Celebrating World Refugee Day 2013!










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Bonny Island!

Hi guys, this doctor is in little heaven (not London, London no fine like this). Ill rewind my story for the benefit of my viewers (sorry readers! Does anyone read my blog:). Anyway I was chatting with my cousin who works on Bonny Island and she invited me to spend the weekend with her. My journey started from the boat jetty. After a briefing on safety rules we were loaded on the boat. For some strange reason I wasnt scared, the last time I was on a boat was over a decade ago but I had no qualms about the trip, it took about 2hours but it was smooth! Arriving in Bonny, my cousin came to pick me up, my first sight of the island was of concrete, metal pipes and other materials, it didnt look like a place one would living in. But when we got to the residential quarters all that changed. It looked like I was out of Nigeria, actually I would say I was. The plase was actually clean, neat and beautiful. The streets were well tarred no pot holes, the houses were neatly arranged, the entire est
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Death III

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In recounting my near misses, I can't but think of how many other misses I am unaware of. As a child, I was the only one who was hospitalized a few times compared to my siblings and cousins. I cannot remember if I ever felt sick enough to be at deaths door, but I do know I disliked getting injections. During one of my trips to the hospital I was to receive a Novalgin injection, for those of you old enough to remember Novalgin, it was the most painful torturous injection ever. I screamed hell and blue murder as the nurse approached with a Novalgin shot. 'I don't take injections', I lamented in my most piteous voice, you would think anyone with a heart would see the tears and back down but those nurses were a special breed. After a few minutes of my temporary madness, my father was summoned, it took just one look from him and I accepted the drilling of the syringe through my marrow (that was what it felt like) without as much as a squeak. The feeling Novalgin gave your bu
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My Mother Tongue!

I grew up speaking English as my first language and I can tell you that is one fact I am not proud about. I remember once when we were much younger shouting out the only Yoruba words we knew as children 'olosi', 'oloriburuku' etc. My grandmother came out of the house hurriedly to put a stop to our foolishness, what on earth did we think we were doing? she asked, our reply still puts a smile on my face 'we are speaking Yoruba' we replied. My lack of proficiency in speaking Yoruba ( I can write it:) is revealed anytime I speak to my patients. When our conversation is not just me answering in monosyllables, I begin to speak rapidly in my mother tongue but by the end of my first two sentences, I hear myself stuttering and stammering and Im wondering if the patients don't think this doctor is having a sudden attack of catatonia! My Yoruba teacher in Secondary school summed up my Yoruba speaking prowess to my parents during an open day 'She is a good student b
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