by Isha Sesay
“The twenty-one are back but my sister is not back. Lord, I put my sister in your hands. And one day, I know my sister will be back and she will carry me on her back. She will plait my hair for me. And I know you will do it for me, Lord.”
On these occasions, Esther and Yakubu struggled to hold back the tears. With their eyes closed and their remaining children by their side, this broken family weighed down by grief said, “Amen.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER I’VE HAD NIGHTMARES ABOUT LOSING my mum to some act of misfortune. The dreams took different forms. The one I had most often involved intruders bursting into our home in Sierra Leone. I was always there with my mum in her bedroom, and there was a dark cherrywood chest of drawers pushed up against the door—to keep the menacing, unseen forces out. I don’t know what happened next, because I always awoke in a panic, but I could never shake the distinct feeling that the standoff was to end badly. Each time I heard a Chibok girl or parent speak of the deep distress he or she felt while separated from a loved one, it resonated, activating a fear buried deep within me I’d always kept hidden.
I got on the plane to Sierra Leone at the end of November 2016. The twenty-one Chibok girls had been released just six weeks earlier. Even though I spoke to my mum on the phone almost daily—in fact, sometimes multiple times a day—I still couldn’t wait to be in her company and hang out with my brother. But I was excited to be going home this time for an additional reason. My nonprofit organization, W.E. Can Lead, was formally launching in seven schools in Sierra Leone, and close to 180 girls were already signed up to join our high school leadership development program. I had suitcases full of journals, T-shirts, and backpacks for my girls. I’d been counting down the days for weeks, impatiently awaiting this momentous trip.
It was after ten o’clock when the car pulled into our family’s compound in Freetown on that warm Monday night. But of course, Mum was still awake waiting for me. She pulled open the heavy wooden front door, which set off the funny groaning sound it always makes when it scrapes the hallway tiles. I hugged her close right there in the doorway and then planted a big, noisy kiss on her full cheek, a childish act that always made her laugh. As we walked to the living room, I took great delight in reminding her I was actually taller, a fact she’d developed lightning-quick skills to dismiss whenever it came up—which it did often, because her mock annoyance has always brought me so much joy. It felt so good to be home with her.
At sixty-seven, she looked far younger than her age. The face behind her glasses was still plump and her forehead unlined. Her long black hair, free of gray thanks to hair dye, fell over her shoulders in loose curls. I kicked off my sneakers and felt the coolness of the familiar dark brown floor tiles on the soles of my feet.
“There’s food,” she said. “Aren’t you going to eat?” As usual, the dining table was set with my favorite dishes: roasted spicy chicken, jollof rice, fried plantains, and a hearty salad.
“I’ll eat in a minute,” I promised her.
We’d fallen right back into our old ways.
She sat in her usual spot—the mustard-colored leather armchair in the corner, with her long, flowing African gown bunched around her knees. Her eyes shone with contentment while I piled a plate high, then settled on the sofa next to her. In between greedy mouthfuls, we caught up on everything. An ardent Hillary Clinton supporter, she was still reeling from the election of Trump earlier that month and worried about what it all meant for America. We talked about the presidential election in Sierra Leone slated for March 2018. She was at the heart of the action once more and, unofficially, had already been named as the vice-presidential pick for the second election in a row. The vote was still sixteen months away, but campaign logistics and internal party machinations were already taking up all her time and energy.
With the political terrain covered, we moved on to stories about my inappropriate suitors and often exceedingly absurd life in the States. Soon the sound of our laughter filled the house. For hours we sat in the living room chatting, the standing fan whirring away and the TV muted in the background, tuned to CNN, as it usually was, where a colleague of mine mouthed away silently.
Suddenly she looked at her watch. “It’s past two a.m., Isha Sesay!” She gasped. “It’s enough for today! Time to go to bed.”
Here I was, a forty-year-old woman. But as far as she was concerned, I was still very much her teenage daughter.
