Chapter 3: Chioma

Enugu, Nigeria — August 2024

The night shift was always the worst.

Chioma stood at the nurses' station, her pen frozen above a chart she'd been filling out for twenty minutes. The paper was smudged, the ink bleeding through because her hands were sweating. It was two in the morning, and the hospital was quiet in the way that meant trouble—the kind of quiet that preceded a screaming patient, a code blue, a death.

She hadn't eaten since noon. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. There was no time. There was never any time.

"Chioma."

She looked up. Esther, one of the junior nurses, was standing in front of her, her face pale.

"Bed four. The woman with the respiratory infection. She's struggling."

Chioma dropped the pen and followed Esther down the corridor. The lights flickered. The floor was sticky under her shoes. They pushed through the curtain into a small cubicle, and Chioma saw the woman—Mrs. Obi, sixty-two years old, admitted three days ago. Her chest was heaving. Her eyes were open, wide and terrified.

"She needs oxygen," Chioma said. "Where's the tank?"

"There's no oxygen, Nurse. The last tank ran out at ten. The replacement hasn't come."

"What? Why not?"

"The administrator says we're waiting for the supplier. He says we have to be patient."

Chioma felt something cold slide down her spine. She looked at Mrs. Obi. The woman was gasping now, her hands clutching the thin hospital sheet.

"Get me a mask. And a bag. We'll do manual ventilation."

"I'll get them."

Esther ran. Chioma leaned over the patient, taking her hand. "Mrs. Obi. Can you hear me? We're going to help you. Just try to breathe."

The woman's hand was cold. Her nails were blue.

"Chioma!" Esther was back with the mask and the ambu bag. Chioma fitted the mask over Mrs. Obi's face and started squeezing the bag, forcing air into the woman's lungs. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Her arms were already aching. She kept going.

"Get the doctor," she said. "Now."

Esther ran again. Chioma kept squeezing. Mrs. Obi's eyes were fixed on her, pleading, desperate. Chioma could feel the woman's life ebbing away, slipping through her fingers like water.

"Stay with me," Chioma whispered. "Just stay with me."

The doctor arrived—Dr. Okonkwo, young and tired, his scrubs wrinkled. He checked Mrs. Obi's pulse, her pupils, her breathing.

"She's crashing," he said. "We need to intubate. We need oxygen."

"There's no oxygen."

Dr. Okonkwo looked at Chioma, and for a moment, his face was completely blank. Then he said, "Keep ventilating. I'll see what I can do."

He left. Chioma kept squeezing. Mrs. Obi's chest rose and fell, rose and fell. The woman's grip on Chioma's wrist tightened for a moment.

"I'm here," Chioma said. "I'm not leaving you."

But the woman's grip was fading. Her eyes were glazing over. Chioma squeezed the bag harder, faster.

"Don't," she said. "Don't do this. Please."

Mrs. Obi stopped breathing.

Chioma kept squeezing, kept forcing air into the woman's lungs. But there was no pulse. The monitor had flatlined.

She squeezed for another minute. Another. Her arms were burning. Her eyes were burning. She kept going.

"Chioma."

Dr. Okonkwo was back. He put a hand on her shoulder. "She's gone."

"No. She's not gone. I can—"

"She's gone."

Chioma stopped squeezing. The bag fell from her hands. She stood there, staring at Mrs. Obi's face, the open eyes, the blue lips.

"Time of death," Dr. Okonkwo said quietly, "two forty-five."

Chioma covered Mrs. Obi's face with the sheet. Her hands were shaking. She walked out of the cubicle, down the corridor, past the nurses' station, and into the supply closet. She closed the door and stood there in the darkness.

She didn't cry. She had stopped crying a long time ago.

---

The morning shift arrived at six. Chioma handed over her charts, her voice flat and professional. The night nurse, a woman named Grace, took them without looking at Chioma's face.

"Rough night?" Grace asked.

"Rough night."

"Bed four?"

"Died at two forty-five."

Grace nodded. "I heard. No oxygen again."

"Again."

"Mr. Eze doesn't care. He's saving money for something. The hospital is just a business to him."

Chioma nodded. She didn't have the energy to respond. She signed out, collected her bag, and walked out of the hospital.

The sun was just rising. The air was cool, almost pleasant. She stood at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that would take her to her grandmother's house. The bus came. She got on. She stared out the window at the streets of Enugu, the people, the market stalls, the hawkers. Everyone was alive. Everyone was moving. Everyone was pretending.

---

Her grandmother's house was small, just two rooms and a kitchen. The paint was faded, the roof patched in three different places. Chioma had grown up here, after her parents died. Her mother had been sick for a year. Her father had died in a car accident six months later. Chioma had been twelve. Chidi had been five.

She let herself in. The house was quiet. Her grandmother was in the back room, still asleep. Chioma went to the kitchen, boiled water, made tea. She was drinking it when Chidi came in.

