The
life of a sickle cell victim is one characterised by pain and anguish. The joy
of a new born baby dies away when the diagnosis returns as SS. Then the
struggle to keep away the inevitable begins. It’s like running round a circle
while being chased by a demon. You don’t ever seem to get away. The cycle
becomes a routine, the routine a life style. In and out of hospitals, drug
prescriptions, church programmes, prayers, fasting become the life style of a mum
with a sickle cell child. For her, she feels the burning desire to erase the
consequences of her carelessness….
Most
times, it’s a tragic end to a young promising life. The parents of a dead
sickle cell child continue life with hearts full of guilt for not making the
right decisions and preventing the terrible experience of burying the fruits of
her womb.
For
Alhaja Asiata Adupe Onikoyi Laguda, the story is different. Asiata is 91 years
old and living with sickle cell. She is the oldest living sickle cell
individual. Still strong and agile, Asiata is proof that miracles do happen.
Born in a time when there was no immunisation, blood screening or real
diagnosis, one would think Asiata would not make it past five years on earth.
Somehow,
she stayed strong through the agony and lived to a ripe old age of 91, a figure
the healthiest of us all may only dream of.
We
celebrate with Asiata as she turns 91 wishing her many more years on earth.
Asiata
s story touches me deeply because I grew up knowing what it means to be a
‘sickler’. Being the only AA child of my mum and dad and watching my mum tend
to my ‘SS’ brother till his last days, I knew I had dodged a bullet. I can
remember days my brother will lay down on the couch, groaning and crying
because of the pains he felt in his joints.
On
that fateful morning, I was in Uni in Port Harcourt when my phone rang it was
my cousin, Queen. She said “Ify, your mummy don call u?” I said “no, why?”
She
quickly said it was nothing and she only wanted me to give her my mum’s number.
Queen
never calls me so I wasn’t very comfortable with the reason she gave for the
call. Oh well, I let it go, sent her a text of my mum s number and strolled to
my friend’s room just two doors away to chat.
Some
minutes past and my phone rang again. This time it was my dad. I picked.
“Ify”
he said. I noticed his trembling voice.
I
whispered a “yes sir”.
“Is
like you will come home” he continued “your brother Amara is not very okay”
He
need not say more. I knew my brother had died.
The
next day I got on the morning bus to Sapele to join my family to mourn
It
was March 2013.
RIP
Amara Kingsley Okoro.
Forever
in our hearts
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