A Grip on Her
The day I saved a life
I saw her move diagonally towards the open road. A red bus was coming from the far left of the road. Besides, lock-up stores were busy with activities — some standing, some buying, some entering, and others leaving the shops.
I saw as she wavered in her step. Her head was pointing downward which she raised intermittently as if she looked for something she wasn’t sure of; her face was like that of a child facing a crowd for the first time.
Apart from her somewhat, melancholy and uneasy appearance, every other thing about her was making a positive appeal on me.
She wasn’t too slim and you can’t say she was fat. The contour that gracefully moved from her upper region down to her hips region, in a split second, was artistically drawn inside my head. I didn’t miss a quick glance at those sacred temples standing tall right in front of her chest.
I quickly pinched myself from the inside. I wasn’t going to let lust filter in.
If not for holiness' sake, I could begin to imagine what sliding my hands around those corners would feel like. I wondered what could be making such a beautiful damsel downcast.
She was the kind of girl a guy will like to bump into at the college hallway, in such a way as making all her books fly into different directions — an opportunity to show how caring the guy can be — with a first impression of bending over to pick up the pieces.
She was right at the edge of the road now, exactly opposite where I was standing.
I wasn’t going to make any moves. I’m not that daring, I think. At least, I knew nothing about her. I have seen more stunning ones and still walked away like I saw nothing. But at the same time, something in me desired that when I take a stroll, this girl should be the one walking beside me.
However, in quick successions, I have judged and decided. That’s not going to be. Her face seemed to say, I’ll murder anyone that tries me and my liver was now living inside a shell.
Then it happened!
‘Screeeeeeech!’
“Hey! Did she just consciously step in front of the bus?”, there wasn’t enough time to answer that.
I jumped into the road and gripped her. My adrenaline was high so she wasn’t too heavy.
“Open the door driver” I snapped as if it wasn’t open already. Passengers have jumped down, some clutching their heart, some talking in loud voices, I didn’t have enough time to capture expressions as people gathered.
Having served in the Red Cross Society a little during my compulsory National Youth Service Corps program as a Nigerian graduate, I knew a little to do.
Quickly, I laid her on the bus seat as I signaled to the driver, “to FMC”, and opened all the glass windows. Then, frantically I locked my two hands, in a first aid manner, found a way to stand and bend over her, and placed them, in position on her chest, not minding that I was touching something that looked sacred, some minutes ago.
I started to administer CPR. I was pumping as fast as I could while gapping “you can’t die on me!”.
Many times I did it. Anxiety didn’t let me take count.
I quickly shouted to the driver, “faster, drive faster!”, without answering to his mixed expression of fear, curses, and concern uttered from a shaky voice, “which kind of temptation o.., Is she alive.. is she..?”
He knew he’ll be in trouble soon thanks to this mystery girl. And even if he wasn’t at fault, once you have a death case like this in the country, you won’t come out the same.
Sentiments follow a death case. And had I not swung into action, making frantic efforts, as if the girl was still alive, the crowd that was gathering could have lynched him if they felt the girl was already dead. Mob action always follows fatal accidents, especially when the driver survived and those he hit never made it.
Besides, even if he went scot-free after the whole thing, he’ll have the rest of his life to deal with the thought, that blood was in his palms.
Conscience can play fast games. And can be good at it.
Even if he wins the conscience game, the stigma of ‘you murderer’ may be attached to him by the mischievous around him. People die every day. ‘And it almost means nothing.’ But no conscientious individual would like to be an instrument of death.
He may suffer tragic attacks for the rest of his life.No doubt, the driver was shaken. Who wasn’t that saw the hit?
At this moment I mumbled prayers in my heart. The girl was white now. I felt a warmness inside my underwear: hot urine had exploded without me pumping my bladder.
I remembered the positive confessions we used to make in fellowship when motivational preaching was done. Today, it wasn’t, “I can’t be poor, silver and gold belong to my God”. It wasn’t even, “I shall not die and no weapon fashioned against me shall prosper”. I might die for her as well.
Because, the moment I sighted this mystery girl, I knew some trouble had a grip on her. But now, somehow, she was the one now having a grip on me.
Again I quickly caught myself. I felt I needed to feel holy to do what was next (spirituality can get complicated at times). Something is drawing your entire being, yet you are trying to hold back so as not to cross the thin line between love and lust.
Negative thoughts seemed to be weighing on my mind and my hands became heavy from pumping on her chest. I used to feel like a sinner when that slight bulge begins under my pants some times when an attractive lady tries to flirt with me. I had slightly felt that way a moment ago, while “this lifeless being” was standing at the corner of the road.
Holy Martha! Why should I be feeling like a sinner when am trying to save a life? Is this a battle against my fighting spirit? Then I remembered Rev. Ben’s relationship message: “Temptation is not sinning, yielding to it, is. It’s alright to get aroused, it becomes a sin when it gives you direction”. “But don’t I want this one to give me direction?”, I judged myself.
I made that positive confession, nonetheless, silently. Countless times, when there wasn’t really an issue, I made it as an investment prayer. Positive confessions are now like culture and part of me even in the most daring challenges like this.
At this moment I had stopped the CPR, which I had performed in some sequences. It didn’t work.
I have to try something else — anything was cool now, at least to keep my growing tension as low as possible — mouth-to-mouth breathing.
I said the words a little louder, “nothing dies in my hands!”, but not with that loud mouth of my prayer time.
Then, I tilted her head. I still remembered the procedure in this emergency. Punched her nose lightly. Even if I didn’t get it all right, we were taught that trying is better than not and can be the difference between life and death.
So I blocked her nostrils with my left fingers and lowered my mouth gently into hers. I noticed my hesitation.
I didn’t stop.
I locked my mouth inside hers. And breathed out with my mouth…
It wasn’t in the most decent way, anyway. And, was she waiting for this? She sneezed — poured it all over my mouth and face. Then her eyes rolled a little, enough to take a glance at the mess on my face, which to me felt like, oh it was you, thank heavens!
Her left finger moved a little, although her look of uneasiness, told me she was in deep pain. I took it, and she gripped my hands a moment, although it felt like ages.
Then she closed her eyes again.
I felt her heartbeat, blood was pumping and she was now breathing fine although she seemed to have turned pale.
Joy didn’t let me notice how messed up I’d become as I staggered off her to the nearest seat. I had become a lifesaver. A pleasant one. It felt like I had just won the Olympics, and before me was my crown.
“ Thank God”, I muttered and leaned over to feel her chin in a caring way I thought was strange. I opened the door as the driver pulled over at the Federal Medical Centre.
“Stretcher”, the driver called to the nurses.
As the nurses wheeled her into the hospital, I kept standing at the spot I was now. The lion instinct that just manifested earlier seemed to have numbed. I was at loss for what to do next. But part of me was dying to find out what happened to her.
I was sure this wasn’t an accident.
“This had a symptom of self-pity-driven suicide..”, my thoughts raged. And now my mind was made up. I am going to the root of this matter. I won’t only save her physically. I will save her from emotional torture as well, even if it means that she’ll now be strolling beside me. Whatever was gripping her mind was light when compared to the grips she now has on me.
I was still standing staring into the thin air when the driver came out. Hugged me. And said in the local dialect, “I bu agu!” (you’re a lion!).
This is purely a fictional short story: Series…
Chukwuma Oleka is a lifestyle writer also a freelance writer. Watch out for episode 2 or my next short story. If you like my writing, please let me know in the comment section. Follow, clap, share and engage in every way you can. If you want to support my writing contact me here on Whatsapp or my contact me from my website.
