Lily Among Thorns: A Novel

By Kenneth Anueyiagu

Lloyd Zing, university lecturer, tells himself it does not really matter if he has sex with a female student who wants her exam scores influenced. Everybody does it. No one will know. The HOD, his boss, will not know. Besides, his wife is late. He does it and is infected with HIV. The monster is alive!
In his dilemma, he gets hypnotized. He uses the virgin cure (the younger the age the more potent the cure) and rapes his four year old daughter. He commits suicide once he realises the deception. The monster rages!
Philip Zing, Lloyds brother and urologist, learns what Lloyd has done. He is devastated but fights and redirects his passion to giving hope to the monsters victims. Philip has a lovely wife and a dreamer daughter whose dreams always come true.
Citizens of The Earth (CiTE) is a gang of six powerful cultic stinking rich business gurus. Van Mirkovich is Don and leader. Together with his heartless CiTE cohorts, wield powerful influences on the economies of many countries. No one trespasses their path without paying the ultimate price. They murder with impunity. The hit man is the notorious African American, T.M. Kay.
Virgin cure myth is CiTEs brain child. SOMBC condoms and the nocuous JG vaccine equally trail behind. The propagator, Lady Sabrina Zithulele rules supreme in the Southern Africa territories via their clinic Locale international. The monster is unleashed! The result? Death to the continent!
Philip, with the help of his childhood friend Martin Musawenkosi, Prof Elettra B. Alessio and Barrister Kayo Cadman, sets up a non profit organisation called Lily. They aim to give care and hope to those living with the monster. Through the likes of Lola, Bola, Chucks, Tunde and Bibi, victim and non-victims, but sympathetic multilevel awareness wrung campaigners, Lilys messages soon spread to all strata of society. Hope is born!
CiTEs new target is the economy of Africas most populous country. CiTE finds Lily, dangles bait and condition. Would Lily accept marketing SOMBC condoms and the nocuous JG vaccine? Lily rejects condition and offer. Lily is marked!
Philip and Martin speak at the one million-man match against this monstrous Africas plague in Windhoek, Namibia. The match turns out more repertories than hoped for; colourful African dancers striving to outdo each other and more.
CiTE becomes aggravated and vows to annihilate Lily. CiTE is Lilys thorns. The contract is out!
CiTE sniper, Kay does what he does best. He murders Martin Musawenkosi. Now, the hunter is haunted! Haunted? Not likely for a veteran killer, except .. Then in a twist of faith, he turns around, quits CiTE and joins Lily. Faith triumphs!
CiTE kills deserting members; such is the rule, written and must be so. Two attempts already failed. The Don and the Mobster, heartless Barbara Berthold tries again.
And the CIA, what is their part in this? To choke the Lily or root out the thorns?
Hope lives on

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456879921

Kenneth Anueyiagu

Kenneth Anueyiagu started writing short stories at age 9. His passion for writing grew as he grew older. He loves expressing his emotion in writing; writing about what he loves and also what he hates. He trained as a Microbiologist at the University of Ilorin, Nigeria and had Master of Public Health (MPH) at the University of Dundee, UK. He is married to lovely Debbie who lives with him in Jos, Nigeria where he works as a lecturer.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Kenneth Anueyiagu.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011903488

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4568-7991-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4568-7990-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-7992-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

[e-mail]

301773

Contents

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to all HIV/AIDS patients all over the world.

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Acknowledgement

I would like to acknowledge my lovely wife, Debbie for her contagious sense of exhilaration as I read each new scene to her before bed time, as long as the writing of this piece lasted.

I would also like to appreciate Mrs M. E. Ogedengbe who was the first person to proofread, make observations and valuable suggestions to this book.

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Prologue

His name was Don Van Mirkovich. This was one of his many names—one of the identities of his many personalities—a cat with nine lives. He was born in Cuba but had a strong Russian accent. He was seated at the head of a long table with five other aristocrats: three men and two good-looking but psychedelic ladies. These gents and ladies called themselves Citizens of The Earth, CiTE.

