He opened his office—the one with “Dr. Musty” written on the door—and stepped inside just as his phone began to ring. The flashlight notification was blinking on and off because the phone was on silent mode. He walked past his desk where the phone lay, glanced at his wristwatch, then quickly picked up the phone. Seeing “Mamie” on the screen, he immediately raised it to his ear.
In a calm, respectful voice he said softly,
“Mamie.”
From the other end came the voice of an elderly woman, gentle and composed:
“Assalamu Alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever—his body is burning like fire, and he refuses to get up so we can take him to the hospital. He won’t tell me what’s wrong with him. I honestly don’t know what’s going on, but he’s really not well.”
Quietly, Mustapha sat down on a chair, fully focused on Mamie’s words, though he showed no outward panic.
“Can he talk?” he asked.
Mamie, now worried, replied,
“He doesn’t even respond when spoken to, though he might respond to you.”
Calmly, the doctor asked,
“What about Hameed?”
Mamie answered,
“He left for work before 8 a.m., and Hamadi didn’t tell him he was sick. I’m sure he doesn’t know.”
Mustapha let out a slow breath and said gently,
“I’m on my way. Put a towel in water and wipe his body. Don’t worry, Mamie—he’ll be fine.”
Relieved by his tone, Mamie sighed.
“Alright, may God bring you safely.”
She ended the call.
He put the phone away, stood up, grabbed his car keys and phone, and left. He looked like a man in his early forties—around 42 or 43 years old. He went into their hospital pharmacy himself, picked up medications, drips, and injections, placed everything in front of their accountant, paid with his card, had them packed into a bag, and drove off in a clean white Mercedes-Benz toward their house.
It was a large house built with red bricks—an old-style mansion typical of wealthy families from years past. The compound was spacious, with a maroon gate. He honked, and a young security guard who was already smiling opened the gate for him. Inside the compound stood a single massive flat. By the side was something like a garden, with guava trees, mango trees, cashew trees, and flowers. The compound was wide and airy.
He stepped out of the car, scanning the surroundings. Two cars were parked in the parking area, along with a shiny machine—one of those expensive lawn-maintenance machines. Before he even opened the door to the flat, the scent of perfume welcomed him. He entered slowly into the living room.
There was no one there except Lami, who was cleaning. She quickly greeted him,
“Good morning, Baba Akram.”
“Good morning,” he replied.
The living room was beautiful, carpeted throughout, with a large television mounted on the wall. A huge framed photograph hung there: an elderly man and woman seated in regal attire, with five boys standing behind them. All their faces were visible except one—the boy who was turned sideways as if trying to run away, his mother holding his hand. Only the back of his head appeared in the photo.
He passed the staircase and went upstairs, straight to the first room.
He opened the door. The room was spacious and neatly arranged. There were two same-sized beds, each with a desk and chair beside it. An elderly woman—about 57 years old—was seated at the edge of one bed. Beside her lay a tall, fair-skinned young man, about 33 or 34 years old, wearing black joggers and a white singlet. His chest was broad, his muscles well-built. His eyes were shut tightly. Mamie had placed a small towel on his forehead.
He had a long nose, pink, full lips, and thick coiled hair wrapped in curls like a foreigner’s. They didn’t notice Mustapha’s presence until he reached the bed. Mamie quickly turned and said,
“Doctor, you’ve arrived.”
He calmly removed the towel from Hamadi’s forehead, took another from Mamie’s hand, and spread it on the bed. Gently, he called,
“Hamad… Hamadi…”
Slowly, the young man opened his eyes. They were narrow and red from illness—deep black, wild-looking eyes framed by dark eyelids. Anyone would swear he wore eyeliner, though he never did; that was simply how Mamie gave birth to him.
Looking at him, Mustapha asked softly,
“What’s hurting you?”
Hamadi remained silent, as if the question wasn’t directed at him. The doctor studied him briefly, then turned to Mamie.
“Did he eat anything?”
Mamie shook her head.
“I don’t think he even ate dinner. Hameed cooked and ate. I’m sure.”
Gently, Mustapha said,
“Bring his breakfast, Mamie. He needs to eat.”
She stood up.
“Alright, I’ll go get it.”
As she left and closed the door behind her, the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Hamadi seriously.
“What exactly is hurting you?”
Hamadi glanced at his elder brother, then gently pointed toward his groin area, closing his eyes and releasing a small breath.
Slowly, the doctor lifted Hamadi’s singlet, revealing his defined six-pack. He pulled his joggers down slightly, exposing his white Calvin Klein boxers. He lowered the boxers a little and said quickly,
“When did the place where you were operated on start developing this rash? Why didn’t you tell me?”
