I had travelled to Delta State to attend some family functions. Little did I know that a microbial crisis would soon befall me. I had no inkling that fortifying my toiletries with some powerful disinfectants would have saved me the pain and financial burden I eventually had to contend with. What seemed like a harmless trip to reconnect with family and culture quickly turned into a lesson in health, hygiene, and survival.
The house that accommodated me for the five days I spent in Agbor had been under lock and key for quite some time. The owner, who resides in Lagos, only visits occasionally. As a man with what one might call native intelligence, he hardly believed that such a property should be fumigated — not only against rampaging rodents but also against unseen microbes that lurk in hidden corners. To him, the house was solid, the walls impenetrable, the doors and windows secure. To me, the air soon revealed a different story.
My chicken pox ordeal began on the third day of my visit. That night, I had scratched my body endlessly, restless and unable to sleep. By morning, I felt a small blister near my lap region. At first, I thought it was nothing — perhaps an insect bite. But before long, that single blister gave birth to others. The rash, red-headed and merciless, itched badly and spread rapidly to my back, armpits, and arms. My skin became a battlefield, and I its unwilling victim.
As the rashes spread, fatigue arrived uninvited. My energy drained so quickly that my passion for the small sightseeing trips I had planned was reduced to ashes. Most of the time, I was confined to the bed, staring at the ceiling, weak and uncomfortable. From time to time, I could only summon the courage to stagger to the dining table and steal a sip of the local gin my host had generously provided. But soon even that felt like a burden. A raging fever set in, and with it came fear. My thoughts grew darker: What exactly is happening to me? I hope I have not been poisoned by some village people? These questions haunted me as my body struggled to fight an invisible enemy.
Then came the village “doctors” — those who parade themselves as custodians of traditional medicine, armed with confidence but lacking certification. Their prescription was simple: fresh palm wine. Immediately, a five-litre keg of the native intoxicant was made available. Sadly, even in my weak and febrile state, I drank from it, glass after glass, until the keg stood empty. Knowing me as an unrepentant lover of liquor, my wife was full of misgivings about this strange therapy. “Instead of you seeking the advice of a physician, you are here drinking yourself to stupor in the name of traditional medicine,” she muttered in frustration. Her words stung, but I was too weak to argue.
By the time I was leaving Agbor for my hometown, Onicha Ugbo, I was so weak that lifting my feet became a huge struggle. The combination of analgesics and palm wine had done me no good. When I finally reached Onicha Ugbo, it was a total breakdown — an infinite resignation to my hotel bed. I sweated profusely, my body temperature soared, and my thoughts grew muddled. Yet even in this state, my faith in palm wine was not completely shaken. I kept drinking, hoping that somehow this native prescription would work.
My younger brother, a public health physician, eventually came to the rescue. Noticing my inability to leave the hotel room, he insisted on examining my skin. “Oga, don’t kill yourself with palm wine,” he said firmly. “You have chicken pox. All you need is calamine lotion, paracetamol, and amoxil. After three days, you will feel relief, but make sure you complete the dosage.” His words were like light breaking through darkness. At last, I had a diagnosis and a clear direction.
True to his words, after just two days of using the prescribed medication, the rashes began to fade. The itching lingered till the fourth day, but my strength returned gradually, and the fever disappeared completely. By the fifth day, I was strong enough to travel back to Lagos. The chicken pox had vanished almost as quickly as it came. I even joked that Lagos weather must be an antidote to certain microbes. In truth, I believed that if I had not travelled to Delta State, chicken pox would not have had the chance to catch me.
Looking back, there are important lessons to learn from my chicken pox story. First, travelling from one state to another should never be taken lightly. It is not just a change of environment but a journey with possible health risks. I did not have enough information about the infectious disease profile of my destination before I embarked on the trip. With better preparation, I could have been equipped to handle the emergency that struck me. Second, the use of antiseptics and disinfectants should not be treated as optional. They are necessities, especially when we travel to places where houses may have been abandoned or left unused for long periods. Something as simple as wiping down surfaces or using disinfectants could have made a huge difference.
Finally, and most importantly, chicken pox is not a death sentence. With the right medical treatment, it is curable. The outbreak of such a disease should never be an excuse for reckless consumption of palm wine or blind reliance on unverified traditional remedies. While our native doctors and herbalists may mean well, they are limited in medical knowledge and can be helpless when complications arise. The wiser choice is always to consult a trained physician who can provide the right diagnosis and prescribe appropriate medication.
