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‘Are you driving?’
She was and the nurse went away again.
‘Mrs Kayita?’
Nnam looked up.
‘Come with me.’ It was an African nurse. ‘The doctor working on your
husband is ready.’
She led Nnam to a consultation room and told her to sit down.
‘The doctor will be with you shortly,’ and closed the door behind her.
Presently, a youngish doctor wearing blue scrubs came in and
introduced himself.
‘Mrs Kayita, I am sorry we could not save your husband; he was dead
on arrival.’ His voice was velvety. ‘There was nothing we could do. I am
sorry for your loss.’ His hands crossed each other and settled on the
chest. Then one hand pinched his lips, ‘Is there anything we can do?’
In Britain grief is private – you know how women throw themselves
about howling this, screaming that back home? None of that. You can’t
force your grief on other people. When Nnam was overcome she ran to
the toilet and held onto the sink. As she washed her face to walk out,
she realised that she did not have her handbag. She went back to the
consultation room. The African nurse was holding it.
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