At that moment, the door opened suddenly. Hamadi grabbed his brother’s lab coat and quickly covered himself. Mamie froze at the doorway, clearly startled.
Mustapha looked at Hamadi, then turned calmly to Mamie.
“Mamie.”
She hurriedly said,
“I didn’t know what you were doing. I’ll step out—call me when you’re done.”
She left with the breakfast tray and closed the door.
Dr. Mustapha turned back to Hamadi.
“You have an infection there. I’ll dress it now, then I’ll bring antibiotics. That’s probably what caused the fever.”
He took back his lab coat and stood up.
“I’ll get the dressing kit.”
As he turned to leave, Hamadi—despite the fever—reached out and held his coat. The doctor looked back at him. Avoiding eye contact, Hamadi spoke softly, his voice low and gentle, almost childlike:
“Please don’t tell Mamie, brother.”
Mustapha paused, looked at him, then nodded silently and left the room.
Downstairs, Mamie rushed toward him anxiously.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor? My heart keeps racing. He won’t tell me what’s wrong—only you can make him talk.”
Mustapha gave a faint smile.
“You know Hamadi is shy. There’s nothing to worry about—it’s just a minor infection at the operation site. He probably didn’t want you trying to examine him. I’ll get the dressing supplies from the car.”
Mamie watched him go, shaking her head to herself. So this was what the boy was hiding all this time? Truly, Hamadi’s matter needs prayers.
He returned shortly with a hospital bag, went upstairs, and found Hamadi lying as he had left him, his singlet already removed. He set the bag down, put on gloves, took out cotton wool, lifted the singlet area again, and pulled the boxers down properly so he could clean the wound. The area was smooth and clean, with sparse black hair.
As he cleaned gently, Hamadi winced, breathing heavily and shifting his legs.
“Sorry,” the doctor said. “I know it hurts, but I have to clean it.”
Hamadi exhaled sharply, tears of pain rolling down his closed eyes.
The doctor paused.
“Is it very painful?”
Without opening his eyes, Hamadi whispered weakly,
“No.”
The doctor smiled slightly and continued cleaning, though his hands began to tremble without him fully understanding why.
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He opened his office—the one with “Dr. Musty” written on the door—and stepped inside just as his phone began to ring. The flashlight notification was blinking on and off because the phone was on silent mode. He walked past his desk where the phone lay, glanced at his wristwatch, then quickly picked up the phone. Seeing “Mamie” on the screen, he immediately raised it to his ear.
In a calm, respectful voice he said softly,
“Mamie.”
From the other end came the voice of an elderly woman, gentle and composed:
“Assalamu Alaikum, Mustapha. Hamadi has a fever—his body is burning like fire, and he refuses to get up so we can take him to the hospital. He won’t tell me what’s wrong with him. I honestly don’t know what’s going on, but he’s really not well.”
Quietly, Mustapha sat down on a chair, fully focused on Mamie’s words, though he showed no outward panic.
“Can he talk?” he asked.
Mamie, now worried, replied,
“He doesn’t even respond when spoken to, though he might respond to you.”
Calmly, the doctor asked,
“What about Hameed?”
Mamie answered,
“He left for work before 8 a.m., and Hamadi didn’t tell him he was sick. I’m sure he doesn’t know.”
Mustapha let out a slow breath and said gently,
“I’m on my way. Put a towel in water and wipe his body. Don’t worry, Mamie—he’ll be fine.”
Relieved by his tone, Mamie sighed.
“Alright, may God bring you safely.”
She ended the call.
He put the phone away, stood up, grabbed his car keys and phone, and left. He looked like a man in his early forties—around 42 or 43 years old. He went into their hospital pharmacy himself, picked up medications, drips, and injections, placed everything in front of their accountant, paid with his card, had them packed into a bag, and drove off in a clean white Mercedes-Benz toward their house.
It was a large house built with red bricks—an old-style mansion typical of wealthy families from years past. The compound was spacious, with a maroon gate. He honked, and a young security guard who was already smiling opened the gate for him. Inside the compound stood a single massive flat. By the side was something like a garden, with guava trees, mango trees, cashew trees, and flowers. The compound was wide and airy.
He stepped out of the car, scanning the surroundings. Two cars were parked in the parking area, along with a shiny machine—one of those expensive lawn-maintenance machines. Before he even opened the door to the flat, the scent of perfume welcomed him. He entered slowly into the living room.
There was no one there except Lami, who was cleaning. She quickly greeted him,
“Good morning, Baba Akram.”