They were in a conference room, the CiTE chamber. A conference room that boasted of the best available Italian leather chairs and a glossy, exquisite, perfectly finished table made of cedar tree from Lebanon in style of Thomas Sheraton. The table was littered with cell phones, Apple laptops, one projector, cups of coffee, and cigarette ashtrays containing cigarette butts and ashes. The room was fully air-conditioned and soundproof. The walls were coated white.

This was a high-powered conference. The other five people seated at the sides of the table, two on the right side and three on the left side, took sips of their coffee while awaiting Don to open the hooting call. The ‘hooting call’ was a crucially urgent meeting called by the Don. The other head of the table was vacant because of the screen of the projector that hung on the wall.

Don drew in a deep draw of his cigar, puffed smoke off and drew more smoke. He said nothing and did not permit anything to be said. The silence in the CiTE chamber could amplify the sound of a falling pin on a rug carpet. The other five members of the Citizens of The Earth were set in suspense—a fearful suspense. The written constitution said equity amongst members, but everyone knew the unwritten constitution that Don was the Caesar in the house whose word was law. They knew the dread of this beast of a man, especially when he was angry. Don determined, or so they believed, who lived or died. He dictated the tone of the pipe because he paid the piper.

He was dressed in a maroon tailcoat, a straw hat with black spots, a black walking stick, and a pair of Cheetah-skinned shoes. His hat covered his face while he smoked. His walking stick was a sheath for a sword named after the mythical Achilles; he purchased it in Greece from a purported archaeologist.

Suddenly he tipped his hat up and gazed at his colleagues but at no one in particular. ‘The owl is a wise bird. It is not a mere bird. It is the centre of attention when he comes on stage. When it hoots, who would not be afraid?’ came a growl from his smiling lips.

Others didn’t hear what was said, but it made them more nervous and troubled. No man had ever unnerved Don, but he enjoyed the game of unnerving men, especially men of great social significance.

Don touched his hat again and glared at his colleagues. He was a man of few words but a man of terrifying action. ‘We’ve got reports concerning a group of vassals who have sworn to destroy all we hold dear.’

There was silence again. Nobody understood what he said. They waited for clarifications.

‘Who are these assholes?’ asked Barbara Berthold when she felt the honcho was ready for their submissions. The meanness in her voice contradicted her amiable nature. Everybody liked her here. She was the MD/CEO of Dolf Pharmaceuticals.

‘They are called . . . uh . . . The . . . uh . . . The . . . what?’ He turned to Dr T. M. Kay. ‘What are they called?’

‘They are called the Lily,’ answered Dr Kay as he rose up and connected his laptop to the projector. Dr Kay was black and most polished and tallest of all, broadly shouldered, a man mountain with height towering six feet seven. Pointing to the screen, he continued, ‘They have their origin in Nigeria. This is an NGO comprising three young men and a woman as pioneers with one Dr Phil Zing as the head. The NGO was incorporated with Nigerian Corporate Affairs Commission, and Minnesota Non-profit Corporations, USA . . .’

‘What are their activities aimed at?’ interrupted Dr Wen Cho still oblivious of the subject of discussion. He was a virologist/genetic engineer, an ex-member of CDC. He was sitting closest to Don, on the right side.

Lady Sabrina Zithulele retorted, ‘These guys were given opportunity of receiving financial aids as we earlier agreed in our last meeting, but they rebuffed it because they are anti-condom usage. They spat on our faces and told us off with our offer.’ She was trying to make a mountain out of a mole’s hill. This woman feudal superior, Native of Africa, as she was often referred to, is a rare beauty—very dark, ebony black, with only her teeth seen in a dark room. Today she was regally dressed in violet shoes, handbag, hairband—everything in violet.

Turning his gaze from the screen to Dr Wen Cho, Don added in a controlled flush of ferocity, ‘Besides, they’ve joined forces with some Namibians to fight our theory and all that the Locale International represented. They refused to be our allies, and they’ve risen to fight us.’

