MARRAKESH.
I watched the doctor's mouth move, his words drowned in the turmoil that has engulfed me.
"It can't be true!" I muttered, tears falling onto my beige blouse.
"Stage two breast cancer," he said again. "We can remove the affected breast and start chemotherapy."
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. How can I, thirty and unmarried, lose a breast?
"She will need some time," Kola, my boyfriend chimed in, looking at me. I knew he was pained, that he was trying to process this new information.
The doctor sighed. "The earlier, the better."
The drive home was a long, silent one. A barrage of thoughts assailed my mind. I had lost my mother to breast cancer. She presented late, the doctors said. The tumour had spread everywhere. I watched as the disease ravaged her body, her bony face covered with a wry smile. I knew it was a façade, the smile. Her eyes had betrayed her fear of dying.
As the car sped along, images of her thin frame and her large, putrescent left breast played an endless loop in my mind.
As soon as we got home, Kola began to pack his bags. I watched with dread as he zipped up one of the bags. A blast of cold air from the standing fan made me shiver.
He turned to me. "Which of the bags are you taking?"
"Taking to where?"
He reached for my hands. "Nkem, you've always told me that you wanted to travel. We'll take one week and go wherever you want. You can start the treatment when we return."
I squeezed his hands, their warmth buoying my sinking hope.
I have been a girl of two parts. A part of me was a citizen of the world, touring Paris, Marrakesh, Rio de Janeiro and fluent in five languages. The daydream was a convenient escape as I slaved away behind a cubicle in Ikeja, working ten-hour days and collecting a salary that could barely pay my rent. On most nights, I would regale Kola with tales of our children running along a beach in the Cayman islands while I lay on the sand, dressed in a polka-dot bikini.
We arrived Marrakesh, Morocco, under the sweltering sun. On our way to the resort, the dry air was heavy with the smell of the orchard and olive grooves. Behind the resort was an imposing mountain range, their tips capped with snow.
Kola was ecstatic. "The Atlas mountains!"
After we had settled in, we were treated to a sumptuous lunch of rice and peppery lamb kebab. The meal left a hot trail in my mouth.
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The next morning, we left for the Ouzoud waterfall, about three hours from Marrakesh. The red-brick earth contrasted sharply with the green carpet of olive trees in the plateau. We watched in awe as the water rushed down, sparkling in the morning sun, the loud splashing sound unnerving me.
"The waterfall got its name from the olive trees," our Morrocan guide said, in halting English.
We took a small path to the first level, watching the deluge of water surge forth, downwards. A group of macaque monkeys chattered in the distance, prancing about in their natural habitat.
The following morning, I awoke to the cry of the muezzin. After a breakfast of crepes- special pancakes with flavoured toppings- we left for the Moroccan desert.
The Jemaa el-Fnaa square was already teeming with street performers, snake charmers and snake oil salesmen. I stopped to buy an embroidered purple scarf from one of the souks.
We arrived Merzouga desert the next day. The sand dunes stretched majestically to infinity and merged silently with the cloudless, blue sky. We rented a luxury tent, complete with hammocks and sofas.
That evening, we were served dinner outside, under the stars, as we lay on Berber rugs.
On opening the dish, I saw a diamond-encrusted gold ring on top of the grilled chicken and turned around, astounded. Kola was kneeling on the sand.
"Marry me," he said. "Let's fight this together."
We spent our last night in Casablanca, dancing in a discotheque, the twirling lights and upbeat sounds sending ripples of pleasure through me.
***
I opened my eyes to the blinding light filtering into the room through the windows. My throat was dry and I looked down at the bandage around my chest.
"See who is awake."
I turned to the door. Kola was standing there, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. He approached my bedside, his weary face draped in a big smile.
“The surgery went well. You will be on your feet soon.”
As he fiddled with the wedding ring on my finger, I looked intently at him with one thought on my mind. He is here, by my side.
Kelvin Alaneme is a Nigerian writer and medical doctor. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram @dr_alams.
