CRISIS, A poem by Isiaq N. Oluwamayowa

People call me a sickler
And my parents are the carriers.
I see the look of pity in their eyes
As if I am a self-destructing machine.
They feel remorse for my parents
For they think I’d be gone soon
They try to avoid me without showing
As if I’ve got a plague.
When I walk in, the room becomes silent
Like I’m some dangerous mutant
But we’re the same!
We’ve both got blood in our veins!
My red cells may be sickle-shaped
But I didn’t choose for them to be that way
I am not to be blamed

You say you know how I feel,
Trust me, you have no idea
You don’t feel the unbearable pain
Gradually losing friends, sleep and energy
The moment when the hospital became my new home
And the doctors, my new found friends.
They thought I wouldn’t make it to eight years
And my parents were heart broken,
Mother shed the most tears

I made it to ten years
It was joyful to be back at my parents’ home
And we thought all was well
Till death came, knocking
It was probably my greatest fear
But at least the pain will end
And it will be less worry for my parents
Mother said, “don’t go anywhere”
Though my limbs were swollen,
Her words kept me going

I finally became a teenager
But as the years increased
The happy days decreased
With no probable cure
I thought I was being possessed
The endless visits, more like a quest
Each time only to get a temporary solution
But with each breath I took
I sought to know the cause, the cure
And finally, I found out
Sickle-cell anaemia
Caused by my parents’ naivety
I thought of suicide
Because I was tired of the blood transfusions
And being left behind by my peers
With more pain each day
All because of their genotype
I tried to create awareness,
More researches made me know I wasn’t alone
I strived to make the death toll fall
Before I finally became one of the casualties.