Dr Kay came in. ‘Worse still, I gathered from the Net last night that they presented a scientific paper on the fallacies of JGV, that our JG vaccine does not immunise against HIV/AIDS during the Namibian laboratory owners’ annual scientific conference. My own problem is this annoying habit of fighting against our theory. They call it myths. Another paper was presented two months ago on evaluation of condom as a panacea for HIV prevention, presented at NACA—a Nigerian government agency—conference.’

Anger and hate could be seen on the faces of the CiTE as the reality was dawning on them. Each of the six was a CEO of large public conglomerates. Each of them owned corporations of renown with different divisions in banking, petroleum, health care, hospitality industry, airline, real estate, and precious stones. Each of them was quoted in stock market floors with happy stockholders, good dividend in so many stock markets across Africa and Asia—each one of them vain and greedy. Their greed was like death—wide as the underworld, a bottomless pit—never satisfied, never having enough. There is always room for more, something else to possess, some other objectives to gain. These men and women specialise in collecting from all nations and all people.

All of the six had one common purse financed by their condom-manufacturing company. Theirs top the condom market in the Third World, particularly Africa and some parts of Asia. Aside from the condom company, a vaccine-producing pharmaceutical company was also founded that financed their common purse. These two companies had for some five years been producing internationally uncertified condoms and vaccines for HIV.

‘Gentlemen and ladies,’ Don Van Mirkovich said as he finally laid on the table his aces. ‘I have reasons to believe Dr Philip Zing, or whatever he calls himself, and his gang have more plans against us than we are aware of. They have no business setting up these plans, no matter how sublime they are because it is a trespass. They are treading on sacred ground—our territory. And every trespass on our sacred ground attracts severe punishment . . .’

With a frown on his face, O’Dean Blushy, speaking for the first time, interrupted Don, ‘What about the possibility of an unintentional fight for what they believe was right?’ O’Dean Blushy who was fondly called ‘The Prince’ was a multi-talented international business mogul.

Don threw an angry glance at O’Dean Blushy and said, ‘The Prince, did you not get what I just said? They are trespassing on sacred ground. SOMBC and JGV are our sacred ground. If they succeed, you can guess correctly the fate of SOMBC and JGV.’ Turning away, he spat out with a note of finality, ‘I propose that Philip Zing and his right-hand man should be snuffed off. Let’s be thorns that choke breath out of the Lilies.’

‘What about leaders of the one-million-man march in Namibia?’ Dr Kay asked.

‘Let them alone. A little threat will take care of them.’

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Chapter One

The man’s eyes snapped open. Whiteness and brightness of the room forced him to shut them instantly. Slowly, he opened them up again. He looked around, not sure where he was, rose up from the bed, thrust out his legs and hands one after the other, and with a loud unexpected yawn, he headed for the only door, right of the expansive room where he had been sleeping. The walk to the door was a déjà vu.

I’ve been here before, he thought.

Closing up to the door, there was no door. He turned and looked at the eight-spring bed in which he’d been sleeping; it was still there just as he left it. This can’t be his room. So where was he? Where was the door he just saw a moment ago? Panic started settling down like a thick black cloud over a once bright sky.

‘Where am I?’

He went to touch the wall to make sure it was not also a mirage. He touched the wall with his two hands. The wall was there, rigid as concrete. He ran his hands from one end of the wall till he almost arrived at where he started. He looked up; the single 200-watt light bulb which lighted the room was the only thing hanging carelessly to what looked like a sturdy white ceiling.

He climbed the bed and reached out to touch the ceiling, but it was very high, higher than his jump could reach.

The panic was growing into a horror. Sweat beads were already forming on his forehead. Where could he be?

The floor was as rigid as the wall when he reached down to touch it. He looked under the bed; it was empty. Was this a kind of joke or something?

