Witches in Surgery Ward

Witches in Surgery Ward is a short story of a man who witches ambush in a surgery ward after a successful heart surgery procedure.

The Trip to St Thomas’

March 15th 2021

The three-mile journey from my place within central London to the hospital was mostly along deserted roads. In many decades, it was the most minimal daytime traffic I had ever seen in the town. Under normal conditions of peak travel, the roads were packed or jammed at this time of the day with people and vehicles.  The people were complying with government lock-down rules. Outside it was wet and chilly, but bright Spring. A neighbour, Moreno, was kind enough to take me to St Thomas’ hospital for a surgical procedure that morning.

Unusual change had hovered over western societies for long, but recent events were now having dramatic impacts on our way of life. We passed buses, cars, vans, and people who must have been essential workers. They wore the look of necessity anxiety on their faces and bodies without doubt. The absence of youngsters and children on the streets shaped my thoughts.

“The roads are so dry,” I said.

“That’s what happens when we have Covid lock-down in place,” Moreno said.

“True. I never believed Westminster Bridge Road and others would be empty in peace times. It reminds me of a 1970s TV series, Survivors,” I said.

“That was before my time. All I can say is only God knows what Boris Johnson is doing,” Moreno said.

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“If society was gbekuous like it is now, Jozza would not be PM,” Moreno said.

“Well, leaders always do things that contradict their entry into power,” I said.

“They say power corrupts; I say it deludes,” Moreno said.

“Thank you mercilessly,” I said.

We both laughed.

My trip to hospital was for a replacement procedure. Today was the 7^th anniversary of receiving an ICD for my heart. The replacement was two years overdue, and the device was just about functional in the last six months. Edginess about my health had risen for weeks. Hospital admissions often portend bad news but this time it was an elation to embrace. Relief is magical when it comes sometimes. I’ll live longer for sure.

We got into a near empty hospital car park; at every other time it would be full. We both stepped out of the car.

“May your surgery go well. I will pray for you. If you don’t make it, I will pray the Lord fixes you up with countless virgins in heaven,” Moreno said.

“Thank you so much, my brother. If I make it, please arrange one clean non-virgin for me when I get home,” I said.

“Those runs are easier to arrange in heaven,” Moreno said.

“Have you been there?” I asked.

A twinkling of mischief in his eyes, he got into his SUV and headed back home. The echo of his engine in the surroundings made me thoughtful without knowing why.

The Hospital

The parts of the hospital I walked through, the drop off point, the entrance, lobby, lifts, and main corridors barely had any staff or patients. Again, on a regular day it would look like a bazaar. Today, I did not see more than twenty anxious people. All wearing light blue protective masks. You could see stacks of masks and hand disinfectant pumps help-yourself-style at many points across the hospital.

St Thomas’ is a mega-hospital with great facilities, capacities, equipment, skills, and merits. Right then it was in a state of under use, though not a waste. Hospitals cannot afford their operational routines to take naps. No major institution can.

At the second set of lifts, I noticed a smartly dressed male young doctor in his twenties coughing as he was about to enter a lift alone. Coughing had never startled me as a threat ever before. This one did. Covid talk in the media and its social counterpart sounded scarier than AIDS back in the 80s. It was also airborne and hospitals were the best places to catch it. I coughed twice in response perhaps as a reflex action and the fear of someone else’s cough left me. Was I in denial or using my Eastern Wisdom stillness technique? I will not answer that question till 2030.

I got to the pro-op ward where I would get ready for the operation at 10.00am. A good looking and personable blond was at the nurse’s station. She was wearing a transparent face shield instead of a mask. I always like bright eyes no matter the complexion they sit in.

“Good morning. Are you here for a procedure?” she said.

“Yes, I am. Good morning,” I said.

“What’s your name please?” she asked.

I showed her my admission letter and ID.

“I am Laurie.  You will be under my care today. Come with me,” Laurie said.

She ushered me towards Bed 2 in a six-bed section of the ward. The trainers she had on squeaked a tittle with each step. It was welcome against the abject silence. She was wearing a nice rosy perfume. The ward was not a usual cardiology one, and I was the only patient. Inside the Ward was serene, clean, and filled with strong morning sunlight. I liked it. Gone are the days wards smell of bleach and Dettol. The smell was of fresh linen.