“Good morning,” he replied.
The living room was beautiful, carpeted throughout, with a large television mounted on the wall. A huge framed photograph hung there: an elderly man and woman seated in regal attire, with five boys standing behind them. All their faces were visible except one—the boy who was turned sideways as if trying to run away, his mother holding his hand. Only the back of his head appeared in the photo.
He passed the staircase and went upstairs, straight to the first room.
He opened the door. The room was spacious and neatly arranged. There were two same-sized beds, each with a desk and chair beside it. An elderly woman—about 57 years old—was seated at the edge of one bed. Beside her lay a tall, fair-skinned young man, about 33 or 34 years old, wearing black joggers and a white singlet. His chest was broad, his muscles well-built. His eyes were shut tightly. Mamie had placed a small towel on his forehead.
He had a long nose, pink, full lips, and thick coiled hair wrapped in curls like a foreigner’s. They didn’t notice Mustapha’s presence until he reached the bed. Mamie quickly turned and said,
“Doctor, you’ve arrived.”
He calmly removed the towel from Hamadi’s forehead, took another from Mamie’s hand, and spread it on the bed. Gently, he called,
“Hamad… Hamadi…”
Slowly, the young man opened his eyes. They were narrow and red from illness—deep black, wild-looking eyes framed by dark eyelids. Anyone would swear he wore eyeliner, though he never did; that was simply how Mamie gave birth to him.
Looking at him, Mustapha asked softly,
“What’s hurting you?”
Hamadi remained silent, as if the question wasn’t directed at him. The doctor studied him briefly, then turned to Mamie.
“Did he eat anything?”
Mamie shook her head.
“I don’t think he even ate dinner. Hameed cooked and ate. I’m sure.”
Gently, Mustapha said,
“Bring his breakfast, Mamie. He needs to eat.”
She stood up.
“Alright, I’ll go get it.”
As she left and closed the door behind her, the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and looked at Hamadi seriously.
“What exactly is hurting you?”
Hamadi glanced at his elder brother, then gently pointed toward his groin area, closing his eyes and releasing a small breath.
Slowly, the doctor lifted Hamadi’s singlet, revealing his defined six-pack. He pulled his joggers down slightly, exposing his white Calvin Klein boxers. He lowered the boxers a little and said quickly,
“When did the place where you were operated on start developing this rash? Why didn’t you tell me?”
At that moment, the door opened suddenly. Hamadi grabbed his brother’s lab coat and quickly covered himself. Mamie froze at the doorway, clearly startled.
Mustapha looked at Hamadi, then turned calmly to Mamie.
“Mamie.”
She hurriedly said,
“I didn’t know what you were doing. I’ll step out—call me when you’re done.”
She left with the breakfast tray and closed the door.
Dr. Mustapha turned back to Hamadi.
“You have an infection there. I’ll dress it now, then I’ll bring antibiotics. That’s probably what caused the fever.”
He took back his lab coat and stood up.
“I’ll get the dressing kit.”
As he turned to leave, Hamadi—despite the fever—reached out and held his coat. The doctor looked back at him. Avoiding eye contact, Hamadi spoke softly, his voice low and gentle, almost childlike:
“Please don’t tell Mamie, brother.”
Mustapha paused, looked at him, then nodded silently and left the room.
Downstairs, Mamie rushed toward him anxiously.
“What’s wrong with him, Doctor? My heart keeps racing. He won’t tell me what’s wrong—only you can make him talk.”
Mustapha gave a faint smile.
“You know Hamadi is shy. There’s nothing to worry about—it’s just a minor infection at the operation site. He probably didn’t want you trying to examine him. I’ll get the dressing supplies from the car.”
Mamie watched him go, shaking her head to herself. So this was what the boy was hiding all this time? Truly, Hamadi’s matter needs prayers.
He returned shortly with a hospital bag, went upstairs, and found Hamadi lying as he had left him, his singlet already removed. He set the bag down, put on gloves, took out cotton wool, lifted the singlet area again, and pulled the boxers down properly so he could clean the wound. The area was smooth and clean, with sparse black hair.
As he cleaned gently, Hamadi winced, breathing heavily and shifting his legs.
“Sorry,” the doctor said. “I know it hurts, but I have to clean it.”
Hamadi exhaled sharply, tears of pain rolling down his closed eyes.
The doctor paused.
“Is it very painful?”
Without opening his eyes, Hamadi whispered weakly,
“No.”
The doctor smiled slightly and continued cleaning, though his hands began to tremble without him fully understanding why.