham, nor was my mother 90, like Sarah, when I was born. They never laughed in disbelief at my conception and birth. Both expected and got me.
It wasn’t my father who bundled me to the Land of Moriah, it was my children. But instead of binding me by the limbs like Abraham bound Isaac, I was anaesthetised and placed on a slaughter slab where I lay, as dead as a dodo – before I was knifed by the neck. If my description of a hospital bed as a slaughter slab feels like an exaggeration, what else can I call a bed upon which I was placed, while my neck was split halfway? Do I call it a waterbed or a bed of roses?
By the way, how did I become a specimen for Moriah? I’ll explain. About 13 years ago, a little lump, the size of a cashew nut, sprouted under my left jaw. The lump wasn’t as visible as the horn on the head of a rhino, but it was there all the same, tucked out of sight, like the trigger of a gun. Because it wasn’t painful, I adopted a ‘live and let live’ philosophy and let the lump be, even though it grew slightly bigger over time.
After church service, one Sunday, my daughter, Ara, pointed to my neck while we were walking in the car park. “Oh, this?” I asked, feeling the lump, and explaining, “It’s a lump I’ve been carrying since God-knows-when.” She became curious and took a closer look at it. “You need to have a doctor check it out, Baba-T,” she said. “I will,” I promised.
After some weeks of pussyfooting and Ara harassing me, I activated my workplace medical insurance. Then, I shilly-shallied on the hospital I wish to go to. Finally, I picked the hospital of a Nigerian-American general practitioner, who has been in the US for donkey’s years. He asked me question upon question and checked out the lump by feeling and measuring it, explaining that it wasn’t likely to be cancerous because it wasn’t painful; it hadn’t grown much bigger, it wasn’t fixated to surrounding tissue, and because I hadn’t lost weight.
“But we must have it checked out by specialists,” he said. So, he recommended a diagnostic centre to me. After asking me what time and date I preferred, the hospital booked an appointment with the diagnostics centre. “Do not eat from the evening of the day before the appointment,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,” I replied. The diagnostic centre called me a few minutes later to confirm my appointment.
Since way back during my cigarette-smoking, youthful exuberant days, I have loved to wear good perfumes, but Americans are far more perfume-centric than Nigerians. Like their sophisticated ultrasonic aircraft, the nose of an average American can pick up an odour or a scent meters away. So, I arrived diagnostic centre, perfumed and looking like I just stepped out of a magazine.
After the diagnosis, I asked for the result. The medical officer said the result would be sent to my doctor. I insisted on knowing the result, and she assured me there was ‘nothing serious’. Nothing serious? Uhmm.
Because my next appointment with my doctor was for another day, I had to wait, wishing ‘nothing serious’ wasn’t a euphemism for ‘something disastrous’. Punctuality is key in medical appointments; otherwise, you risk being surcharged for a failed appointment. I no fit risk am, money wey never complete.
I was prompt with my next appointment with the doctor. As he swept into the consultation room, I peered into his eyes as though I could read the result on his forehead. He broke into a smile and said all was well. “The results came out fine, but…”
But what? I kept my cool. “You need to be booked for surgery. And another round of tests?” “Why?” I asked. “Because there’s a lump in your salivary gland. Though it is not malignant, it is recommended that you remove it surgically. The head and neck specialist at the hospital I’m recommending for you wants you to do another round of tests because that’s what he personally requires for patients above a certain age.” I silently wondered if I was Methuselah. So, he had me booked for surgery and another series of tests.
Preparing a patient for surgery is like preparing the Oloolu masquerader for a carnival. Talk about the eyes-for-details preparation of the bridal train on wedding eve. The truckload of medical literature about the dos and don’ts of surgery, which the hospital gave me, was enough to earn me a lifetime meal as a fake ENT medical consultant.
