That early morning, my mother had asked me to go downstairs and wait for her as she tied a scarf over her head. Holding the rail and the wall, I walked the two flights of stairs to the ground floor of our family house in Onitsha, Nigeria. My strength was failing, and my legs could hardly carry me by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs.

On my left-hand side, by the veranda of the ground floor, was a storage room. I went in and collapsed on the floor. Darkness surrounded me. All I needed was a quiet resting place to lay my head. I was too young to understand what could happen. No strength to stand and wait for Mother as instructed.

“Where are you? Where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice calling out. Her voice was the kind you find in people who are about to suffer a tremendous loss. If I could, I would have answered. Even today the echoes of her voice still play in my memory. Every child would likely jump out and respond when their mother calls with such a voice. My deep apologies. Mother, for I had no breath left in me to utter a word, no muscles to get me off the floor.

Mother had frantically begun to search for me. She found me spread out on the floor when she opened the door to the storage room. She must have assumed that I had died. “Wake up,” I heard her say, and she scooped me in her arms.

I gathered my strength and walked out of the room with her holding me close to her waist. She bundled my body into a vehicle and took me to Borromeo hospital in Onitsha. I was too young and too sick to remember how we got there.

Behind one of the wooden counters was a nurse. I could tell by the way she dressed and the way she talked. Over her head was a pinned-up triangular or square-shaped cap. The color was either white or blue. I am trying hard to recollect; it is hard to remember every little detail after fifty years. I know nurses reminded me of shots.

Mother talked for several seconds to the nurse, and then I was invited to sit down on a wooden bench. Life continued to return into my body, opening my eyes a little more. It was a well-lit, quiet room. Giant wooden cabinets containing brown charts leaned against two of the walls. There were one or two other children my age who were on the bench. They did not look quite as sick as I felt. Of all the dangers that faced me, I feared injections the most. The smells of alcohol swabs and cotton balls were unmistakable.

My mother returned to sit by my side. With the back of her hand she felt my forehead and began to sob, but then regained her composure. “Son,” she said, “you will soon get better.” I nodded.

Next, we were in the doctor’s consultation room. A pleasant man is what I remember of him, perhaps in his middle age. He wore an immaculate white coat. For some reason, he acted fast. Was I that sick, I asked myself? He rapidly exchanged information with Mother and quickly scribbled something on my chart.

My suspicion had come true. A few minutes later the nurse with the triangular pinned-up cloth on her head invited me into an injection room. “Come hold me,” said Mother. I would have run but I had no strength to do so. While mother held me tight, the nurse lowered the right side of my knickers and gave an injection in the buttock.

Whatever plagued me disappeared after the shot. We brought home some bitter medicines. It was about 10 am when we left Borromeo hospital. Along the way, close to home, Mother stopped and bought me some Akra (round balls of fried beans) and Akamu (ground corn). I ate and I was all better.

Now, when I remember the incident, it frightens me to realize how helpless children are and how mothers, fathers and caregivers must make life or death decisions for them on a daily basis.