With only a week in Freetown, I’d ensured my schedule would be jam packed. I zigzagged across the overcrowded city to attend back-to-back school visits, where I welcomed dozens of girls with eyes filled of hope, handed out goodie bags loaded with W.E. Can Lead swag, gave lots of hugs, and took tons of pictures. I was in my element, talking to girls about being empowered, achieving their dreams, and becoming leaders.
On Thursday, I was exhausted, and by the time the sun began its journey across the gold, pink, and orange sky, I felt grateful to relax on a hotel patio with my dear cousin Maggie—the baby sister I never had—and her husband, Mahmoud. We had all attended the Lebanese International School at the same time, and so every get-together was an opportunity to revisit memories of our childhood mischief making. We were in the throes of wild laughter at one of our exploits when my cell phone rang.
Mum was calling. It was six thirty and she wanted to know my plans for the evening. “I’m going to a quick meeting at Maada’s,” she told me, referring to her presidential running mate. “Are you coming home for dinner?”
“I’m not sure yet. Call me when you’re on your way back from the meeting and I’ll let you know.”
“Okay,” she replied, “I won’t be long.”
When my phone rang a second time, it was a little past seven fifteen. This time it was FA, one of our relatives who lived at home with Mum.
“Isha, come o! Your mummy isn’t well.”
“What do you mean?” Anxiety tightened my throat.
“They’ve taken her to Choitram Hospital. Your brother, Mr. Sesay, is on his way.”
“I’m ten minutes down the road; I’m coming right away.” By the time I said those words, I felt like I’d already left my body. My nightmare was playing out in real time.
Mahmoud drove and Maggie did her best to calm me during the short journey to the hospital. Choitram was the place we went whenever anyone in our family took ill. The standard of care was decent, the facilities basic, and it was considered one of the best in an assortment of terrible hospitals in Freetown.
We sped onto the hospital grounds and I leapt out of the car as soon as Mahmoud parked. I bolted through the courtyard. As I ran I noticed a small crowd of people I recognized. They were my mother’s political colleagues, relatives, and family friends. I called out quickly, “Where is she?”
As fast as I was moving, I didn’t register who actually answered. But I did notice the worried look on all their faces. I raced down the walkway, leapt over a handful of steps, passed through the doors of the building housing the ICU ward, and ran straight into a hospital aide. I tried to go around him but he placed his body in front of the door leading to the ward.
“My mother is in there, Dr. Kadi Sesay,” I said, gasping for breath.
“You can’t go in,” he replied. “The doctors are with her.”
I tried to get around him but failed. “I need to see her. Move!” I screamed and tried to duck past him. He placed his body squarely in front of the door and put his hands out to hold me back. My jaw tightened. “If you don’t move, I’m going to punch you in the face!” I had to see her and I was willing to do whatever was necessary to make it happen. The aide faltered for just a moment, enough for me to shove past him and wrench open the ward door.
That’s when I saw her. The curtain around the bed was only partially drawn. Something was horribly wrong. She was sitting up on the bed without her glasses. Her head lolled from side to side, and she looked as if she was trying to fight off the handful of medical personnel sur
rounding her. I could tell she wasn’t fully conscious. The situation felt chaotic and the medical team looked overwhelmed. I wanted to call out to her and run over, but I could see they were trying to get her under control. So I just stood there openmouthed, horrified, while the sound of wildly beeping machines filled my ears. I had only one thought: We need to pray for her. I ran from the room.
By now there were even more people in the courtyard—more politicians, close friends, and relatives, including people from the neighborhood. I called out to an anxious-looking relative hovering close by, summoning all my willpower to speak slowly and clearly.
“Go right now to Alhaji Chernor! Tell him Mum is unwell. I need him to come and pray for her.”
Alhaji Chernor was the neighborhood imam and a close family friend, a constant source of support for my mother, whose faith had deepened as she’d gotten older. He was the person we’d always called if there were burial rites to be performed. Now I needed him to pray over my mother to keep her alive.
