She was a pretty little girl. Although I must admit that her younger sisters were prettier. But there was this thing about her that endeared me to her. Her beautiful smile, her tiny voice, her subtle laughter, it made her all beautiful whenever she visited. As I observed closely, she had always wanted to do the things her younger siblings did.She always wanted to have her hair decorated and parted beautifully with beads, and wear beautiful heel shoes that would make her walking steps look majestic with a tune of elegance.
As a friend to her older cousin, I could sense her longing to look more gorgeous than the present state, but it was almost impossible. Her health keeps degenerating every single minute that passes. She was not allowed to go through the pains of hair do, nor through the stress of having to wear heels or just anything that would strain her because every day seemed like life was going to turn its back on her. She was going through the pain from sickle cell disease. Her parents had been struggling to keep up with unending hospital bills that characterized being in and out of the hospital as experienced frequently.
Each time I visited, the excitement in her voice depicts one of untold stories of perhaps loneliness as a result of the constant attention at the hospital. The first time I met Dami, she looked different from her siblings. Her color, stature and physical appearance. During one of my visits, I had asked my friend if she was the house help, he laughed so loud and replied that she was the first daughter of the family out of four children whose gender were all female.
He also informed me about her health status. When he told me that she was sickle cell, I was engrossed in the feeling of empathy. I felt so sorry and sad that a little girl of her age was going through the excruciating crisis of sickle cell. I began to wish I could do more than just feel sorry towards her. I wished there was a way to take her pain and sadness away. I just wanted her to be happy and do the things she wanted, how she wanted it. To my friend and the family, it was normal, it was something they had to live with.
On a fateful day when I visited, I decided to give her a treat. It was the only way I felt I could make up for not being able to wash away her pains. We went to somewhere nice, I asked what she wanted to eat, she mentioned ice- cream as always with kids, I asked if she was hungry and she said no. I wanted her to be really happy, it was just the much I could do, I insisted she ate rice and some wraps of moi moi. She agreed and I bought two plates, one for me and one for her. We both ate happily while she asked me some questions which included when I would visit again, smiled and told her that I would visit soon. After we had eaten, it was time to go. I bought some extra plates of rice and some ice-cream for her sisters at home. Seeing the laughter and excitement, I felt somewhat fulfilled. I had put a little smile on her face and that was all that mattered.
On our way back home, she said she loved a colorful flip-flop sold by some roadside vendors. I had no choice but to pay. I was happy she finally had something for herself. I was willing to do anything at that moment. She had always worn a flip-flop as a result of an injury sustained on her toe when she fell while playing. The scratch had metamorphosed into something huge, since the injury didn’t heal, she resorted to wearing flip-flops.
Few weeks after I traveled, I called my friend to check up. When I inquired about my little friend, he said she was sick, she had a sudden crisis and was rushed to the hospital. I asked to speak with her, when she was handed the cell phone, she sounded faint. She said she was fine, but I knew she wasn’t. I marveled at how a little girl could put up so much effort in times of pain to say “I am fine”. If only I took the next available bus...
Few days later, I called in to inquire about her from my friend, “She passed on yesterday yesterday” he replied. I froze, goosebumps, tears, pains. The little girl deserved to live. She didn’t suffer all that pain just to die too soon. Thinking back, all I have is the memory of our hangout. It’s a memory I have chosen to treasure.
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