By: Bamidele Temitope Johnsont
The Nonsense We Now Call Nurse
First written on 9 August, 2022
“Ti ewe ba pe lara ose, a d’ose,” says a Yoruba proverb. It means if a leaf stays for long on a bar of soap, it becomes soap. There is nowhere else I have seen this almost come true as in nursing where, these days, you find uncertified people prescribing drugs, administering injections and carrying out other procedures only professionals should.
Having stuck around qualified professionals, they are persuaded they have earned the right to be viewed as qualified. They see themselves as leaves that have stayed sufficiently long on a soap bar and are entitled to lather. Many claim to be nurses, doctors even. Some decades ago, there was a big party in a hospital on the next street to mine. I had gone to see a friend, who lived on the street, when I heard music and saw people being served rice and meat from big food warmers. A full-blown party with an MC.
I had never heard of such before. Not even where landmark surgeries have been carried out. At my friend’s place, I told him what I saw. He had actually just returned from the party, to which he was invited by the hospital proprietor, a doctor with a government hospital. My friend, who was familiar with the hospital staff, explained that one of the nurses was having her graduation ceremony.
Bewildered, I asked if the hospital ran an approved school of nursing. Of course, it did not. “She trained as an ‘auxiliary nurse’, was presented with a certificate and wore an academic gown,” he said.
Laugh or cry? I was unsure of which to do. The hospital is no academic institution, so why an academic gown? My friend looked at me in a way that said: “Big deal?” So blasé was he that I had to ask if he did not think something was wrong. He did not and said the girl could go work in a hospital or start one of her own. Ayelala o!
I am the son of a retired nursing sister, whom I visited at the various government hospitals she worked. I also saw the books she used at the Father Couqard-founded Sacred Heart, Abeokuta, where she trained. I doubt our auxiliary nurses could read. In those days, not once did I hear of auxiliary nurses. What I knew were ward maids, whose job description entailed cleaning up patients, making beds, emptying bedpans and generally keeping the wards clean.
From what I saw, they knew their place in the chain and never attempted to pose as nurses. They wore emerald green uniforms. They were probably restrained by the lack of laxity in regulation at that time. These days, there is no laxity. What we have is a vast free trade zone in which bona fide quacks have been handed a lifetime licence to do as they wish. The Nigerian Nursing and Midwifery Council and other bodies with the responsibility to regulate are in snooze mode.
I have since seen many of such in private hospitals where they are addressed as “Nurse XYZ. “Nurse?” Absolute piss-take. The appropriate title is “Nonsense”. The nurses I grew up knowing were easily identifiable by their appearance: well-sown spotless white dress, a starched cap to keep hair in place, short nails, no hair extensions or plunging earrings.
They wore shoes that I believe were recommended. The ones I see today, even in government hospitals, are, in appearance, generally not a patch on those I grew up knowing. It is, however, reasonable to assume that they are qualified.
The things advertised as Nurse This or That in most private hospitals wear dresses that look like a mechanic’s overalls: lousy fabrics that have been badly cut and sewn, with both leaving the seams and hem like they have scallops. They wear long nails, bright lipstick and hair extensions. I cannot put it beyond them to have tinted hair or have tattoos. They inhabit an ethics-free trade zone. Add that to their quackery and it will be clear that we are cooked if nothing is done. There is a big chance that some of them may be keen on getting qualified. Those so inclined could be made to undergo formal training to get upskilled. Going to learn from equally unqualified people is dangerous.
Just after the lockdown, I complained to a friend about a niggling back pain that was making life hellish for me. He said he had had something similar and he was treated by a doctor, who had his hospital not far from where I live. At the said hospital reception was a woman with false eyelashes like a bayonet and prominent chemical-induced skin discolouration.
I knew I stood no chance of getting a cure from that place, as the woman’s appearance made me queasy. Still, I proceeded with the registration. On completion, she called out to “Nurse Shaki,” who came out to take my vitals. Shaki wore a badly sewn green and white dress similar to the one worn by roadside adulterated lubricant sellers. While I sat before the doctor, my mind kept straying to the alleged Nurse Shaki. I was given a strong painkiller, which I never took, and asked to return in three days. I never went back.
Nurse Shaki spooked me. I went elsewhere.
…Johnson wrote in from Lagos
Photo credit: Google