‘O goodness, what is going on?’ His voice was audibly shaky. It soon occurred to him that the question too was a déjà vu. What was happening to him in this familiar room?

Suddenly he let out the cry that had been welling up in his heart, ‘Somebody! Help me!’ His voice trailed off with a resounding echo that his ears were surprised to hear.

He shouted again for help. Was help close by? Was he confined forever to this mystery called a room? He waited for some time, hoping help will come. Did help come?

Come what may, I will come out of this place, came his seeming comforting thoughts at the right time. He began to pace the room which seemed to be triangular in shape with a single bed where he had been sleeping, placed at the centre. The room was wide enough to contain another ten similar beds. I can’t be here forever. By whichever way I came into this room, by that same way I will leave. He was gaining more strength and confidence as he waited for a rescue.

After what seemed an eternity, he began to lose his cool again. This time he couldn’t hold himself as he began to scream for help. ‘Help! Help! Help m . . . e . . . e!’ He started to sob, and suddenly he woke up. ‘Oh, thank goodness!’ he sighed with relief. ‘It is a dream.’

Bang bang on his door.

Who could be banging at such an unholy hour? It was about 2.30 a.m.

Bang bang bang again.

‘Who is that?’ he said with a cautious quivery voice.

‘If you don’t open this door at the count of three, your head will roll off tonight because we shall break in and . . .’

He woke up suddenly with a jolt.

‘Honey, are you okay?’ came the voice of his wife who was also brought to reality from her sweet sleep by the jolt.

Phil Zing couldn’t utter a word at the first instance. He was dazed. Fear was written all over him. Sitting up, he felt wetness on the bed. He had been perspiring profusely.

His wife caught the movement of his eyes. ‘You’re sweating, darling,’ she said sweetly.

‘Come to mummy and tell me what the problem is.’ She drew her husband and held his head to her breast, wiping the sweat on his forehead.

The comfort could not be resisted. ‘I . . . think it . . . was a nightmare . . . ,’ stammered Phil with his head buried in the bosom of the soothing comfort of Tine, his lovely wife.

‘Tell me about it.’ Tine gave her husband a light but reassuring peck on his cheek.

The husband hesitated, but her determined insistence prevailed. ‘Talk to me, honey.’

‘I dreamt of being . . .’ Phil lifted his head from his wife’s bosom, gave her a metallic smile but kept quiet.

‘What is it?’ his wife was not deceived by his fake smile. She was growing impatient.

‘I dreamt of dreaming in a dream.’

‘I see. You had two dreams, one in the other. Tell me about them.’

‘I dreamt of being confined in a room that has no door. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all made of impenetrable concrete.’ He stopped as his gaze zoomed off to an empty space.

‘A . . . n . . . d what happened?’ asked Tine, drawing his attention back from oblivion to reality.

‘Do you know what it means to be alone and lonely? Have you ever felt lonely and alone?’

Tine felt taken aback. What could he be talking about? ‘How do you mean?’

‘Just what I asked,’ replied the husband.

‘Yes, I have. If I understand your question, I think I know what it means to be alone. That happened when I lost my best friend in my secondary school in the dormitory. You know the story.’

‘Okay! What about being lonely?’

‘There is no difference between being alone and being lonely.’

‘I think there is a difference but go on, tell me what you think.’

‘I can only explain being alone. To be alone means to be without help or support from anyone, just like I felt when my best friend died.’

‘Your experience was more of feeling the pain of bereavement. What I felt is what I can best describe as being lonely. My psychology lecturer defined loneliness as a painful psychological state of feeling alone, being solitary, companionless, and isolated. That was how I felt in that mysterious room. I felt deserted, forgotten, and forsaken by friends and relatives.’ Phil could not hide the humorlessness of the issue. His eyebrows were furrowed, serious.

Tine did not utter a word. She knew her husband very well, especially when he was talking with undaunted conviction of what he believed. They had being married for seven years—a marriage blessed with a girl of five.