I visited the specialist hospital twice before the D-Day. On my first visit, I met the doctor who was to perform the surgery and his entire team. During the meeting, my diagnosis, neoplasm of submandibular lymph nodes, aka pleomorphic adenoma, was explained to me. I asked what the underlying cause was. The doctor said a couple of factors could be responsible, including impact and smoking. Impact? What impact did I have when I didn’t cross the path of Antony Joshua or Moses Itauma? It must be that smoking! Ha, after quitting smoking for more than 25 years and washing myself with hyssop, a guilt of smoke still hid in my gland?
The second time I visited, the procedure was again explained to me in the tone of Angel Gabriel talking to Virgin Mary. Every member of the team was patient with patient Isaac. I remember I was given an antiseptic ointment with which to wash the area the night before and on the morning of the surgery.
Before now, I’ve never had surgery. Only twice have I ever gone to the hospital for treatment. That was the afternoon when one of my kindergarten siblings was running after his ball. The ball strolled over to the dining area from the sitting room. I was eating when the ball came my way, and I decided to show the little man some Jay-Jay Okocha skills.
Swiftly, I abandoned my food on that hot afternoon, and picked the ball up with my right foot, juggled it to my left foot, then to my right, and my left, right, left-right, left-right, moving from the dining to the sitting room, left-right. Still juggling, I looked up, saw the balcony, and decided to make it my final port of destination. The balcony had two sliding doors with transparent glass. With an eye on the ball, I kept juggling and moving towards the balcony. As I made to step onto the balcony, the ball was going to fall off my foot, so I called my thigh to the rescue. I thrust my knee forward to steady the ball back into juggling position, shattering the transparent glass door, which I thought was unlocked. Salem Specialist Hospital, Orile Agege, here I come. Even Lionel Messi never sustained this type of bloody injury.
The other time I got admitted to a hospital was when I had a decaying molar extracted. So, I looked forward to my appointment with confidence in the American healthcare system, but not without the occasional thought of ‘if’. I shared my inheritance among my children and told them to bury me with my Digger video game and Barcelona hat. “Baba-T, don’t start,” they chorused.
My son, whose nickname is Prof, was behind the wheel, Ara sat at the back, while I sat beside Prof, on the way to the Land of Moariah. At Moriah, my blood pressure was checked. It was unusually high. Abi, Baba-T dey fear ni?, Ara and Prof teased me. I said it probably was because I didn’t sleep enough as I read late into the night.
We were ushered into a private room, where various medical officials took turns to explain the various steps of the surgery. I was placed on a bed and given a clean hospital robe, a pair of socks, gloves, blankets, etc, and a transparent bag to put my belongings. I put my clothes in the bag, but opted to give my phone to Ara.
A male official came in, strapped me, and wheeled me out to the theatre. This was after a female official had come to explain all the injections and medicines I would be given and all their side effects.
In the white theatre that looked like a ball of floating cotton, doctors began to explain to me the procedure. I wanted to shout, “E don do!” But I kept my cool. “Are you comfortable with the pillows. I can get you smaller ones? You can have your shoes on if you wish. Is the air ok for you?…” Finally, a mask distended from a machine above. A doctor fixed it to my mouth and told me to inhale through my mouth. It felt like methylated spirit in my throat. I breathed in about four, five times, and my eyes felt heavy. I closed them.
After some time, I opened my eyes. It was another room. Why? “When am I having the surgery?” I asked. “It has been done. You’ve been here for more than four hours.” “Four hours?” “Yes.” “Are you ready to go home now?” “Yes.”
So, the anesthesiologist wheeled me to the room where I was prepared for the surgery. Ara and Prof were waiting. Their sibling, nicknamed Ixy, had to go back home because the hospital could take only two relatives per patient.
Another round of explanatory dos and don’ts began. She told me I was catheterised at the neck to take post-surgery drains. She also told me how to measure and record the drains, and how to clean the spot. “If you feel very uncomfortable after taking your meds, call 911, please,” she said.
