Introducing our first place winning submission for the Angie Courage Award
I’m not Cursed. Just Help!
“You shouldn’t hold wood like that, Ene,” Mama’s words flash through my mind as I watch her drag her feet away from our half built house. I can still see the strands of hair that Aunty Evelyn began losing before she passed away six months ago. Now, Mama’s hair is falling too. Were we really cursed, like Mama Tobi claimed?
Evenings at Awo-Kajola were filled with the beauty of the moon and Mama’s nightly stories, shared after our simple meal of garri and water. But since Aunty Evelyn’s death, the stories have stopped. Papa, as usual, has gone to Mama Tobi’s joint, spending what little money we had from the farm.
The thought of Aunty Evelyn’s death keeps haunting me. What really killed her?
The next day, I dropped Blessing at school. I make my way to the Rural Health Hub, the closest thing we have to a clinic. Aunty Funke, the clinician, greets me with gloves on her hands. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your junior WAEC?” she asks when I tell her about the questions racing through my mind.
“I want to know,” I insist, filling my eyes with unwanted tears. “Is Mama going to die like Aunty Evelyn?”
Aunty Funke offers me a seat, trying to calm me down. “I couldn’t figure out exactly what killed your aunty. It was likely a chronic disease, maybe cervical cancer, vaginal cancer, or even hepatitis. Not a curse, like most people say.”
I’m stunned. “What’s cervisha… cancer?” I stumble over the unfamiliar word.
“It’s a serious illness,” she explains, patting my fingers gently. Seeing the fear on my face, she adds, “How about this — bring your mother and little sister tomorrow, and we’ll run some tests to make sure everyone is safe.”
The next day, I return to the clinic, with Blessing clinging to my side and Mama lying patiently on a stretcher. As the nurse prepares for the tests, Mama starts telling the story of Aunty Evelyn’s struggle at the hospital in Owo. “They said it was cervical cancer — something in her private part,” Mama says quietly.
I mutter, “Does Mama have the cervisha cancer?”
“Well, let’s find out,” Aunty Funke replies with a kind smile. She brought out a tube with a cotton bud on it and took mama inside the private room. “I will need to send this to our hospital in Akure,” she said when they reappeared.
A few days later, the results came back. “It’s stage three,” the clinician says. Panic hits me like a flood. “Is she going to die?” I cry out.
“She will be with us for as long as she can,” Aunty Funke reassures me, “and we’ll vaccinate Blessing and you against HPV so you stay safe.”
“Long enough to be at my graduation and wedding?,” I whisper amid my tears, scared of a future without Mama. “What can we do, Aunty Funke?”
“This happens too often in communities like Awo-Kajola,” Aunty Funke says, after minutes of trying to pacify me.
“People go unscreened, and by the time they know they’re sick, it’s too late. That’s why we need more clinics, more screenings, and more vaccines. This is what Pioneer Medical Initiative, my employer, is doing— they help bring healthcare to rural areas like ours, so no one has to wait until it’s too late.
Every day, I teach our people about these diseases. We are not cursed, it’s just healthcare inequity that makes these vaccine preventable diseases an everyday nightmare for us. I really hope we find enough resources and partners to end these deadly diseases in our community” she concludes as she hugs me tightly.
