One of the more surprising discoveries of adulthood is that people continue caring about you even after you’ve made a deliberate effort to become difficult to reach.
I spent most of my second day in hospital attempting to convince everyone that I was perfectly fine. This was complicated by the fact that I was in a hospital. A setting that weakens even the strongest arguments.
The morning was relatively quiet. Doctors came and went, nurses checked things, machines beeped, and medical professionals asked how I was feeling.
I continued answering “fine.”
An increasingly unconvincing strategy.
Around noon, Adaora arrived without warning and without permission carrying food.
Again.
Adaora has one of those personalities that makes boundaries feel optional. She entered the room like someone returning to her own property, dropped her handbag onto the chair, and placed containers of food on the table looking around approvingly. Then she looked at me with the approval disappearing
“You look terrible.”
No greeting.
No transition.
Just violence.
I stared at her.
“You always know exactly what to say.”
“I try.”
“You should stop.”
She smiled which was suspicious. Adaora is at her most dangerous when she is smiling. For the next hour, we discussed everything except the reason I was there.
Work.
Traffic.
Her husband.
A client who had recently embarrassed himself on national television.
Normal things and comfortable things. The kind of conversations that require nothing from you emotionally. Then she ruined it.
“You know this didn’t come from nowhere.”
There it was. The conversation.
I sighed immediately, a preventative measure.
“I collapsed.”
“Yes.”
“I’m recovering.”
“Yes.”
“The doctors said I’m fine.”
Adaora folded her arms, a terrible sign.
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Of course she did. People rarely mean what they say when they’re trying to help you. I was preparing a response when there was a knock at the door. The universe occasionally intervenes on my behalf.
The door opened and in walked Zainab.
My cousin.
Twenty-six.
Lawyer.
Relentlessly energetic.
She possesses the confidence of someone who still believes life is primarily a meritocracy. A belief I no longer have the energy to challenge.
She was still wearing her work clothes, laptop bag over one shoulder, phone in one hand, and flowers in the other. She was lightly out of breath, as though she had come directly from work, which, judging by her appearance, she had.
The moment she saw me, her face softened, and something inside me shifted unexpectedly.
“Everybody has been talking about this since yesterday,” she said.
“That’s unfortunate.”
She laughed, then crossed the room and hugged me before I could object. She handed me the flowers then sat down beside Adaora.
The two of them immediately started talking which was surprising. People usually require an introduction period. These two seemed to skip the process entirely. Within minutes they were discussing work stress, Lagos traffic, family expectations, housing prices, and why everyone in Nigeria seemed permanently exhausted.
I listened mostly, occasionally contributing but mostly observing. Then Adaora committed an act of betrayal, she brought up mindfulness.
Again.
I should have known peace wouldn’t last.
“You should tell her about mindfulness.”
I immediately looked away. Zainab laughed.
“Mindfulness?”
“Yes.”
“In Lagos?”
“Yes.”
“With PHCN, inflation, traffic and landlord problems?”
“Especially with those.”
I settled deeper into my pillow, interested despite myself. The debate that followed was unexpectedly entertaining.
Zainab argued that mindfulness sounded like a luxury imported from countries where people had functioning public systems.
Adaora argued that precisely because life was difficult, people needed tools to navigate it.
Zainab insisted Nigerians already practiced survival, which was basically an advanced form of mindfulness.
Adaora informed her that survival and peace were not the same thing.
An excellent line. I made a mental note to steal it later. For nearly an hour, the two of them debated.
Back and forth.
Examples.
Counterexamples.
Stories.
Theories.
Laughter.
At some point I realized something strange. I was enjoying myself.
Not leading the discussion.
Not fixing anything.
Not advising anyone.
As the evening approached, visiting hours began drawing to a close. The room slowly became quieter. The debate ended. The laughter settled. The day softened.
Adaora stood first. Gathering her things.
“I’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
I groaned immediately.
“Please don’t.”
She ignored me, another favorite habit of hers.
“The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation.”
“I can get home myself.”
“No.”
“I can call Musa.”
That finally got her attention. Musa had been my preferred Uber driver for years. Reliable, punctual, and possessed strong opinions on everything including politics, football, and human behavior.
“I can call Musa,” I repeated. “He’ll take me home.”
Adaora narrowed her eyes, as though evaluating whether this constituted responsible adult behavior. Eventually she nodded, reluctantly.
“Fine.”
Victory.
Small, but meaningful.
Zainab hugged me again before leaving. Then she paused at the door.
“We worry about you, you know.”
The room felt different afterward.
Quieter.
But not lonely, just thoughtful, which, unfortunately, can be even more dangerous.
Until next time,
Zara
P.S.
Today I discovered two things.
Firstly, people care far more than I give them credit for. Secondly, if Adaora starts a mindfulness discussion, there is apparently no known force capable of stopping her.