Continuing, Phil said, ‘The feeling was close to the lonesomeness a dying person feels before passing on.’

Tine knew quite well what he meant. She remembered the way he felt whenever any of his patients died in his hospital. Phil was a medical doctor. But having this scary feeling in a dream was beyond her power of comprehension and imagination. It drove fear into her innermost self. She believed so much in the power of dreams, but her husband rarely dreamt. Suddenly, an ill wind of lonesomeness began to pervade her mind, the feeling that she was at the threshold of losing her husband. ‘Honey, I’m cold. Please cover me with the blanket.’

Dr Phil understood what was happening. He knew she was beginning to fear for his life. ‘Honey, I’m fine. It was only a dream,’ he replied, pulling his wife to himself. ‘You see why I don’t like telling you my dreams.’

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just can’t help losing you. I will be fine, just let me lie down; pull the blanket over me,’ she said, releasing herself from his grip.

Phil obliged his wife and pulled the blanket over her.

Phil looked at the face of his beautiful wife, whose eyes were closed already, and smiled. She was truly beautiful: fresh as the morning dew and as pretty as a blushing rose, an ebony beauty, filled with love and sense of humour but emotionally sentimental. She was afraid of losing him. She had said it before.

No! She is not going to lose me, neither will I lose her. How could he lose the loveliest thing in the world? And their daughter? God’s best gift to him! His Sweet Plum! No! He’ll not die. He’ll do all within his power to protect them. With a silent hiss, he lied down beside her.

The time was 4.23 a.m. Two more hours of sleep won’t be a bad idea.

*     *     *

Dr Phil was already at the dining table taking his breakfast: a cup of hot tea, three slices of home-made bread, and omelette, and reading the dailies while waiting for his daughter—his daily routine.

His home was a well-organised house: there was a place for everything, and everything was in its place. His wife, a non-practicing accountant, was a very good homemaker, a virtuous woman. It was an agreement with her husband to train up their daughter, and one more child, they expected to have soon, to secondary school level before she seeks a paid employment.

The dining room had an access door to the kitchen on the south—the sitting room on the north with a dividing, open, arched door—then a third access door that led to the corridors leading to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and toilets.

The sitting room which was coated white had coffee-coloured sofas with assorted floral throw pillows, a glass centre table, and olive green curtains. The floor was tiled with cream-coloured marble tiles. An olive green Persian rug carpet was placed at the centre of the sitting room, and upon it was placed the glass centre table. The dining room was made of polished mahogany table and four chairs.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’ came the voice of Shannon running to her dad.

‘Uh! My sweet plum!’ he said as he opened his arms, lifted his girl, and gave her a father’s loving embrace. ‘How are you this morning, my angel?’ continued Dr Phil.

‘I’m fine, Dad,’ replied the five-year-old Shannon. A girl with an elfin face, pug nose, two of her upper front teeth had fallen out only a couple of weeks before and left her with a gap-toothed smile.

‘Come on, give Daddy a peck,’ Dr Phil said.

By this time, Tine was already standing there watching the father-daughter love game that they did every morning. A smile from Tine agreed to the relationship between father and daughter. ‘It’s all right, sweetie. Come down from Daddy and have your breakfast so you won’t be late for school.’

‘Yes, Mom!’ Shannon replied as she came down and sat at the dining table left of her dad. Tine took the chair opposite Shannon, the right side of her husband.

Taking a bite on a slice of bread, Shannon said with a mouthful, ‘Daddy, will you . . . ?’

‘Shannon!’ her mom interrupted. ‘Children should not talk while . . .’

‘They eat,’ Shannon completed the statement.

‘Ask Daddy whatever when you’ve finished eating, okay?’

Dr Phil gave his daughter a nod, concurring with his wife.

In a jiffy, they were through with breakfast. As her mom packed the dishes to the kitchen, Shannon asked, ‘Daddy, will you come and pick me up after school today?’ Shannon asked this with a glint in her pretty face, not expecting a ‘no’ from her dad.

