All pains are pains but every pain has its painful pivot which knots the centre of the heart. Undergoing a major plastic surgery in Winter was nothing like the pain I had known. Even in a well heated room, I felt the fingers of cold poking into my bandaged sores. My cheeks burned, areas around my upper lips itched, areas around my temples ached and every fibre within me served as an irritant. Billy was calm all through, taking my nagging with humour that mostly left me ashamed. I remember telling him to go to hell for his sins and leave me in mine, he replied “Hell without my Attaa? Gosh that would be the hellest of hells. I will fight Satan tooth and nail and die in that hell where you are”. He was a perfect gentleman, a very cool comforter and the best nurse I had ever had. Although I had a special nurse who was in charge of me, Billy was always there. Even when something required his urgent attention, he’d have them sent through mail or Skype to talk it through. He only left for a day or two when the matter was of security importance and called almost every two hours to check on me.
The physical pain was nothing like the emotional pain. For some reason, I Googled “plastic surgeries gone wrong” and Jocelyn Wildenstein among others filled my screen. I was afraid, devastated, and anxious. The “what ifs” filled my mind making me lose myself in sadness. My mood swings fluctuated like Nigeria’s power outages at its worst times. I was complete wreck. One minute I was in a deep melancholy, sitting and staring blankly into space, another minute I was crying like my life depended on it, another minute I was pessimistically surfing the net for all that could go wrong, another minute I thought of my blessings in being able to outsmart my chasers, another minute Ntwanu was looking for me in my mind, another minute I blamed myself for not being loyal to my saviour, one who had seen me through all that I had gone through. It was a bad state to be in. After three weeks of ingesting supplements including Vitamin C and other pain killers, Dr. Grashem came to take off the bandages. Even a minute to that, my anxiety made me vomit in anticipation.
One bandage after the other and Billy looked at me with countenances that sunk what was left of my soul. “Is this normal?” Billy asked. The Dr. was sure that it was normal. I begged for a mirror to see for myself. That was when I saw the swollen parts of my face with all the bruises that looked like a battered boxer after meeting a cruel contender. I nearly passed out until the Dr. told me it was a normal healing process. He cleaned my face, gave me some more injections, smeared some balm on it and bandaged it again telling me he’d be back in two weeks. Truth be told, the pain had subsided but I still felt too sore to engage in sexual activity. What was worse, I couldn’t imagine myself as I saw in the mirror, making love to Billy. It was too shameful that I locked myself in the bathroom afterwards, causing Billy to sleep in front of the door until I was ready to come out, eight hours later. I felt stupid after seeing his posture. I learnt about his patience and maturity with each passing day. He could have ordered for the door to be broken down, chosen to chastise me in the most authoritative way to make me feel worthless, but he just opened his eyes, got up, held me in his embrace for over a minute and asked if there was something I needed to eat or drink. He never for once asked or suggested even in manner, for sexual activity. It made me respect him more but a part of me also felt he may feel I was too shameful to touch. Anytime I felt like the latter, I acted rude towards him but he never for once complained.
Billy continuously assured me that all would be alright because he was going to ensure that. I noticed so many things in that house. There was an ultra-modern cinema, a nice swimming pool, a very well maintained gym, and a meditation garden only filled with scented flowers of different colours and just one comfortable sofa. I had everything to help me heal but every healing thickened my cruelty. I felt the world had failed me, the world which lived in classification of beings through birth, monies, gender, cognitive blessings and talents. The world in whose cruel hands I fell, culminating in my quest to be better and hence choosing the worst paths, the world where no good comes out right in a bad field, the world which only spanked the needy even in the same pot of the wealthy, writing “outcast” on foreheads of poverty. I felt angry, pained and ugly from within. Instead of repentance which I felt was one of the arbitrary doctrines to subdue Christians, I felt determined to do more in order to feel better. Suddenly, I had reason to hate instead of love. For those who had been good to me seem too few as against monsters in my chase.
I couldn’t wait to completely heal, I couldn’t wait to completely deceive, I couldn’t wait to completely face my enemies on a battlefield of anonymousness. By Jove, I felt like the murderer the world carved with torture, and I couldn’t wait to work my part.
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia © July 2018
Photo Credit: Google Pics