Chidi was sixteen, tall and lanky, his school uniform hanging off him. He had his father's face and his mother's eyes. He looked at Chioma with suspicion.

"You look terrible," he said.

"Thank you, Chidi."

"I'm serious. Did you sleep at all?"

"Night shift. No sleep."

"You should quit. You work too hard."

"I can't quit. We need the money."

Chidi sat across from her. His hair was a mess, his tie undone. "Nneoma said you should get married soon. She said Emeka has been waiting long enough. She said—"

"Nneoma says a lot of things."

"Maybe she's right. You're twenty-eight. You've been engaged for two years."

"We've been engaged for eighteen months. And I'll marry Emeka when I'm ready."

"Are you ready?"

Chioma looked at her brother. His face was open, curious, concerned. He was still a child. He didn't understand.

"I'm getting married," she said. "It's just—I have things to do first."

"Like what?"

"Like saving money. For the clinic."

Chidi rolled his eyes. "The clinic. You've been talking about that clinic for years. When are you going to actually do it?"

"When I have enough money."

"Will you ever have enough money?"

Chioma didn't answer. She finished her tea and stood up. "Go to school. You're going to be late."

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not changing the subject. I'm telling you to go to school."

Chidi stood up, grabbed his bag, and walked to the door. He paused there, looking back at her.

"Chioma?"

"What?"

"Your grandmother needs medication. Her blood pressure is high. The pharmacy said the pills are expensive."

"I know. I'll get them."

"With what money?"

"I'll find the money. Just go to school."

Chidi left. Chioma stood in the kitchen, her hands on the counter, staring at nothing.

---

Her grandmother was awake when she went to the back room. The old woman was sitting up in bed, her grey hair wrapped in a scarf, her face wrinkled and tired. She smiled when she saw Chioma.

"My girl. You're back."

"I'm back, Nne."

"Come here. Let me see you."

Chioma sat on the edge of the bed. Her grandmother took her hand, her fingers dry and papery.

"Your eyes are red. You've been crying."

"I haven't been crying. I was just—"

"Don't lie to me. I'm your grandmother. I know when you've been crying."

Chioma looked away. "A patient died tonight. No oxygen. We couldn't save her."

Her grandmother squeezed her hand. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But it feels like it is."

"It's the system. It's broken. You can't fix everything, Chioma."

"I know, Nne."

Her grandmother was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "You need to take care of yourself. You're too thin. You work too hard. And you haven't married Emeka."

"Not you too."

"I'm not pressuring you. I'm just saying. Life is short. You've already lost your parents. Don't waste time."

"I'm not wasting time. I'm working."

"Working for what? A clinic that doesn't exist?"

Chioma felt a flash of anger. "It will exist. I'll make it exist."

Her grandmother looked at her, her eyes sad and knowing. "I know you will, Chioma. But don't forget to live in the meantime."

---

She went to the pharmacy after lunch. The pills for her grandmother cost three thousand naira. She had two. She used her credit card. She didn't have enough money to pay it off, but she couldn't let her grandmother suffer.

She went home and gave the pills to her grandmother. The old woman took them without complaint. They sat together in the small living room, the fan spinning slowly overhead, the heat pressing in from all sides.

"Where's Chidi?" her grandmother asked.

"School. He'll be back in the evening."

"Is he eating enough? He's so thin."

"He's fine, Nne. He's just growing."

"Growing. That's what they say. But I see his face. He's hungry."

"Everyone is hungry," Chioma said quietly. "Everyone is hungry."

Her grandmother nodded. She didn't argue. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes distant.

Chioma watched her and thought about all the things she couldn't fix. Her grandmother's blood pressure. Chidi's hunger. Mrs. Obi's death. The hospital's corruption. The brokenness of everything.

She wanted to save people. That's why she had become a nurse. But every day, she watched people die, and every day, she felt more powerless.

---

Emeka came that evening. He was a civil servant, tall and handsome, with a smile that usually made her heart beat faster. But tonight, she was too tired to feel anything.

"You look exhausted," he said. He sat beside her on the small sofa. "You're working too much."

"I know."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet."

"Chioma." He sighed. "You need to take care of yourself. You can't save everyone."

"I know."

He took her hand. His fingers were warm, soft. He didn't have calluses. He had never worked in a hospital, had never held a dying patient's hand.

"When are we getting married?" he asked.

"Soon."

"Define soon. Because I've been waiting for a year and a half. My mother is asking. My uncle is asking. Everyone is asking."

"Tell them we're planning it."

"We're not planning anything. You're always working. You never have time."

"Emeka—"

"You promised, Chioma. You said we'd get married. But every time I bring it up, you change the subject. Why?"

Chioma pulled her hand away. "Because I'm not ready."

"Why not? We love each other. We're both employed. We can afford a small wedding."

"It's not about the money."

"Then what is it?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't explain the thing that was coiled inside her, the fear that she was making a mistake, that marriage would trap her, that she would lose herself, that she would never open the clinic, never save anyone, never be more than a nurse in a broken hospital.