‘No, sweetheart, Daddy will be very busy at work. Mummy will pick you up.’ He gave her a peck on her forehead.

‘Okay, Dad, what about tomorrow?’ Shannon wouldn’t give up when she made requests.

‘Hmm . . .’

‘Please, Dad . . .’

‘All right!’ he said as he picked his grey suit to put on.

‘Oh! Thank you, Dad! You are the best!’ She gave her dad a big hug.

‘What’s up?’ Tine was coming from the kitchen beaming with a broad smile as she watched father and daughter in another embrace.

Happily, her daughter announced, ‘Daddy promised to pick me up from school tomorrow.’

‘Uh! Aren’t you a lucky girl?’ Her mother touched her cheek. ‘Here is your lunch pack. Now go get your school bag. Hurry, sweetie!’

‘Daddy, wait for me!’ Shannon hurried to pick her school bag from her room. Dr Phil was already on his way to their garage that housed two cars, a Toyota Camry for him and a Nissan Bluebird for his wife.

‘Hurry up and meet me at the garage.’ He gave his wife a kiss, their goodbye tonic.

‘Bye, honey, stay out of trouble. See you lunchtime,’ the pretty Tine sang sweetly as she followed her husband to open the gate of the garage for him.

Dr Phil unlocked his Toyota Camry and pulled the lever for the bonnet. He was checking the oil and water when his daughter came.

‘Bye bye, Mummy!’

‘Bye! Sweetheart! Do not soil your clothes.’

‘Yes, Mom!’

Soon they were driving out of governor’s estate. The car turned right of the major road heading to Shannon’s school. She attended Foremost Children School, just about 5km from governor’s estate.

‘Hope you will be a good girl at school today?’

‘Yes, Dad, I will. No noisemaking in class! No sleeping in class! I’ll listen to the teacher and do what he says!’ She had memorised what her father usually said when taking her to school.

‘That’s my sweet plum!’

‘Daddy, what is HIV?’ She changed the subject of discussion abruptly. Children had the most amazing, most flexing minds in the world.

Dr Phil shot his daughter a surprise look, not ready to believe what he just heard. ‘Where did you get that word from?’

‘I heard it last night when you were listening to the news.’

Not so surprised, he knew how sharp and brilliant his daughter’s mind was. But who would have believed she was doing her homework with her mom in the dining room when the news was being read. ‘That word is not meant for children.’

‘But, Daddy what is it? I am a grown-up now. I’m going to be six very soon.’

Smiling, he said, ‘Yes, I’m aware. I will tell you when you are ten.’

‘Hey! That is Teacher Dada,’ Shan said waving excitedly as they approached the school gate to a middle-aged bald-headed, thickset, pot-bellied man that has the most bulbous nose with untamed nostril hairs sticking out in all directions Phil thought he had ever seen. That not enough, Teacher Dada had too much of everything. He was too dark and too short. Once Phil found words for his thoughts, and gossiping to Tine, he said, ‘It baffles me how Teacher Dada, despite his apparent unattractiveness, was so able to endear himself to these children. He is deeply loved by them all.’

Dr Phil breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden change of the subject. He parked his car at the parking lot outside the school gate.

‘Get down from the car, honey!’ he said coming down from the driver’s door. Locking the vehicle, he took his daughter’s lunch pack on his left hand, held her on his right hand, and the two walked into the school gate.

Exchange of pleasantries with some familiar parents and teachers began and didn’t stop until he was driving away to work.

His mind switched back to his daughter’s question. How will I explain HIV to my five-year-old daughter? His thought was beginning to meander from one possible answer to another because he knew the issue will still be raised by his daughter, if not after work today, it will be another day.

*     *     *

‘Good morning, Dr Phil,’ the receptionist at the Urology department greeted Phil warmly. Phil was a consultant urologist with Nigeria University Teaching Hospital, NUTH. He had his training in urology at Morehouse School of Medicine, Atlanta Georgia, USA, after which he registered as a member of American Urological Association and Association of Nigerian Urologists. He was certified and licensed.

