DIARY OF A LAGOS MUM: When my child falls sick
Benie Amirize
By Benedicta Amirize
There are few things in life that shake a mother’s heart like watching her child fall sick. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, how composed you look, or how busy Lagos life keeps you when your child’s temperature rises or you are informed your child has been involved in a fatal car accident. Your world suddenly slows down and you are suddenly transported into a dream world.
That’s how it felt a few years back when my son, Daniel then 10, woke up with a fever. One look at his face, pale, eyes half-open, lips dry ….and I knew something wasn’t right. The confident mum in me who can juggle work, traffic, and house chores without flinching suddenly felt powerless.
“Mummy, my body is hot,” he murmured weakly, his hand resting on mine.
I placed my palm on his forehead. Burning.
The next few hours were a blur.
I remember fumbling for the thermometer, my heart racing faster than my thoughts. The number blinked at me, 39.5°C. My stomach dropped. I tried to stay calm, but fear crept in. That quiet kind of fear only mothers understand. The one that starts small but grows louder with every minute your child doesn’t get better.
I gave him paracetamol, wiped his body with a cool towel, whispered prayers under my breath, and told myself it was just malaria. But as the day dragged on and his fever refused to break, my faith and strength began to wobble.
Then came the rush, packing a small bag, calling my neighbor to help me flag down a keke and begged her to please keep an eye on my two young daughters. Clutching Daniel close as we bounced through the potholes to the hospital. Lagos traffic didn’t care that my child was sick. Life around us moved on, horns blaring, vendors shouting, the city alive as usual, while my world stood still.
At the hospital, I sat on the plastic chair in the children’s ward, staring at the clock on the wall that seemed to move too slowly. The doctor’s words blurred in my ears. “We’ll need to run some tests.”
Those moments between the test and the result are where every mother’s faith is tested. You sit there praying, bargaining with God, replaying every meal, every cough, every night you might have missed the signs.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have let him play in the rain last week.”
“Maybe I should have given him his vitamins more regularly.”
“Maybe I should have noticed earlier.”
It’s the guilt that always sneaks in, that dangerous guilt that tells you you’ve failed somehow.
When the nurse finally came back and said it was malaria and mild dehydration, I exhaled like I had been holding my breath for years. Relief flooded me, but so did exhaustion.
That night, as I sat beside his bed watching him sleep, the beeping of other machines in the ward echoing softly, I thought about how fragile motherhood feels in moments like this. One fever can make you question everything, your strength, your preparedness, even your faith.
But it also reminds you of what love truly looks like. Love isn’t always soft and poetic. Sometimes it’s sleepless nights, prayers whispered through tears, and the quiet strength to stay awake just to watch your child breathe.
“Mummy,” he whispered, “thank you for not leaving me.”
As if I ever could.
I kissed his forehead gently, and in that moment, I realized that motherhood is made up of small miracles. The fever that breaks, the smile that returns, the sigh of relief that fills the air after a storm.
We went home later that day, and life slowly went back to its noisy Lagos rhythm, the generator humming, the street hawkers calling, and Daniel laughing again, like nothing had happened. But inside me, something had shifted.
I’d understood, once again, that strength isn’t about never being afraid, it’s about showing up even when fear grips your heart.
Now, every time I see him running around the house, I smile with deeper gratitude. Because I know what it felt like to see him quiet, weak, and sick. And I know how quickly life can remind us what really matters.
So yes, I’ll still worry when the children cough too much. I’ll still overthink a fever. Because that’s what mothers do.
But I’ll also remember that I’m human and that I can’t control everything, that sometimes all I can do is pray, care, and trust that God holds my child even when I can’t.
When your child falls sick, the whole world shrinks into that one little body. Everything else, work, deadlines, bills fades. But when they get better, you realize you’ve gained a new strength, a new gratitude, and a deeper understanding of what unconditional love truly means.
Because at the heart of every Lagos mum’s story is this truth:
We may not always have it all together, but our love never wavers.
And sometimes, that love, mixed with faith and a mother’s whispered prayers is enough to bring healing.
