The complete story of how my mother traversed lands unknown to her to make sure I walked again might be told another day. Suffice it now to say that she heard of one hospital in Lagos called Orthopedic Hospital, Igbobi. Then, without much money, without learning; like the three wise men seeking baby Jesus, she resiliently sought out that hospital.
She slept in the open grounds of ‘Igbobi’ while she waited for the date of my scheduled surgery. Finally it came, I took the surgery and it seemed a success. But the civil war broke out and my mother had to flee home, east. That is how, without discharge and follow up, and with ‘plaster of paris’ still on my limbs, we fled east for reason of the war; to escape the genocide targeted at the Igbos whom we are.
Back in the village, my mother’s struggle for me seemed to have paid off. Some measure of life was restored to my legs and I began playing around again, still wearing the P.O.P.
I waded in ponds and marched any and every where till the P.O.P got tattered and fell off by itself. Who knew any better to guide or stop me? It was by sheer providence that my wound was not infected.
My legs healed and, releasing me from the P.O.P, I was left to myself without physiotherapy or any form of management. My feet began to twist and take the shape of the bends as I walked without guidance or aid. In the village, back then, I suppose no one around me knew any better. The later disfigurement set in.
The vaccine of Albert Sabin was probably not yet available in my country to come to my rescue. Or, if it was, the people in government were too busy trying to kill off their assumed enemies to care about the future of a little innocent child.
She slept in the open grounds of ‘Igbobi’ while she waited for the date of my scheduled surgery. Finally it came, I took the surgery and it seemed a success. But the civil war broke out and my mother had to flee home, east. That is how, without discharge and follow up, and with ‘plaster of paris’ still on my limbs, we fled east for reason of the war; to escape the genocide targeted at the Igbos whom we are.
Back in the village, my mother’s struggle for me seemed to have paid off. Some measure of life was restored to my legs and I began playing around again, still wearing the P.O.P.
I waded in ponds and marched any and every where till the P.O.P got tattered and fell off by itself. Who knew any better to guide or stop me? It was by sheer providence that my wound was not infected.
My legs healed and, releasing me from the P.O.P, I was left to myself without physiotherapy or any form of management. My feet began to twist and take the shape of the bends as I walked without guidance or aid. In the village, back then, I suppose no one around me knew any better. The later disfigurement set in.
The vaccine of Albert Sabin was probably not yet available in my country to come to my rescue. Or, if it was, the people in government were too busy trying to kill off their assumed enemies to care about the future of a little innocent child.
