short story ....and he died

NAME: Umar Uba

SHORT STORY


Title… And he died.

I grew up in a matrimonial home where my father was married to three wives. I am the only son of the second wife and the second son of my father with oldest being a female … now housewife.
I am a few months older than my next-of-kin in the family of fifteen. He was the only one who doesn’t respect my age. He sometimes claimed being my senior. I always been cautioned by my mother to remain softhearted and never succumb to his aggressiveness. I headed her advice and never want to fight him at this age.
We are both married. Having more kids than him and living with our parents made it compulsory for him to see me anytime he come in.
I took interest in his two kids and made them homely and friendly. They waved and smile each time they saw me – may be just to make him happy towards me.
He hardly come home, even if he did he remained as quiet and disrespectful as possible to all, especially, to our father and the rest of his wives. This attitude kept on burning in him.
One day I was home in the morning as always. After finishing the daily chores of regards to everyone in the house, my mother told me that my brother was in his mothers’ room, he was not feeling fine. I peeped into the room and wished him well.
He began to come home often and almost spending the whole day indoors. I then asked myself, “What is keeping him home”. Days went bye. He began to sleep in his younger brothers’ room. My mother asked me another day “Have you been greeting him?” ‘Who’. I asked, “Your brother he has been home for the past few days”. She replied I then wondered again how sick he should be to allow himself to leave his family in the next village and come home and stay. His kids and wife visited him regularly. The kids at time would past the night in my house, which is the next block from the families. The wife being a working mother always slept in their one room rented apartment.
He began to loose weight and strength resisting all application. No information was communicated to me as to what sickness he was suffering from except as describe a common but deadly, incurable sickness (pile) that was being taken care of by local medication. A local physician also attends to him – I don’t known on what prescription/he received several pints of intravenal water along with extra medications. His mother and other relatives brought all sorts of local medications to aid his health.
The situation continued to worsen. He hardly could walk without a stick. He lost weight. He hardly could say exactly what he wanted to say each time he attempted speaking. He spent the whole day lying, perhaps, not sleeping but that was the only option he had. His mother really endeavoured to keep him neat. He lied side by side with our aged, sick father under a shade in front of the house. Sometimes he’s being mistaken for the father.
Life became so terrible for him and to us he was staying with. I continued to offer the minimum assistance I could especially to the kids or through them.
Weeks went bye. I began to lose hope in his recovery.
Everyone in the village was refusing to talk on the sickness in our (relatives) presence. So did I. One day I was lying down with my wife late at night discussing the sickness. She mentioned that people in the village were suspecting that he was suffering from HIV/AIDS, so everyone was just waiting for his death. That was the end of our discussion that night. I refuse to comment on that suspicion.
I began to phone our other kins that they must come home and see him because he was dying. When we had a full house it was agreed that he be taken back to hospital. The doctor recommended three pints of blood immediately before any further treatment. We settled the bill and came back home, all of us hiding what many believe he was really suffering from.
The third pint could not get into him the second day … and he died.