"Chioma?"

"I'm tired, Emeka. Can we talk about this another time?"

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. Another time. But we can't keep avoiding it."

"I'm not avoiding it. I just—"

"You are. You're avoiding everything." He stood up. "I'm going to go. You need rest."

"Emeka, please—"

"I'll call you tomorrow."

He left. Chioma sat in the living room, listening to his footsteps fade. The house was silent. The fan spun overhead. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

She was tired. She was so tired.

---

The next shift, she went to see Mr. Eze.

The hospital administrator had an office on the second floor, air-conditioned, with a leather chair and a mahogany desk. He was a large man, bald, with expensive glasses and a suit that cost more than Chioma made in a month.

"Nurse Chioma," he said, not looking up from his paperwork. "What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Eze, we have no oxygen. Patients are dying. A woman died last night because we couldn't get a replacement tank."

Mr. Eze looked up. His face was calm, professional. "I'm aware of the situation. The supplier is delayed. It's out of my control."

"Delayed for three days?"

"There are logistical issues. I've explained this."

"Logistical issues?" Chioma's voice was rising. "A woman died. She had a respiratory infection. If she'd had oxygen, she might have survived."

Mr. Eze set down his pen. "Nurse Chioma, I understand your frustration. But I assure you, I'm doing everything I can."

"Everything you can? The hospital has money. I've seen the invoices. You're saving money, Mr. Eze. You're cutting costs. And patients are dying."

Mr. Eze stood up. He was taller than her, broader. He looked down at her with cold eyes.

"Be careful, Nurse Chioma. I'm the administrator of this hospital. I make the decisions. If you have a problem with how I run things, you're free to leave."

Chioma stared at him. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something at his smug face. But she was a nurse. She needed the job. She needed the money. She had a grandmother and a brother to support.

"I'm not leaving," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't think so." Mr. Eze sat down and picked up his pen. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Chioma walked out of the office. Her hands were shaking.

Downstairs, Esther was waiting. "What happened?"

"He doesn't care. He told me to leave if I don't like it."

"He's terrible. Everyone knows he's corrupt. I heard he's skimming money from the hospital budget."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

Chioma looked at the corridors, the patients, the broken equipment. She thought about Mrs. Obi, about her blue lips and terrified eyes.

"Nothing," she said. "I'm going to do nothing."

---

That night, she sat in her grandmother's house and made a list.

Clinic costs:

· Building rental: ₦50,000/month

· Medical supplies: ₦200,000 (initial)

· Equipment: ₦150,000

· Staff: ₦80,000/month (minimal)

She looked at the numbers. She had saved ₦120,000 in two years. It was nowhere near enough. She would need more. She would need to save for years. But time was running out. Her grandmother was getting older. Chidi needed school fees. Emeka was growing impatient.

She put down the pen and closed her eyes.

"God," she whispered, "help me. I don't know what to do."

There was no answer.

She went to bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Mrs. Obi, about Mr. Eze, about all the people who would die because the system was broken.

She thought about her clinic. Her dream.

She thought about giving up.

---

At three in the morning, she got up. She went to the small altar in the corner of her room and knelt down. She prayed for a long time. She prayed for her grandmother's health. She prayed for Chidi's future. She prayed for the strength to keep going.

And she prayed for Mrs. Obi, who had died alone, without oxygen, because no one cared enough to make things right.

When she finished praying, she sat on the floor, her back against the wall.

The fan hummed. The house was quiet. In the distance, she heard a dog barking.

She thought about everything she wanted to do. Everything she couldn't do. Everything she might never do.

She thought about Emeka, about the wedding he wanted, about the life he dreamed of. She thought about her grandmother, who just wanted to see her married before she died.

But Chioma didn't want to get married. Not yet. Not like this. She wanted to save people. She wanted to be the person who made a difference, even if it was small.

Was that too much to ask?

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She hadn't realized she was crying.

She stood up and went back to bed.

The night was long. The morning would come, and she would go back to work, and another patient would die, and nothing would change.

But she would still try. She would still fight. She would still hope, even when hope felt foolish.

That was what she did. That was all she could do.

She closed her eyes and waited for sleep. It took a long time. But eventually, it came.

---

Author's Note:

Hi, everyone! 👋🏾

Welcome to Chioma's story.

This chapter takes us to Enugu, where the air is humid and the hospital hallways are filled with quiet desperation. Chioma is a nurse who wants to save lives, but the system keeps failing—no oxygen, corrupt administrators, patients dying because of things that could have been prevented.

I wanted to explore the weight of carrying everyone else's burdens. Chioma has her grandmother, her younger brother, a fiancé who's growing impatient, and a dream of opening her own clinic that feels impossibly far away. She's exhausted, angry, and running out of hope. But she keeps going anyway.

Let me know how you feel about Chioma's world—the hospital, her family, her relationship with Emeka. What would you do in her shoes? Your votes and comments keep this story alive. 🙏🏾

See you in Chapter 4.