Maybe I shouldn’t be here. But in spite of everything, I am. I remain weak and delicate. However, I am able to stand once more, bearing witness to the infallible words of the All-Powerful Allah, who said, “No soul can ever die except by Allah’s leave and at a term appointed” (Quran 3: 145).

Everything began on February 19, when I drove myself for an elective surgery at a government hospital in Abuja. The actual procedure was only supposed to take a few minutes, and two days later I was supposed to be back at home. I was informed as much. However, it was not the case.

I have entered and exited the operating room nine times for six major surgeries and three smaller procedures since that fatal Monday morning. I’ve been in the intensive care unit for six days, using catheters to relieve myself and live on oxygen. I can no longer do even basic personal tasks like cleaning myself without the assistance of others. I was reduced to a mere sack of bones after losing twenty kilogrammes in just five months. I had to relearn how to walk because I was left without use of any of my limbs. I have wasted thousands of dollars and millions of naira that I had and that of others. I’ve driven hundreds of km in search of assistance. I’ve got

You may characterise myself as hands-on or even as a fitness enthusiast who is conscious of what she puts into her body and what she consumes. As a result, I rarely needed a hospital. But the doctor had told me that male offspring of prostate cancer patients are more likely to experience the same destiny because my dad passed away from the disease 23 years ago. I had therefore made it a point to include a thorough medical check-up in my yearly routine ever since I turned 40. I was made aware of an enlargement of my prostate a few years ago at one of those regular check-ups. After making this discovery, I registered at an Abuja public health facility and made sure

I knew that all of these appointments were only preventative. However, I was starting to spend more time than I could afford waiting at the hospital. I soon switched to a different hospital that was nearer to my home. It is a government hospital as well, but it also contains a private wing with greater costs for quicker services and consultations. This arrangement, I felt, worked better for me. I was given a personal consultant urologist. In the hospital, I also saw a nephrologist. The urologist began to sound the alarm, though, despite the nephrologist’s constant assurances that everything was OK. He once warned me that my enlarged prostate would start to harm my kidney if we didn’t take immediate action.

Since he was the expert, I gave in to his pressure and consented to the procedure. That proved to be a very costly error. However, it was only with terrifying hindsight that I became wiser. As my prostate test result indicated, I was actually in much better shape than a number of my acquaintances, who were all shocked that I had decided to have surgery for a condition that, provided it is not malignant, usually provides a little more than simply pain. They were accurate. My only issue with my prostate was that I would sometimes urinate twice or three in the middle of the night. I did not experience any discomfort or trouble urinating, nor did I have any other symptoms.

I didn’t really understand it at the time, but patients in this hospital aren’t allowed to see the results of their lab work. The laboratory receives requests from the doctor electronically, performs the test, and returns the results to the doctor in the same way when the patient pays. Using his computer, the doctor would review the findings and advise the patient on the next course of action. The decision in my instance was surgery.

For this reason, on February 19, I took my own car to the government hospital, where I spent the night getting ready for the surgery the next day. I had undergone a cystoscopy surgery one week prior. I had never before been in a surgery theatre in a hospital. However, since February 20, I have attended more theatre events than the typical person would in a lifetime. My bladder was ruptured by the surgeons during the initial procedure. They had to quickly insert a catheter into my urethra, abort the prostate operation that had brought me in, and take me back to the hospital ward out of fear. Urine was not entering the bag because the catheter was not positioned correctly. I