His office, with Dr. Musty written on the door, was opened as he walked in—just as his phone began to ring. Because the phone was on silent, the flashlight notification kept blinking on and off. He walked past his desk where the phone lay, glanced at his wristwatch, then quickly picked up the phone. Seeing Mamie on the screen, he raised it to his ear and calmly, respectfully said,
“Mamie.”
From the other end came the voice of an elderly woman, gentle and composed:
“Assalamu alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever—his body is burning like fire, and he refuses to get up so we can go to the hospital. He won’t tell me what’s wrong. I honestly don’t know what’s happening; his condition is worrying.”
Quietly, Mustapha sat down on a chair, listening closely without showing panic. He asked,
“Can he talk?”
Mamie, now anxious, replied,
“He doesn’t even talk at all—though he could talk to you.”
Calmly, the doctor asked,
“What about Hameed?”
Mamie answered,
“He left for work before 8 a.m. and didn’t know Hamadi was unwell. I’m sure he still doesn’t know.”
Mustapha exhaled softly and said,
“I’m on my way. Put a towel in water and sponge his body. Don’t worry, Mamie—he’ll be fine.”
Mamie felt some relief and said,
“Alright, may God bring you safely,”
then ended the call.
He stood up, grabbed his car keys and phone. He looked like a man in his early forties—about 42 or 43 years old. He went straight to their pharmacy-hospital, personally collected medicines, IV fluids, and injections, placed everything at the accountant’s desk, paid with his card, and had them packed into a bag. Then he stepped into his sleek white Benz and drove to their house.
It was a large old-style mansion made of red bricks—the kind wealthy families used to build. A big house with a maroon gate. He honked, and a young security guard, smiling, quickly opened the gate. Inside the compound stood a massive bungalow—just one building—surrounded by greenery. To the side was a garden with guava, mango, and cashew trees, along with flowers. There was plenty of open space. He parked and stepped out, scanning the surroundings. Two cars were already parked, along with a big luxury machine—one of those obvious symbols of wealth.
He headed toward the house. Even before opening the door, the scent of perfume greeted him. He entered the living room quietly. No one was there except Lami, who was cleaning. She quickly greeted him,
“Good morning, Baba Akram.”
“Good morning,” he replied.
The living room was elegant, fully carpeted, with a huge television mounted on the wall. There was also a large framed photograph of an elderly man and woman seated in regal attire, with five boys standing behind them. One child had turned away as if trying to run, while the woman held him—so only his back appeared in the picture.
He climbed the staircase directly to the first room upstairs—his own room.
He opened the door. The room was spacious and neatly arranged. There were two beds of equal size, each with a desk and chair beside it. Sitting on the edge of one bed was an elderly woman—about 57 years old—beside a tall, fair-skinned young man lying down, around 33 or 34 years old. He wore black joggers and a white singlet, exposing a broad chest and strong muscles. His eyes were tightly shut. Mamie had placed a small towel on his forehead. He had a long nose, very pink and full lips, and thick coiled hair that curled like that of a foreigner.
They didn’t notice Mustapha until he reached the bed. Mamie turned quickly and said,
“Doctor, you’ve arrived.”
Calmly, he removed the towel from Hamadi’s forehead, took the one from Mamie’s hand, and gently sat by the bed, calling,
“Hamad… Hamadi…”
Slowly, Hamadi opened his eyes—red and swollen from illness. His eyes were striking: deep black, wild, framed by dark eyelids. Anyone would swear he wore eyeliner, though he never did—he was born that way.
Softly, Mustapha asked,
“What’s wrong with you?”
Hamadi remained silent, as if he hadn’t been spoken to. The doctor studied him, then turned to Mamie and asked,
“Has he eaten?”
Mamie shook her head.
“I don’t think he even ate dinner. Hameed prepared food and ate; I’m sure Hamadi didn’t.”
Gently, the doctor said,
“Bring his breakfast, Mamie. He needs to eat.”
Mamie stood up.
“Alright, may God help us. I’ll bring it.”
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
Mustapha turned back to Hamadi and sat on the edge of the bed, his face serious.
“Where exactly does it hurt?”
Hamadi glanced at his brother, then gently pointed toward his groin area, half-closing his eyes and exhaling softly.
The doctor lifted Hamadi’s singlet, revealing defined six-pack abs, then adjusted his trousers slightly, exposing his white CK boxer. He carefully pulled the waistband down a little and quickly said,
“When did this surgical area start developing this rash? Why didn’t you tell me?”
