One Sunday afternoon, after eating Bambara beans, I started having stomach pain out of nowhere. I didn’t make a big deal out of it. In my head, it was just a little discomfort that would pass. So I walked to the pharmacy, grabbed some over-the-counter medicine, and waited for it to do its job.

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By Monday morning, the pain was still there. But I had work. I forced myself up, dressed, and headed out, hoping the pain would fade on its own. On the way, things got worse. My stomach was twisting and turning. I was restless. My body started shaking. I couldn’t breathe properly. Sweat broke out on my forehead, my nose, and under my lips; my clothes were soaked. My face was changing. I looked sick. I knew I needed to stop and go back home. But I kept going, thinking maybe a little rest at the office wellness centre would help. Maybe the nurse could give me something stronger.

When I got to the office, I could barely hold myself together. And the nurse wasn’t around.

I lay down at the wellness centre, trying to stay calm, trying to maintain some steeze. Then came the urge to poop. I rushed to the washroom, but nothing came out. I pushed and pushed, because I was so pressed, but still, nothing. Just pain. Sharp, unbearable pain. I cried. I didn’t even realize when the tears started. I was weak, trembling, scared. Every push felt like someone had shoved a knife inside me and was twisting it slowly. I thought I was going to die right there in that washroom.

I screamed for help.

They rushed me to Accra Medical Center, the closest hospital. After tests, scans, poking, and prodding by different doctors, they gave me the diagnosis: COLON STRICTURE. A blockage. And it needed surgery.

Then they gave me the cost. ₵85,600.

I opened my eyes wide, then shut them again, thinking it was a joke. My knees buckled. There was no way I could afford it. So I lied to my family. Told them the pain wasn’t that bad. I didn’t want to burden them. But they insisted I try other hospitals. The price was the same everywhere.

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Then my dad suggested something else. A village herbalist his friend swore by. Said the man was good at his job. We agreed to go, that day we woke up at dawn and travelled deep into the countryside.

I didn’t know we were heading to a shrine until we got there.

If you turn left, you see strange rituals. If you look right, there are leaves, baths, and things I can’t even explain. The herbalist told us to come back and thank the gods if the pain stopped. We agreed.

And for one week, I felt fine. I thought I was healed.

But then the pain came back. This time, the pain was worse. It was harder, cruel, and completely unbearable.

I was suffering so badly, my dad finally involved his brothers. They helped raise the money for the surgery.

During all this, I was praying, but not consistently. I was tired. Angry. Scared. When the doctor explained the surgery process, I panicked. That night, I went back to the place of prayer. I made a covenant with God. I said, “Baba God, if You see me through this, I’ll come back and thank You properly.”

And God came through. He showed up. He showed off.

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The surgery was successful. My uncles, bless them, stepped in when my dad couldn’t. Today, I eat freely. I poop freely. I live freely. And yes, I fulfilled my covenant with God.

But now, my dad wants us to go back to the herbalist. To thank the ‘gods’ for a healing that never happened. And I’m torn.

Because deep down, I feel like going back is giving credit to something that didn’t help me. I suffered more after that visit. I cried harder. I nearly died. It was God who saved me. So why should I go back and bow to a lesser god?

Would I go back if I were in your shoes.

I’d sit my dad down, gently, and explain. I’d tell him I respect his beliefs, but my healing came from above. From the One I made a covenant with. And that’s where my thanks belong.

You understand me, right? If you were in my shoes, would you go back to fulfill that promise?

—Martha

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