A story of how childhood misfortune situation propelled one to chase a bigger dream.

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Hit the ripe one! Hit the ripe one! exclaimed the stubborn adventurous voice in me. Coupled with my hunger on a hot Saturday afternoon, as my patchy dried lips could no longer be greased by my saliva, and my barefooted wandering about had yielded no result. I sighted this beautiful ripe mango, defying gravity as it hanged on the biggest tree that gave shade to passersby and family or friends who waited fervently for visiting hours to enter in to the Suleimana memorial hospital.

The Suleimana memorial hospital was the most beautiful edifice in my community. From the perfect foundation laid to the beautiful brown bricked wall that was raised on it. This hospital stood like a behemoth with dazzling glass windows and the automated doors that freed you from the burden of moving your hand to and fro, in your attempt at opening and closing it. Their staff were well-dressed and they always wore an infectious smile that seemed to rub on non-staff who returned from the hospital premises, as if smiling was their prescribed medication. The big mango tree which added to the beauty of this hospital had well-dressed lawn that carpeted the floor it stood upon, giving it an appearance that I can only summon through imagination.

Like Adam to his Apple, the ripe mango was to me a force to reckon with. I never read the Bible but the divinity of David’s shot towards Goliath is something that I have heard many times. I believed I had that divine shots too because I always had a perfect shot at my target. Though unlike David, I never used a catapult but threw stones with my bare hands. I remember breaking my late sister’s tooth with a stone as tiny as the tip of my little index finger. She was about 15 feet away from me but I got to hit the target with an unerring accuracy which got me the nickname “desperado” by my friends which was from a movie starred by Antonio Banderas. He was the protagonist in the movie who hardly missed his shots. Sadly, enough, I was the antagonist in the eyes of my mum who made sure that, the night never passed till I received the most gruesome beatings of my life for my actions. If there’s one undoubted truth I can say about African mothers and especially from a traditional town like mine in the northern part of Ghana, it’s that they never spare the rod so the child will spoil.

I picked up a stone from the floor, unbothered about the unintended consequences of what my actions will cause, I stretched my hands and threw the stone and hit the ripe mango. My shot had made the mango to succumb to gravity but unfortunately for me it landed on the head of a nurse who was speaking to the visitors waiting under the shade of the mango tree to enter into the hospital. My soul fled from my body upon seeing what my desperado shot has caused, waiting for my body to join it at home with the speed of light. But before I could have such a rendezvous between body and soul, I was brought into consciousness by a hard knock from a man who was not far from me. I didn’t have time to imagine then, but the knock was so electrifying that all the senses in my body was powered at the highest voltage possible. He held me by the hand and together with the nurse they dragged me in to the hospital. 

I cannot say I have never fallen ill, nor would I say I hated hospitals, but I never wanted to fall ill because of the economic situations at home. Even though sometimes falling ill made you get the best of attention akin to those you see given to rich kids, I cared about the economic situation of my home. But I’m finally entering Suleimana memorial hospital, not as a patient but as a boy who followed a ripe mango that defied gravity, and who heeded to his adventurous nature, and lastly wanted to wet his dried lips with the juice of a mango. While I was still in that electrifying shock from that hard knock, some spanks followed suit on my tiny behind, which was dried and dirty as an evidence of me aimlessly wandering about. But was it really aimless? Maybe before I sighted that ripped mango but afterwards I had an aim.  I was made to kneel down in the corridor of the hospital with my hands raised high to the skies like I’m about to sing a confession song, though the only confession song I knew was “I’m hungry” because my stomach mattered to me a lot. I had tears rolling out of my eyes, not because of my punishment, but because the mango was still lying outside on the ground. And who knows? Maybe some boy is reaping my spoils of war after I had sacrificed my skill and body to prove that Newton was right after all, for a body at rest was made to move in a direction determined by an external force.

To kneel as a form of punishment was something I had grown accustomed to, as in many instances, I resorted to it before it was asked of me whenever I did something wrong. In my punishment posture, the sight of patients with the trouble that smeared their faces, worries in their heart that has been translated on their faces and the evidence of sickness on their bodies stole my thought away from the loss of my mango. I began to feel their pain and imagined their economic situations. I saw Abu’s mother who I knew my family can fend for despite being poor. I was sad, but one good thing about the hospital was that, they offered care on credit for the needy and sometimes waive their bills for them. Sun rays from my left side became bigger which indicated that the door was being opened. I realized the smiles on nurses and some of the patients. It was as if the sun carried a healing elixir that has been consumed by the people in the hospital. But it was the sight of doctor Amadu.

My first time to see a magazine was when I was sent to buy food from a vendor near a restaurant. There was this man sitting quietly and looking inside this well decorated pamphlet. My curious nature drew me close to him and I peeped in the book he was sternly looking at. I didn’t know who a model was then but the neatly dressed men I saw in the book made me desired to be like them one day. Doctor Amadu was not only a doctor but had an impeccable appearance. He was about 6 feet tall, with a broad chest and well-built shoulders like that of an athlete. He always wore a smile and his cotton-white teeth would make you want to brush all the time. He was more charming than the men I saw in that magazine. But I was curious beyond his charming personality, how come the nurses and patients all of sudden got submerged in a pool of smiles. I realized he attended to everyone with kindness, had the patience to look through their problems, give prescriptions and brought some chocolates for the child-patients and finally he carried along his infectious smile all the time. I realized almost all the patients wanted to be attended to by Doctor Amadu. He had that golden touch which was like a placebo. Patients get well when they get to meet him, and those recuperating were powered by the hope he offers them.

Dreams were something I know of when I was asleep. And I was told the scarier ones are called nightmare. As a child I never had nightmares because the reality of my life was enough a nightmare for me. So I never get bothered about scarier dreams even though I was not immune to fear. I had a dream that day; after seeing the hope, the positive aura that the personality of doctor Amadu gave to the atmosphere in the hospital. I dreamed of being like doctor Amadu. I wanted to inspire hope, I wanted to infect people with happiness and I wanted to be someone who saves lives. From that day, that was all that filled my soul and body. I lost a mango but I surely found a dream to live up to.

The End

By Hamza Ayub

From: Ghana

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