‘Good morning, Kate. How are you doing this morning?’

‘I’m doing well, sir.’

Everyone loved him: the nurses, the cleaners, the messengers, other professionals, and his colleagues. He was a man who believed reputation is a treasure to be guarded with jealousy.

The door of his office was already opened. His secretary, Gene, who doubled as the nurse attached to him, came way before him to tidy up his office and set records right.

‘Good morning, Doc,’ Gene stood up and collected Phil’s laptop briefcase from him as he stepped into her office which was also used as the waiting room for patients who would love to consult with him.

This waiting room had a link door to Dr Phil’s office. The office was a reflection of his house: everything was in place, and there was a place for everything. Entering his office from Gene’s, the right side comprised a consulting table with a couple of medical books, a revolving chair where he sat, and two cushioned chairs at the opposite end of the table. These were meant for his patients. A shelf, at the left side of his consulting table, filled with books of different kinds, sizes, and subjects. Then the right side comprised of two coffee-coloured settees, one at either side of a centre table. This was where he relaxed and entertained guests.

Handing the bag to Gene, Phil said, ‘Thank you! Do we have the reports for the PSA analyses that were sent to the lab yesterday?’ He was about ten inches taller than Gene.

‘Yes, Doc.’ She led the way to his office. ‘I have received two of the reports. They are in the patients’ files on your table. The laboratory attendant said to tell you that the director of biomedical science laboratory would like to have a word with you concerning the third report.’ She placed the briefcase on the table and turned to leave.

‘Thank you! One more thing please! What appointments do I have today?’

Gene, a single, middle-aged woman with chocolate complexion, always wore a dismal face. But she knew her job well and did it to the satisfaction of her boss, her looks notwithstanding. ‘Chief Yemi Simon is scheduled to consult with you this morning, 10 a.m., while Peter Obi will meet with you by 12 noon.’ The time was 8.05 a.m. Work started 8 a.m., and Phil had this habit of stepping into his office by 8 a.m. on the dot.

‘So Mr Edwin’s result is pending, right?’

‘Yes, Doc!’

‘Thank you! I’ll call you when I need you.’ He was always official in his conversations with Gene.

‘Any time, sir.’ Gene walked away with her usual gracious gait that spoke volumes about her person—a disciplined and well-mannered woman.

Phil cupped his face with his two palms and heaved out a deep breath, ready for the day’s activity. He picked up the first file belonging to Yemi Simon, read through the laboratory report, and made some jottings on a blank sheet. He set it aside and picked up Peter Obi’s file and did the same.

When not busy with patients, he read or browsed the Internet with his laptop. This morning, he didn’t feel like working on the Net. The dream he had last night came to mind again. ‘What a dream!’ he muttered with an empty gaze on the screen of his laptop.

Who has an explanation to some things in life? Being unable to see what you don’t want to see is a great advantage! A gnawing fear was beginning to build a castle in his mind.

I’ve seen a horror I don’t want to see. What disadvantage does fate have on my way? I’m sure that an unpalatable experience is in the pipeline, cried his fear-besieged mind.

Careful! Careful, Phil! Another voice cautioned in his mind. Be careful what you wished for—you might get it.

I do not wish for horror—that horror. How could a living human wish for such repulsive experience? he protested.

As he tapped a key on his Dell laptop, the ‘Start’ icon opened, and that led him to ‘My Documents’.

Your fear could be your wish. The conversation continued, though the initial tension had been brought down by some notches.

How possible is it to be wishing for something when my will is not involved? With a loud tapping, he opened the file—‘Screening Prostate Cancer: The Debate and The Controversy.’

When you believe in your fear, what you believe comes to pass. Fear is the product of the imagination. What you imagined sometimes becomes yours, and what you wished for also sometimes becomes yours, the good voice opposed.

By inference, it