At that moment, the door opened suddenly. Hamadi quickly grabbed his brother’s lab coat and covered himself with it. Mamie froze briefly, then stepped back. The doctor looked at Hamadi, then calmly turned to Mamie and said,
“Mamie.”
She quickly replied,
“I didn’t know what you were doing. I’ll step out—call me when you’re done.”
She left with the tray of food and closed the door.
Dr. Mustapha turned back to Hamadi and said,
“You have an infection at the surgical site. I’ll clean and dress it now, then get you antibiotics. That’s probably what’s causing the fever.”
As he spoke, he took back his lab coat and stood up.
“I’ll get the dressing kit.”
He turned to leave, but despite the fever, Hamadi reached out and held the coat. The doctor looked at him. Avoiding eye contact, Hamadi spoke softly in a low, gentle voice,
“Don’t tell Mamie, Yaya.”
Mustapha paused, looked at him, then nodded quietly and left the room.
Downstairs, Mamie stood up anxiously.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor? My heart keeps pounding. He won’t tell me what’s wrong—only you can get it out of him.”
Mustapha smiled slightly.
“You know Hamadi is shy. Nothing serious—it’s just a minor infection at the surgical site. He was probably embarrassed to tell you. I’ll get the dressing supplies from the car.”
He stepped out. Mamie watched him go and shook her head—so this was what the boy was hiding all along? Truly, Hamadi needed prayers.
He soon returned with a hospital bag and went upstairs. Hamadi lay as before, but had adjusted his clothing neatly. The doctor put on gloves, took cotton wool, lifted his singlet again, lowered the boxer properly, revealing smooth skin with faint hair. He began cleaning the area gently.
Hamadi winced, shifting slightly.
“Sorry,” the doctor said. “It’s painful, but I need to clean it—it’s infected.”
Hamadi exhaled sharply; tears of pain rolled down from his closed eyes. The doctor paused and asked,
“Is it very painful?”
Without opening his eyes, Hamadi replied faintly,
“No.”
The doctor smiled slightly and continued cleaning, his hands trembling—not even knowing why.
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His office, with Dr. Musty written on the door, was opened as he walked in—just as his phone began to ring. Because the phone was on silent, the flashlight notification kept blinking on and off. He walked past his desk where the phone lay, glanced at his wristwatch, then quickly picked up the phone. Seeing Mamie on the screen, he raised it to his ear and calmly, respectfully said,
“Mamie.”
From the other end came the voice of an elderly woman, gentle and composed:
“Assalamu alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever—his body is burning like fire, and he refuses to get up so we can go to the hospital. He won’t tell me what’s wrong. I honestly don’t know what’s happening; his condition is worrying.”
Quietly, Mustapha sat down on a chair, listening closely without showing panic. He asked,
“Can he talk?”
Mamie, now anxious, replied,
“He doesn’t even talk at all—though he could talk to you.”
Calmly, the doctor asked,
“What about Hameed?”
Mamie answered,
“He left for work before 8 a.m. and didn’t know Hamadi was unwell. I’m sure he still doesn’t know.”
Mustapha exhaled softly and said,
“I’m on my way. Put a towel in water and sponge his body. Don’t worry, Mamie—he’ll be fine.”
Mamie felt some relief and said,
“Alright, may God bring you safely,”
then ended the call.
He stood up, grabbed his car keys and phone. He looked like a man in his early forties—about 42 or 43 years old. He went straight to their pharmacy-hospital, personally collected medicines, IV fluids, and injections, placed everything at the accountant’s desk, paid with his card, and had them packed into a bag. Then he stepped into his sleek white Benz and drove to their house.
It was a large old-style mansion made of red bricks—the kind wealthy families used to build. A big house with a maroon gate. He honked, and a young security guard, smiling, quickly opened the gate. Inside the compound stood a massive bungalow—just one building—surrounded by greenery. To the side was a garden with guava, mango, and cashew trees, along with flowers. There was plenty of open space. He parked and stepped out, scanning the surroundings. Two cars were already parked, along with a big luxury machine—one of those obvious symbols of wealth.
He headed toward the house. Even before opening the door, the scent of perfume greeted him. He entered the living room quietly. No one was there except Lami, who was cleaning. She quickly greeted him,
“Good morning, Baba Akram.”
