Funny Experience In A Nigerian Hospital

Mid last week, my temperature was running high and
since I am clearly not a fan of hospitals, I thought it
was best to limit myself to the confines of my room
until the sickness disappears but my mom was
having none of that. She dragged me to the hospital.
My first reaction when I got there was "WTH! This is
crowded."
I signed up for a medical consultation and found a
place to sit.
After 3 hours of waiting, the bad tempered nurse at
the reception area called my name.
Thank God, I thought.
Before she let me into the doctor's office, she put me
on a height scale, weight scale and proceeded to
pump my BP.
"Nurse, Its just fever not a modelling audition. Are all
these necessary?" I asked giggling.
She frowned at me and increased the pressure till the
friction numbed my arms. That was her way of telling
me to shut the hell up.
I was not surprised to say the least.
Its no news some Nigerian female nurses are far
from polite. Especially those ones with big buttocks
that are always roaming from ward to ward with a
tray of injections, looking for an innocent patient to
stab.
Like someone said on twitter, its only in Nigeria the
nurses would wake you up from sleep to give you
sleeping pills.
When I got into the examination room, I was
expecting some sort of gadget to be used on me but
everything was done MANUALLY. The doctor even
used his palm to gauge my temperature rather than a
thermometer.
Oshey baddest doctor!!!
"So what is wrong with you?" He asked.
"That is your job doctor. If I knew I wouldn't be
here."
No, that was not my reply. Clearly in Nigerian
hospitals, you are expected to diagnose your
problem in your house so you don't waste the
doctor's time at the hospital.
"Fever." I replied.
For all I know it could be a fever disguising as TB.
God Forbids!
A cancerous fever. God Forbids!
A brain tumour fever. God Forbids!!
Ebola Fever. God Forbids!!!
But no, not in our hospitals. The first rule they
operate in is,
"All facts surrounding a fever must be twisted and
twisted until the final diagnosis reads MALARIA."
Now I made his job easier, he began manipulating my
replies.
"How is it doing you?" He asked.
Na wa o. See question.
I used my palm to massaged my chin for a few
seconds and then I said,
"Its doing me somehow oh."
"You have headache?"
"No"
"Loss of appetite?"
"I guess."
"Cough?"
"No."
"Cold?"
"Small."
He turned to my mom this time. "Madam, she has
malaria!" He exclaimed.
*sigh* As usual. Don't we all?
It seemed he forgot to ask me when last I saw my
period in his line of questions. My heart broke some
years back when a malaria diagnosing doctor threw
the question at a twelve year old Naijasinglegirl.
The only diagnosis these doctors are good at making
are malaria, pregnancy and HIV.
All my life, whenever I go to the hospital, I always
return home with the same malaria declaration after
the doctor has assessed me MANUALLY. Sometimes
when the doctor is in a good mood, he takes my hard
earned blood and upgrades me to typhoid. This is the
reason my dad almost bundled me to a native doctor
when a medical doctor told him the chances of his
fragile 5-year old Naijasinglegirl surviving malaria
were 20:80.
At least native doctors have high-tech equipment like
a calabash for skyping with sango, a speaking mirror
and no-nonsense oracles.
Even when I roll into the hospital from the
expressway with green blood dripping from my nose,
blue mucus dripping from my mouth and down
syndrome attitude, Its still malaria!
Back to our story.
It was time for drug administration. My favourite part
where the doctor gets to clear the shelves of the in-
house pharmacy for me. The closer the drugs are to
their expiration date, the more generous he gets.
Five transparent nylon of drugs were given to me.
First contained several tablets of paracetamol,
second contained those medium size multi vitamins,
third contained more than twenty tiny yellow tablets,
fourth contained a green coloured anti malaria tablets
and the last one, orange vitamic C.
"Take all of it. Directives are on the pack for your
dosage." The doctor commanded.
All ke? He didn't even have conscience.
That was when I gave into a hysterical laughter. I
laughed to the point that I felt the fever leaving me in
annoyance.
When I walked back to the reception, I wanted to
grab a mic to announce to the impatient prospective
patients to return home. After all, their problem is
either pregnancy or malaria.
Finally home, it was time for me to be my own doctor
as usual. I tossed everything into my trashcan
except for my vitamic C which became my hourly
tomtom.
Until our health care system improves, I know what
to do when sickness strikes again.
Migraine : Alabukun powder
Headache : Panadol
Catarhh : Procold
Purging : Flagyl
Boil : Robb
Waist pain : Aboniki balm
Madness : Native doctor
Dislocated bone : Pastor Chris
HIV : Prophet T B Joshua
Hehehehehehehehe