My blood pressure was measured. It was still high. Quite unusual. Kilode? 150/90. They kept me for a little while, hoping to check if it would decline or continue to rise. Then, one of the medical staff asked if I wanted to pee, because holding back urine could make blood pressure rise. To her question, I said ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I said yes, because I’m pressed, but no, because my children would accuse me of being a jelly.
We all laughed. I made to get up and walk to the bathroom. I staggered. A female nurse offered to go with me. I declined, but she followed on my heels. I came back and changed into my clothes, ready to leave.
“You will be put in a wheelchair, sir,” the female nurse said. “Ha, why put me in a wheelchair when I walked by myself to and from the bathroom?” I protested. “That is the standard practice here, sir; no surgery patient walks out of the hospital,” she said, smiling.
So, a wheelchair was brought, and I sat myself in it as the nurse pushed me through the hallway of the expansive hospital to the car park. The hand gloves, sanitisers, gauze, bandages, med cups, etc, I was given were enough to open a pharmaceutical shop.
On September 17, my classmate at Abia State University, Maurice Uzoma Ogbonna, called me around 4 a.m. I was asleep. When I woke up, I returned his call. Maurice was born funny. He could have been the Gbenga Adeboye of Igboland. But on this day, Maurice’s voice was low. I asked him, “What happened to your voice, ewu? Are you in a meeting?”
I had to ask where his voice went because if Maurice called you, be ready for jocular harassment and intimidation. He would say, “I no sabi why God make my path with una cross. Na una; you, Oghuehi Dike and Maurice Okeke, teach me all the bad things wey I know for dis world.”
Still talking in a low voice, Maurice continued, “I have been promoted as Cross River State NDLEA Commander. Shebi Femi Babafemi na your man?” “Yes, Femi Babafemi na my man. He’s the director in charge of media,” I said. “I go need am at the head office,” Maurice said. “I’m driving now. More so, I don’t need to call Femi Babafemi to introduce you to him. He’s a jolly good fellow, just call him and say you’re from me,” I said. “Ok, I go call am.”
Because Maurice’s elder brother, Emmanuel, who had joined the NDLEA much earlier than Maurice, died prematurely in service, I rained prayers on Maurice over his new position. I prayed and prayed for Maurice. That was about 7:10 pm Nigerian time.
I concluded by saying, “I will not abuse you today. I no go flog a man wey im hand dey tied. When you finish your meeting, call me, make I abuse you well, well, ewu.”
The next day, I woke up to a text from another classmate, Joe Ugwokaegbe, saying, “Mr T, very bad news. Got a message not long ago from a friend in Cross River that Maurice Ogbonna died this morning in his hotel room.”
Must be a joke, I muttered to myself as I put a call across to NDLEA spokesperson, Femi Babafemi. “I am still in shock, Tunde. This was a commander who called me last night, introducing himself as your friend. I spoke with him around 9 pm. Someone spoke with him after that, and the person noticed he was sounding well. I’m devastated, Tunde. He was promoted and posted to Cross River exactly one month ago,” Babafemi lamented.
A few days later, Babafemi told me that the result of Maurice’s autopsy was still being awaited, adding that the Cross River Police Command was still investigating the death.
I’m still in shock to write a tribute for Maurice yet. As an undergraduate, Maurice, whose father was a police officer, was disciplined, diligent, studious, forthright, amiable and kind. Together with Dike Oghuehi and Maurice Ogbonna, the trio ceaselessly bought me food and cigarettes when funds took a long time coming from my parents in Lagos.
Maurice is gone with his bag of love and humour. An Iroko has fallen! Mbaise is mourning. The ABSU Alumni of English Language and Literature Students (ELSA) are in tears. May his beautiful soul rest in peace. May the Lord take care of his wife and children. Too sad, I won’t see my Moore, my Mbe, my paddy again. Death has made another mistake.
Written by Tunde Odesola and published in The PUNCH, on Friday, October 3, 2025.
Email: tundeodes2003@yahoo.com
Facebook: @Tunde Odesola
X: @Tunde_Odesola