I usually went into full wards and on occasion see patients taken into waiting rooms to create space for new admissions. Laurie then brought me a jug of water with ice and a small bag of toiletries.

“I hope you haven’t eaten anything since last night?” Laurie asked.

“No. I have not.”

“Good. The doctor will soon be with you. If you need anything just ask,” Laurie said.

She went back to the nurses’ station wiggling her backside but not too much.

Five minutes later another young lady came to my bedside.

“Hi, how are you today? I am Dr Olga Markov, and I will be replacing your ICD shortly. Are you aware of what the procedure entails?” she asked.

The doctor did not talk over me, my response was slow. She took off her mask. To be a lead surgeon she must be good at her job. I also believe she could make it big on the silver screen or on the catwalk. Barring all doubts, she was Bond Girl material.

“Yes, I am aware of the procedure.,” I said.

“Okay, do you have any questions?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Okay. You will be able to go home after your op. However, if you require a higher dose of local anaesthetic during the op, you will have to sleep over,” she said.

“That’s fine,” I said.

“I will see you in theatre soon,” she said.

The doctor might have had military training considering the spring and balance in her gait which was somehow also graceful.

The Op

The procedure began at 11.00am and took forty minutes. It was successful. The only snag was the higher dose of intravenous fentanyl during the surgery. At 106 kg, I guess I was heavier than the average surgery patient and would need much more anaesthetic. Before the surgery ended, I had lapsed into deep sleep.

I am not quite sure what woke me up, but I was awake, and suddenly so. The fentanyl’s side-effects I could feel but nothing worse than a hangover from drinking too many cups of Nigerian Guinness stat (stout). I prefer the word stat to stout in matters of drinking Guinness. I say the word stout when describing the baobab or oak trees’ girth. Or any other alcoholic stout, even Kilkenny’s.

Fresh cut’s pain on my chest was sharp. More painful than the first op seven years ago. I would need painkillers and a district nurse at home to change the dressing for a few days. And I would have to stay in bed, mocking my upper body as little as possible. Coughs and sneezes are unacceptable if I could help it. My compensation was breathing was easy. That was a good enough outcome to impress me.

Witches Arrive

Well, my brain was searching for basic clarity to understand what lay around my surroundings. To the right of my bed, I saw two people in simple African attire standing a meter away from my bed. The woman closer to me had her face darkened with ash rouge. Her hair was loose, full, and tidy adorning an exceptionally beautiful face. The interplay of bust, waist, and hip dimensions could instantly heal erectile dysfunction whether of organic or psychological causes. Gbogborogbo!

As blood engorged my extremities my stubborn resistance to casual coital temptation was absent. But not for long. You may have experienced that extreme but temporary moment of weakness. Then a rebounding strength that overcompensates follows. Despite her beauty the lady in the middle was a witch on a mission to injure me. Well, so my intuition told me and it told me right. Their timing was uncanny. Had they been monitoring my life.

The time just after an operation is a great time to bewitch a target. She and her foil were not my visitors. We were in Covid lock-down and the last place barefaced people wanted to be was a hospital. And standing barefooted in their midsummer tropical clothing on a chilly day was bizarre.

The man to her right was shorter. He had bulging biceps, a thick neck, and a muscular body to match. And the face of an ox and a feral demeanour. Further evidence he was a Night Boy was unnecessary. Despite his impressive build he had always lived on a carbohydrate-based diet. His well-developed Adams apple hinted years of aggressive swallowing large boluses of strong cassava and yam meals. A day without swallowing was meaningless for him.

The night is a mysterious thing people see in several different ways. Some fear it, some love it. Some may remember Kool & The Gang’s popular song lyrics, Night People. The words floated into my mind without inviting or expecting them,

Night people, Oh, Oh,

People of the night,

I want to tell you about the people of the night on the street…

Those lyrics were referring to night groovers and crawlers you find in clubs in cities that never sleep. Wonderful, stylish, charismatic party people like Lono Brazil and Onomaro. It was my habit since I went to boarding school to remember admirable people when I got into trouble. Muhammad Ali, Jim Brown, Shaft and Angela Davis always worked.

Evidently, the night people I was dealing with right then were practitioners of nefarious witchcraft, intrusions like incubus and succubus. Inflicting life-minimising/death-dealing spells and hexes of the dirtiest kind. Members of evil fraternities and sororities that destroy lives, strengths and successes.

