CHINEDU, a man made for others

h energy and purpose, began to slow down. Not in any way that would spark immediate concern. There were no dramatic collapses, no flashing red lights, no cries for help. Just little things. I

o those who watched him closely. And

ecked in on friends going through rough times. He gave encouragement freely and never let on that anything was wrong. But those of us closest to him saw it: the hesitation, the subtle wincing when

. Chinedu had always taken pride in his resilience. He was the dependable one, the rock, the ever-present shoulder for others to lean on. The idea that he might need support himself was something he didn't allow. Not because he didn't

hispers g

s. Dizziness crept into his days, making it harder to drive, to focus, to function. There were moments when he'd reach out to steady himself without realizing. One day, his vision blurred so severely t

, something inside you panics. It shakes your sense of safety. We begged him to go to the hospital, but still, he resisted

his shoes no longer fit comfortably. His hands trembled faintly. We watched him try to hide them in his pockets or under the table. Long sleeves became a permanent part of his wa

t it grew more frequent, then daily. He couldn't hold food down. His weight began to drop. His eyes lost their us

It hung in the room during conversations. It followed us into our prayers.

in the system, in the doctors, in the specialists with degrees and experience. That's what hospitals were for-answer

ope was sh

me swiftly: sick

aveled, worked long hours, lived freely. Not once had any doctor suggested this diagnosis. Not even once. We asked questions. We pressed gently at first, then more urgently. But our concerns were dismissed. "It's common for it

prescriptions. The drugs they gave him were powerful-meant to manage chronic sickling and prevent pain cris

sed urine output. The doctors adjusted his medications, attributed everything to "progression." But soon, test after test revealed the terrifying truth: his

rtbroken. A

at Chinedu as a person, not a data point. Each hospital brought a sliver of hope, only to extinguish it under the weight of bureaucracy and assumption. We carri

im like something sacred being taken against his will. Daily transfusions became the new normal. Not as treatment, but as survival. The

ged fo

AA or O+? Please, we need help. It's for Chinedu." Some gave. Some didn't. Every donation wa

Some drugs were only available from private importers-cash only, no time for negotiations. We sold everything we c

our eyes and checked: Is he still here? And when he was, we gave thanks. But the weight was unbearable. Watching so

inedu remai

them after every painful injection. He smiled at us, even when too weak to speak. He aske

once co

e. Not even when he could no longer stand. He simply squeezed

ed, "Do you think they'll remember me?" I nodded, tears choking my throa

others. Always holding on to meaning,

me to review everything. He ordered proper tests. He listened to us. He looked at Chinedu

e cell disease. The origin

sdiagnosis.

The corrected treatments came far too late to reverse the damage. The man we loved-

n the rage. The wild, useless rage of knowing we had been right. Of knowing t

an who should have been seen. Who should have been heard. Not dismissed. Not redu

story is painful to tel

ith trust in their eyes and leave with diagnoses that don't belong to th

st speak

Chin

ill matters. Because the world did