My brother turned up a few minutes later. I filled him in on what little I knew and we sat together in a corner, mostly silent, alongside Maggie and her husband.
“Alhaji Chernor is here!” someone shouted. I felt relief sweep through me and my heart was beating a little less violently. He’d come as soon as he heard the news. He walked briskly down the walkway toward me, his Qur’an tucked under the arm of his flowing robe. Gone was the bright, smiling face I was accustomed to. He looked grim, the eyes behind his glasses dark and serious. I led him to my mother. She was lying down now. Her breathing was labored and she was writhing. I was afraid I’d collapse if I stared too long at her, so I hovered with Alhaji Chernor by the horseshoe-shaped nurses’ station and tried to catch the eye of one of the doctors huddled by her bedside. A young-looking medic reluctantly came over. I introduced myself quickly. “How is she doing?” I asked nervously.
“We’re trying to get her vitals under control,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Our imam is here.” I pointed to Alhaji Chernor. “I’d like him to come in and pray for her. Is that okay?” I sounded desperate.
He paused for a moment before nodding “That’s fine. He just needs to stay out of the way.”
Moments later Alhaji Chernor stood beside one of the room’s large windows, a few feet away from my mum’s head, praying for God to spare her. I said my own prayers under my breath. Surely God would save the life of such a good woman.
The next few hours were the worst of my life. After a great deal of uncertainty, the doctors confirmed that my mother had suffered a massive stroke and there was major bleeding in her brain. It was devastating news. But I told myself that having a diagnosis meant we could at last move forward and deal with her condition. I even felt my spirits lift a little.
“So, who is going to do the surgery to stop the brain bleed?” I asked one of the doctors.
He didn’t reply immediately, but when he did, his words made no sense. “There is no neurosurgeon to perform the surgery.”
I was confused. “You mean there is no neurosurgeon in this hospital?” I enunciated each word slowly.
“There is no neurosurgeon in the country,” he responded.
How could that be? There was no one to perform this surgery in the entire country? No one to help my mum?
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“If you want surgery, you’ll have to take her out of the country.”
Mum was now lying completely still. Tension rose throughout my body. I nodded to the doctor. If flying her out of Sierra Leone was what needed to happen, then I was going to do that regardless of cost or logistical difficulty. The doctor told me about Aspen Medical, a medical evacuation company with offices thirty minutes away. A pleasant looking Sierra Leonean gentleman had been standing close by and listening intently to our conversation. Dr. Kabia introduced himself as a consultant at Choitram Hospital and offered to show me the way to Aspen Medical.
I emerged from the ward to explain the situation to my brother, Maggie, and her husband. I also had to say something to the crowd of people who’d been waiting in the courtyard for hours.
My legs felt heavy as I walked toward them and everyone stared. When my mother collapsed earlier that evening, she’d been in the home of Maada Bio, her presidential running mate, and a small group of other party faithful. I would later learn he’d caught her in his arms as she fell to ground, complaining of a headache and sweating profusely. Now I stood looking at him and a couple of graying gentlemen in the dark courtyard. They looked disconsolate.
“The scans show a massive stroke. There’s no one here who can do the surgery. So I have to take her out of the country. I’m going to arrange that now.” There wasn’t much else to say.
Brain cells die every minute that goes by after a stroke occurs; or as the experts put it, “Time is brain.” It was past ten o’clock and Mum had been bleeding for well over three hours. Time wasn’t on her side.
Mr. Claude, who’d been driving for our family since I was a teenager, was parked in the hospital lot. My brother and I ran over to Mum’s silver SUV, directing Mr. Claude to follow the vehicle slowly making its way along the gravely path toward the gate, its taillights glaring in the darkness. He nodded, turned the key in the ignition, and nothing happened. The car wouldn’t start.
Mr. Claude mumbled, “We’ve been having car trouble in recent days.”