The two witches looked like avatars projected from a place elsewhere. Yet, on reflection, they neither looked like holograms or apparitions. Their bodies looked so solid to me. I could not understand it. Their eyes were set fixed or frozen, with movement or sensitivity. Could they even see me through those eyes I thought? Anyhow, their presence was neither endearing nor welcome. They were witches on a mission!

The witch lady leaned towards me stretching out her hand and using her finger like a dart in slow motion.  Looking at the trajectory of her finger she was pointing it at the site of surgery on my chest. She wanted to put her finger inside the wound. Bianimikaley! Was she a surgeon too? Ibabo! My father! So, this is how the witches operate? I thought they decide, design, and execute that all their operations across space and time from the laboratories and control towers of the coven. I did not believe that they could operate tangibly in the physical world. Hmm.

The Battle

My reaction to the witch woman’s attempt to finger my new thorax cut was simple. I recited a nine-syllable incantation. The person who gave it to me, Makitikpo, said it is the guy-name of Archangel Michael. It sounded like a name either congruent to Sango or Hanuman. Makitikpo was once a worshiper of Okunovu, the Guardian Deity of Jesse. So, I am not sure if the incantation relates to his religion accordingly. Anyhow, the incantation’s purpose was to shield me from nightmares or any suddenly scary thing I see at night.

Without losing focus on its strange sound, I recited the incantation in my heart once. On the last syllable the lifeless eyes of the two witches came alive. The eyes I thought could not see me were now blaring at me with harsh acuity. Blank eyes had become bad eyes. Then I heard the female witch shout “Eeee!” a term of bitter regret. The witch woman’s forefinger shrunk down to the base of her palm as she pulled it back. I was certain the finger would never come near me ever again.

The nostrils of the male witch flared and breathed out mists rather than smoke. I could later see smoke coming out of their bodies again as they squirmed in agony. The smoke as foul as it was to my nose smelled of burning rubber, not burning flesh or vegetable. But the witches began to shrivel like meat or plants would in a flame. Their eyes continued to blare at me. Out of caution rather than fear I recited the incantation a second time. The speed of their disintegration tripled. That must have been the best fire I ever lit. Even though I did not have a clue it would happen and burn the foes.  Was this a case of underestimation? The witches must have thought I was vulnerable, spiritually. Angel Michael had spoken.

The witches’ bodies reduced to two piles of ash where they each stood. Soon after the ward smelt fresh again. The nurse came to my bed to check on me and saw the piles of ash.

“What’s that?” Laurie asked.

“What’s what?” I asked

Astonished, she pointed to the piles of ash, her pretty face now looking out of order.

“I don’t know, I didn’t put it there. I have just woken up.”

“It looks weird,” she said.

The nurse left squeaking away and returned in a couple of minutes with a broom and dustpan. She swept the ashes with utmost care. She must have been aware of the problems with sweeping powdery or granular substances. My guess was probably right. The nurse came back with a mop and bucket soon after. My environment was now clean again.

I had just escaped a combined attempted witch attack by good fortune. Nothing had made me more vulnerable to the attack than my fall for the beauty of the witch woman. Without any prompt I broke into song.

I say na wetin kill the boy o,

Na toto kill the boy 

That was my evening’s lullaby and it was both a reminder and a warning to me. Good looks are a great trojan that easily fools. Shakespeare wrote in the Merchant of Venice, “All that glitters is not gold, so you often heard it told.” It was up to me to heed it – I pulled my ear.

A Thought

Doubtless, going for an operation on an organ like the heart always carries a big risk. The doctor’s team and I beat that risk. The bigger danger was my encounter with evil witches who came to my ward to add complications to a successful op. If the witches had their way, this story would never come to paper. Bad luck and failure are not always down to chance going against you. Other “things” unseen or misunderstood may be its cause. We must take care of ourselves. I learned.

Now the important undertaking for me is to discover the guy-name of Archangel Raphael to draw total healing upon myself. The Day of the Night People in my life ended terribly for them and there shall never be another.

Nevertheless, I hope Moreno will answer his father’s name when I get home tomorrow. I pulled hard on my right ear and pulled it again.

Be good, not lucky.

Grimot Nane