I don’t know how daffodils bloom in early spring. I’ve never seen a daffodil before. In Ejigbo, where I grew up, the only things I remember seeing were the busy roads and my dusty brown shoes.

I knew the road pattern by every brick, soil and dirt not because I tried to pay attention. It was because my eyes were always lowered. I didn’t know how to look up. I didn’t need to. My eyelids were always burdened by fear instead of humility.

Once, I read someone describe the laughter of his lost love as daffodils blooming in early spring and it stuck in my head because I wondered what that felt like.

Whenever I think of the best laughter that I’ve ever heard, it’s like the sound of the faulty medium-sized generator at the back of our house in which the yellow coating on the top had started to peel off.

Although it was memorable, there was nothing remarkable about it. I bet I wouldn’t have seen daffodils bloom or die even if they were present in my house.

Today, I’m in the children's endocrinology ward and I don’t know what endocrinology means. Sometimes, I wonder why I chose the medical field.

There’s a ten-year-old boy in front of me. I can hear the doctors droning on and on but the ten-year-old still has my attention. He is sprawled, the small Gideon Bible on his chest bobbing with each breath he takes. There are reddish-brown blood stains on the bedspread that look like they have been there for a little over two weeks. I pick up his case file to check his condition and find out that he has meningitis.

Truly, there are two kinds of people you meet in the children's endocrinology ward.

  • Children who don’t know why they are there
  • Caregivers who don’t want to be there.

Then there’s me, the pharmacy student staring at the now washed and very light curtains which look like they have been hung for a decade. The Mickey Mouse designs on them were barely visible now like the emotions of these healthcare professionals.

I wanted the curtains to be flowery, perhaps yellow and pink so that when these children look around while lying helplessly on the bed, there would be a pop of colour that can give them hope, give them life, or if possible make them smile. But there’s none. The closest thing to a pop of colour here is the sky but they can’t see it. I can only see it because I’m standing near the windows.

Nothing else gets my attention except the ten-year-old with the pocket-sized Gideon Bible. I watch him as he tosses and turns to the side of the bed writhing in discomfort. I continue going through his case file to find out that he was also the best in his class.
He had fallen ill a few weeks ago, coming down with bouts of fever and was rushed to the emergency ward. After two different occurrences of convulsions, he was transferred to the children's endocrinology ward. He’s a fighter. He looks like one. I want to hear him laugh and smile again.

Staring at the ceftriaxone seeping into his blood little by little reminds me of nothing. There’s emptiness in his eyes. There’s emptiness in mine too. I wish I could tell him a story of a love found, of daffodils blooming in spring, of angels and fairytales. But I can’t. I can’t move from where I am too. We’re all so different in this ward, yet so similar. It’s unbelievable.

The nurses act with so much perfunctoriness. Like they are used to their job enough for it to zap all the compassion from them. The doctors are even worse, each patient is a case study for the student doctors to learn. They recite their notes over the patients’ heads, over the ten-year-old boy’s head, conducting their clerkship.
It’s an experiment for them. None of them are wondering why a Gideon Bible is placed on his chest by his mother. None of them are wondering why the curtains are so pale and sickening. None of them care that he’s the best in his class and if only we could reverse the hands of time, he’d not have been here.

Instead, they care about the assessment, dismissing his slight groans and painful sighs. I watch everything with my eyes widened, taking it all in. I want to touch his face and tell him he’s going to be okay but how do I know? I know nothing except that I’m in the children's endocrinology ward.

His mother comes a few minutes after with her hair tied in a loose turban. She scratches her head as she walks up and down, placing her small phone on her ear while grumbling. My group members are now seated but I’m standing. I’m still watching him. His face is unreadable but beautiful.

There are so many children in the ward but this is the one my heartstrings tug towards.

I now realise that I have tried to change my life in many ways. The last time I tried again was when I watched a video about going back to your childhood memory, except that this time your older self has to be present. After the exercise, I was crying, bawling my eyes out and sniffing like I was heartbroken

In my mind, I had taken the walk back to my street in Ejigbo. It was the same dusty roads with potholes, the same yellow buses and ugly bikes at my left and right. This time, I’m beside my younger version. She’s walking, looking downwards as usual, her hair is in a messy bun and her hands clutch her school bag very tightly as if she must not let go of it else her world may come crashing down.

I stop her this time and she flinches. I tell her she can look up, that the world won’t burn her eyes and she can let go of her school bag. I tell her it’s a beautiful world out there and it is only what you focus on that expands. She’s staring at me but she doesn’t say a word. I want to tell her more but I stop, repeating the same words hoping she will take action. She’s scared and I can feel it so deeply.

If you listen to ‘Choros’ by Ludovico Einaudi, you’ll find out that there’s a change in rhythm at exactly 3:35 and then at 4:23. There are different changes in rhythm throughout the song but at 4:23, it’s like a renaissance. It’s like the world has shifted, and has become different.

This is exactly what happens. Immediately, there is a change and it is not slight. It is transforming and soon she starts running and I run with her. Her eyes light up so brightly and now they’re looking at the sky, basking in the most beautiful shade of blue she has ever seen. Her hands are free—as she is no longer clutching the school bag. There’s no fear in her eyes this time, only freedom. I’m crying again. This time, it’s louder.

Nothing has truly changed. The roads are still dusty, the school bag is slightly heavy, and we’re still alone but the sky is comforting. I wish to say they’re like daffodils but I don’t think anything compares to the beauty of the sky.

There’s no wall clock in the children's endocrinology ward. I notice immediately because I want to check how many hours I have left. I want to go home because everyone is acting like they can’t hear a child at the end screaming meanwhile that’s the only thing I hear.

The medical students still stand in groups gesturing to another child, the one with the heart disease, examining her.

‘Is there a TV here?’ I ask my colleague without waiting for a response because already I see it, shoved far away from the children, a small black television that has probably never been switched on.

As the senior doctor continued the ward round, I realised that my younger self did not need permission to look up yet she waited all her life for it.

I’m here standing opposite the ten-year-old, as he sleeps quietly still wondering why these Mickey Mouse curtains are so faded.

This time, the ward was silent but the silence was comfortable. Daffodils or not, blooming was near. I just knew.