I quickly jumped out to yell, “Dr. Kabia!”
It was after eleven when I discovered in Aspen Medical’s startlingly bright reception area that my mother couldn’t be airlifted till the next day. The medical aircraft was currently parked across the border in Liberia.
“Where do you want to take her?” a sleepy-looking nurse asked me.
I hadn’t even thought about our destination. As I didn’t speak French, my choices came down to the two English-speaking options in the region, Ghana and Nigeria. I’d never even visited Ghana before. Nigeria on the other hand, I knew. And for better or worse, they knew me.
“I’m taking her to Lagos,” I announced.
But first we needed a doctor in Nigeria to agree to admit her to a local hospital and to organize an ambulance to collect us from the plane the moment we touched down. And all those arrangements needed to be confirmed in writing before Aspen would take us.
The whole way back to the Choitram Hospital, I battled the grief trying to take over and prayed without end. When I walked back into the hospital courtyard, everyone was still there, looking weary and beaten.
I kept my voice low and unwavering. “I’m taking Mum to Nigeria in the morning, but there are still a lot of arrangements to make. Please go home and rest. There’s nothing more any of you can do for her right now. If you want to help, please pray for her to make it through the night. But for now, please go home. Thank you again for being here with us this evening.”
Soon I heard the sound of car doors slamming and engines starting.
It was now just my brother, Maggie, her husband, me, and a long list of things to do. Meanwhile my mother’s vital signs were weak and the doctors didn’t seem confident. I sat on the ground in the corner of the courtyard and went into autopilot. I quickly typed a text to a CNN executive: “My mum has had a stroke. Don’t know when I’ll be back.” I stayed awake through the night making phone calls, sending texts and emails, connecting doctors across borders, finalizing the details, praying. Then I finally packed two small bags, one for her and one for me. I’d gotten help from two Nigerian lifelines, Ayo Otuyalo and Adeniyi Adekoya. They’d buoyed my spirits, mobilized resources, and enlisted a friend from their church, Dr. Marilyn Osanife, to help find the neurosurgeon.
When the sun rose on Friday, December 2, my mother was still alive and all the arrangements were in place.
It was already uncomfortably warm, a few minutes after nine, when we finally left the hospital grounds. There wasn’t enough room for me in the ambulance so I followed close behind in Maggie and Mahmoud’s car. My br
other drove separately, while relatives and close family friends filled the other half dozen cars in the convoy. The roads of Freetown are pitted and scarred by potholes big and small. Every time the ambulance encountered one, I shuddered. My eyes never left the back of the vehicle carrying her as we wove through the congested streets, then boarded the old, lumbering ferry crowded with travelers and traders, packed buses, trucks, cars, motorbikes, and squawking poultry, all of us heading across the wide estuary to the coastal town of Lungi, home to the international airport.
When the creaking behemoth docked, the ambulance with sirens blaring and the rest of the convoy were the first ones off the boat. By now it was almost noon, and the journey to the airport itself took a further thirty minutes. At Lungi International Airport, the ambulance turned off the main thoroughfare and drove past the terminal building onto a short, uneven path I’d never been down before. At the very end was an opening, which took the ambulance directly onto the tarmac where the medical jet was waiting. By this stage, the convoy had grown to include Maada’s vehicles and a handful of other cars with more of mum’s close party friends. We were all following the ambulance down the same short dirt road when a number of airport officials appeared and ordered the cars to stop. The ambulance kept moving, but the rest of the convoy could go no farther.
An airport official told me I needed to clear immigration in the terminal before boarding the plane. It was time to say goodbye. I hugged my brother tight. “I’ll call as soon as we get to Lagos.”
He nodded and mumbled “Safe journey,” his voice muffled by grief. Maggie and her husband wrapped their arms around me. “God go with you and Aunty Kadi,” Maggie whispered. I nodded tearfully and said goodbye to as many family and friends as possible. Then, holding close all their words of comfort and prayer, I sped to the terminal.