by Elisha Oluyemi

I HONOUR RIGHTEOUSNESS IN all things—even in murder (as some critics would tag my benevolence). But at least, that is my patients’ sole possibility of relief and a painless exit.

    Today, it’s all about Bala, a colon cancer stage IV patient, bedridden, and sure to disappear in three weeks. I see him grip his belly again, face crumpled and teeth clenched, probably to ease his ever-enduring pain. After holding out for four years that seemed like eternity, his perseverance is simply a worn elastic. Unable to hold back his agony, he blares out a groan, forcing looks of concern from other ‘awaiting-death’ patients, who are also, at the same time, anticipating their own inevitable episodes of pain.

    I puff out air as I rush to Bala’s bedside. He is drenched in sweat, and his limbs are the outstretched arms of a drowning child. Once he sees me through his half-closed eyes, he stretches out an arm that wasn’t so engaged in the struggle and his clenched teeth parts a bit. “D—doc—tor! Ki—kill me! Please ki—”

    “Don’t worry, Mr. Bala; it’s your turn today. You’ve endured a great deal, and now you should rest.”

    He gazes at me, this time, seemingly unconcerned by agonies. His voice calms and a smile spreads across his face. “Thank you, doc—tor!”

    I run my hands over a litter of instruments on a tray and single out a bottle of euthanasia drug, labelled ‘Freedom’. And in a minute, Bala becomes a free man.

    Now, I turn around. Other terminal patients are staring. Similar looks of envy and desire. . . . Of course, they’re all entitled to this same deliverance—just like Bala.

Written by Elisha Oluyemi

(Originally published by League of Poets)