THE TRAGEDY OF PNEUMONOULTRAMICROSCOPICSILICOVOLCANOCONIOSIS

One word. I don’t know how one word could change an entire world that much. It all began at five. I was the happiest kid in Osun.My father came home jumping excitedly, carrying my mother and me in his arms. Then my mother’s scream could probably have been heard ten miles away when my father told her the good news.His company had selected him, along with a few other workers, to go overseas and continue working for the company. But at five, all I understood was one thing:I would ride an aeroplane. I would flyyyyyy! I started screaming and jumping. I told every child in the neighbourhood. They suddenly became my closest friends. “Don’t forget me o. You know I’m your friend,” they would say. I felt on top of the world. One month later, we were in New York.It was a sweet paradise. My father worked in a stone-cutting and quarrying industry, where he was exposed to fine silica dust. He worked hard and gave my siblings and me the most comfortable life he could. We had food. We had a home. We had each other.Life was beautiful. Little did we know that it was only the beginning of a tragedy. My father was rushed to the hospital on a bright afternoon. My mother and I ran there as soon as we heard the news. Hours grew longer and colder as we waited for a doctor to tell us what was wrong. Finally, a doctor walked towards us.My mother started shivering when she saw the expression on his face. “I’m sorry, madam,” he said. He paused. My heart sank.“He has pneumoconiosis—a group of lung diseases caused by inhaling mineral dust. In your husband’s case, it is silicosis, caused by prolonged exposure to respirable crystalline silica dust from his work.” He took a breath. Then he said the word.“Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis…” Before he got to the Seventh syllable, Mama had already fainted.I stood there. Frozen. That word was too long to belong to something that could destroy a person’s life.Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. I had once thought long words were funny. Now, one of them was standing between my family and everything we had ever known. I was pacing the cold hospital corridor when the doctor came back with the news.My father was gone. And Mama, Mama was gone too. The same day.The same hospital. The same tragedy. I went home to meet my sleeping siblings.I pecked them on the head, just as Papa and Mama always did at night. They slept peacefully. They did not know.They did not know that when they woke up, everything would be different. I could not sleep. I stared at the two children. James was five.Jane was three. And I was only eighteen. Where do I start?How do I raise two children? What am I supposed to do?Where do I go? I walked out of the house.My legs seemed to know where they were going, even though my mind did not. I kept walking until I reached a dead end. I stared at the road.Then I laughed.A bitter laugh. Then I became angry. “Do you have to remind me that I’m at my end?”I kicked the ground. “What am I supposed to do?” “How do I raise two children?”“Where do I go?” I screamed. Some people would call it grief.Some would call it the cruel hand of fate. But I call it by its longest name: The tragedy of pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis.

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