The sickness didn’t come like a warning.
It came like punishment.
For weeks, she had pushed herself beyond her limits, waking before sunrise every day, cleaning endlessly, cooking, washing, running errands, and enduring the emotional weight that had slowly drained her spirit. She ignored the headaches at first. She ignored the dizziness. She convinced herself that rest could wait.
But the body always speaks eventually.
That morning, when she tried to stand from her bed, her legs failed her completely. Her vision blurred. A violent headache pounded inside her skull like drums, and fever burned through her body with frightening intensity.
She held onto the wall, trembling.
Even breathing felt difficult.
Yet despite her condition, Mrs. Tabe showed no sympathy.
No panic.
No concern.
No kindness.
She merely stared at her for a few seconds before pulling out her phone and calling a taxi driver.
“Take her to the hospital,” she said casually, handing the driver some money as though she was disposing of an inconvenience.
That was all.
No promise to visit.
No encouragement.
No follow-up.
Nothing.
The taxi driver, unlike her employer, seemed genuinely worried. He helped her into the car carefully while she struggled to remain conscious. During the ride, she drifted in and out of awareness, hearing only fragments of sounds — traffic horns, distant voices, and the driver repeatedly asking if she was okay.
When they arrived at the hospital, nurses rushed her inside immediately.
Tests were carried out.
Drips were attached.
Medication was administered.
Hours later, the doctor explained the situation clearly.
“You’re severely dehydrated,” he said. “Your body has been under extreme stress for too long. The malaria became aggressive because of exhaustion.”
She listened weakly from the hospital bed, staring at the white ceiling while tears formed silently in her eyes.
Stress.
Exhaustion.
Overwork.
That had become her life.
Then came the part she feared most.
Payment.
The little money she had left with her covered only the initial tests and emergency treatment. After that, the hospital demanded another deposit before treatment could continue.
Her heart sank instantly.
Only a few days earlier, she had received her monthly salary — and like every loving mother would, she had sent almost everything to her son for his school expenses.
She had nothing left.
Absolutely nothing.
For the first time in a long while, fear truly entered her heart.
Lying weakly on the hospital bed, she reached for her phone with shaking hands and sent several messages to Mrs. Tabe.
She begged politely.
Then desperately.
“Please ma… even half of my salary in advance will help me survive. Once I recover and return to work, you can deduct it little by little. I promise.”
Minutes later, a reply came.
Cold.
Short.
Cruel.
“That was never part of our agreement.”
She stared at the message in disbelief.
But Mrs. Tabe wasn’t done.
Another message followed shortly after.
“If you are too tired or incapable of continuing your duties, let me know so I can employ someone else.”
The words pierced her heart deeper than the sickness itself.
At that moment, lying helpless in the hospital bed, she realized something painful:
To Mrs. Tabe, she was not family.
Not even human.
She was simply labor.
Replaceable labor.
Days passed slowly.
The hospital staff became less patient with her situation. Nurses repeatedly reminded her about unpaid bills, and administrators began questioning whether treatment should continue without payment.
One even suggested she leave if she couldn’t settle the bills soon.
Humiliation swallowed her whole.
She cried silently that night, covering her mouth so the other patients wouldn’t hear her sobbing.
Eventually, with no other option left, she contacted her son.
The moment he heard her weak voice over the phone, panic consumed him. He abandoned everything immediately and rushed from school to the hospital.
When he entered the room and saw his mother lying weak and pale on the bed, his eyes filled instantly with tears.
“Mama…” he whispered painfully.
She forced herself to smile despite the pain.
Trying to remain hopeful, she asked him to go to the Tabe residence and plead with Mr. Tabe personally for assistance.
“He is a good man,” she said weakly. “Maybe he doesn’t know what is happening.”
The boy agreed immediately.
Hope pushed him forward.
But hope returned shattered.
When he arrived at the house, Mr. Tabe was absent. Before he could properly explain himself, Mrs. Tabe dismissed him coldly and ordered him to leave.
No compassion.
No patience.
No mercy.
The boy returned to the hospital carrying disappointment heavier than his own body.
Still, his mother refused to give up completely.
“Go to his office,” she told him softly. “Please try one more time.”
Determined to save his mother, he nodded and left immediately.
But then…
Hours passed.
Night came.
He didn’t return.
Morning arrived.
Leave a Comment