Ugly Chicken
___________
“Why me…” I groan, gingerly getting up from bed. My body is heavy and achy from my recent diagnosis. Falling asleep after I received the news was hard.
One moment I was fine, and the next, I was running a temperature. My joints and muscles were unbearably achy. At first, I thought I was going down with malaria. Only when rashes erupted on my face and small boils appeared on various parts of my body, including my vagina, did I finally make the decision to visit the health center. The contagious illness I never thought I’d get has finally caught up with me. I can’t even figure out how I contracted it.
It’s one thing to know you are sick, and another to know the name of the illness. Don’t bother checking Google, because it can make you believe you’re suffering from cancer when all you have is a headache. Using Google to search for medical answers is often worse than receiving a doctor’s report.
I drag myself out of bed and stumble to the mirror, dreading what I’ll see. Sure enough, I look like a 90s Nollywood ghost, with my face dotted with several itchy red spots.
Initially, I was concerned about my bedding, so I didn’t use the prescribed calamine lotion, only taking the oral medications. However, the itching got worse. I ended up writhing on the bed, crying and grunting like I’ve lost my mind. It took a while for me to calm down. With Linda’s help, I eventually applied the prescribed calamine lotion and fell asleep naked.
The door creaks open, and I know Linda thinks I’m still asleep.
“Fii?” She’s holding a towel, wearing a concerned look. “How are you feeling?” Her voice reflects her worry.
I let out a sigh, rubbing an itching spot on my arm. It’s the alternative to scratching and getting blisters. “I feel like a walking disaster,” I confess, tears I’ve been holding back threaten to spill. “I can’t believe I have chickenpox now, of all times.”
Chickenpox, the unwelcome guest amid my looming exams. I let out a deep sigh, almost crying as prickly sensations tempt me to scratch my skin. Scratching will lead to scars—I don’t want that.
Linda approaches me with the towel, gently laying it on my forehead.
It is wet and so cool on my hot skin.
Yes… this feels so good….“Aww, thank you.” I place my hand on the towel, gently tugging it from her grasp.
“Don’t worry, Fii. We’ll get through this, ehn? I’ll take care of you.” She tries pulling me for a hug, but I wave her off.
Why isn’t she concerned about herself? “I don’t want you to get this. I still think you should go to Ekene’s.”
You need to see me earlier on the call when I was breaking the diagnosis to my parents. They were fully prepared to send G-Ben to come pick me up from school, but I told them not to worry because exams are barely three weeks away. Only when Linda assured them she would take care of me did they agree not to send someone here to take me home.
She scoffs. “It’s fine. I’ve had it before. I’m immune.”
“Hmm.” I shake my head, tears stream down my cheeks without control. People and this superstitious immunity. “I appreciate your help, but—but I don’t want you to… Linda, it’s worse for adults.” I raise my arm to glance at the innocent but evil-looking pimples-like boil.
“It’s fine. I’ll take care of you.”
And she does. For days, Linda tends to my needs, making sure I have plenty of fluids, soothing creams for the itch, and even prepares my meals.
In the midst of all these, Evans sends messages, and I ignore them. I don’t want anyone catching this or seeing me as a Nollywood ghost who needs to check the road before crossing.
Linda stays by my side, keeping me company as I endure the discomfort and frustration of being confined at home during such a crucial time. I thank her every blessed time, finding time to read when I feel sane enough to.
*****
I’m laying in bed, feeling somewhat better, when I hear a knock on the door. Linda goes to answer it, telling me to cover myself.
It’s not like the person would enter the room…
“Are you covered?” Linda asks.
What’s happening? I know she complained about the electrical sockets in the kitchen not working, but our room is not the kitchen. I’m not about to parade myself in front of a technician or scare someone with the way I look.
“Fifi?”
Frantically, I pull my wrapper around me, looking a bit presentable. “Yeah… what—”
To my surprise, Evans walks into the room. Oh God!
The hair on my skin rises up, warmth spreads through me. What is he doing here? Why did he come? Although I’m on my way to recovery, he shouldn’t see me like this. Then there’s that smell.
Despite his concerned look, all I can focus on is the tantalizing aroma of doughnuts that fills the room with his presence. Is hallucination a side effect of chickenpox? Maybe it’s the prescription I’m taking.
Linda appears behind Evans, smiling. Maybe I’m not hallucinating. This is real.
“You’ve not been responding to my messages.” Evans says softly, his eyes scanning my calamine-coated skin draped in one of Mama Gee’s wrappers.
What a beautiful sight I must be!
“Then,” his gaze darts to Linda, “I heard you were sick and wanted to check on you.” He leans forward, stretching what I assume is Iya Selina’s doughnuts in bag. “I got this for you.”
Gah!
I accept the bag, smiling feebly at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Thank you, Evans. I appreciate you coming here. It means a lot to me.”
He nods, his gaze gentle. “Of course, Fifi. I care about you, and I want to be here for you.”
“Thank you. But I don’t think—”
“Don’t worry, I’m immune.”
I start to speak but end up chuckling. “You all are making me wish I had chickenpox when I was little. Because this,” I brush a finger under my nose, sniffling, “this is embarrassing.”
We laugh and they share their chickenpox stories, including funny stories of people they’d heard about.
I observe Evans and his animated gestures, marveling at his personality.
Besides Linda’s support, Evans checks on me every day, bringing thoughtful gifts to lift my spirits. He has revealed a side of himself I hadn’t anticipated, and in doing so, I think he has utterly shattered the walls I had built around my heart.