“Good morning,” he replied.
The living room was elegant, fully carpeted, with a huge television mounted on the wall. There was also a large framed photograph of an elderly man and woman seated in regal attire, with five boys standing behind them. One child had turned away as if trying to run, while the woman held him—so only his back appeared in the picture.
He climbed the staircase directly to the first room upstairs—his own room.
He opened the door. The room was spacious and neatly arranged. There were two beds of equal size, each with a desk and chair beside it. Sitting on the edge of one bed was an elderly woman—about 57 years old—beside a tall, fair-skinned young man lying down, around 33 or 34 years old. He wore black joggers and a white singlet, exposing a broad chest and strong muscles. His eyes were tightly shut. Mamie had placed a small towel on his forehead. He had a long nose, very pink and full lips, and thick coiled hair that curled like that of a foreigner.
They didn’t notice Mustapha until he reached the bed. Mamie turned quickly and said,
“Doctor, you’ve arrived.”
Calmly, he removed the towel from Hamadi’s forehead, took the one from Mamie’s hand, and gently sat by the bed, calling,
“Hamad… Hamadi…”
Slowly, Hamadi opened his eyes—red and swollen from illness. His eyes were striking: deep black, wild, framed by dark eyelids. Anyone would swear he wore eyeliner, though he never did—he was born that way.
Softly, Mustapha asked,
“What’s wrong with you?”
Hamadi remained silent, as if he hadn’t been spoken to. The doctor studied him, then turned to Mamie and asked,
“Has he eaten?”
Mamie shook her head.
“I don’t think he even ate dinner. Hameed prepared food and ate; I’m sure Hamadi didn’t.”
Gently, the doctor said,
“Bring his breakfast, Mamie. He needs to eat.”
Mamie stood up.
“Alright, may God help us. I’ll bring it.”
She left the room and closed the door behind her.
Mustapha turned back to Hamadi and sat on the edge of the bed, his face serious.
“Where exactly does it hurt?”
Hamadi glanced at his brother, then gently pointed toward his groin area, half-closing his eyes and exhaling softly.
The doctor lifted Hamadi’s singlet, revealing defined six-pack abs, then adjusted his trousers slightly, exposing his white CK boxer. He carefully pulled the waistband down a little and quickly said,
“When did this surgical area start developing this rash? Why didn’t you tell me?”
At that moment, the door opened suddenly. Hamadi quickly grabbed his brother’s lab coat and covered himself with it. Mamie froze briefly, then stepped back. The doctor looked at Hamadi, then calmly turned to Mamie and said,
“Mamie.”
She quickly replied,
“I didn’t know what you were doing. I’ll step out—call me when you’re done.”
She left with the tray of food and closed the door.
Dr. Mustapha turned back to Hamadi and said,
“You have an infection at the surgical site. I’ll clean and dress it now, then get you antibiotics. That’s probably what’s causing the fever.”
As he spoke, he took back his lab coat and stood up.
“I’ll get the dressing kit.”
He turned to leave, but despite the fever, Hamadi reached out and held the coat. The doctor looked at him. Avoiding eye contact, Hamadi spoke softly in a low, gentle voice,
“Don’t tell Mamie, Yaya.”
Mustapha paused, looked at him, then nodded quietly and left the room.
Downstairs, Mamie stood up anxiously.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor? My heart keeps pounding. He won’t tell me what’s wrong—only you can get it out of him.”
Mustapha smiled slightly.
“You know Hamadi is shy. Nothing serious—it’s just a minor infection at the surgical site. He was probably embarrassed to tell you. I’ll get the dressing supplies from the car.”
He stepped out. Mamie watched him go and shook her head—so this was what the boy was hiding all along? Truly, Hamadi needed prayers.
He soon returned with a hospital bag and went upstairs. Hamadi lay as before, but had adjusted his clothing neatly. The doctor put on gloves, took cotton wool, lifted his singlet again, lowered the boxer properly, revealing smooth skin with faint hair. He began cleaning the area gently.
Hamadi winced, shifting slightly.
“Sorry,” the doctor said. “It’s painful, but I need to clean it—it’s infected.”
Hamadi exhaled sharply; tears of pain rolled down from his closed eyes. The doctor paused and asked,
“Is it very painful?”
Without opening his eyes, Hamadi replied faintly,
“No.”
The doctor smiled slightly and continued cleaning, his hands trembling—not even knowing why.