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Just one look at Dr. Sarham is enough to tell you that he takes his health very seriously—he is meticulous about his diet and never misses his morning exercise. That’s why he has a lean, slightly sharp-faced look.
Also, his height is not excessive, contrary to the rumors spread by the nurses. His build is strong, not at all like the skinny “firewood stick” figure they joke about. In fact, he has never heard anyone criticize his physique except for these gossiping nurses. They say he's "on a diet" and doesn't eat just to maintain a slim body. But he knows he's naturally tall—though not stick-thin like they claim behind his back.
So, considering their gossip and the more reasonable comments from one of them about his medical studies, it's clear that they genuinely took interest in him—they didn’t just fabricate stories. He was even surprised they mentioned his father was a professor in ophthalmology, though he hadn’t been at the hospital long and didn’t socialize, especially not with the female nurses under his supervision.
He just smiled slightly, the corner of his cheek lifting, and continued writing in the file of the patient he had just examined. He thought to himself:
“You’re seated at a desk because of someone like me. Your sins are being forgiven just for treating me. If I weren’t worthy, you wouldn’t even raise your head to look at me.”
He kept writing, still amused by the kind of idle gossip common among women, especially the nurses.
That’s Dr. Sarham Abbas Shanono for you—a fresh, young doctor who probably just graduated high school a few years ago. He was no older than twenty-eight.
The commotion outside his office was caused by the stubborn elder, Hauwa’s mother, who insisted she wouldn’t leave until her daughter saw the doctor. Even if it meant they would insult her, she argued, “Did I give birth to you? This hospital isn’t yours—it belongs to the government. You can’t stop me from seeing the doctor.” Her persistence disrupted his concentration.
The nurses argued she shouldn’t have waited until her daughter’s eye was severely infected before coming, and now it was too late to waste the doctor’s time on an incurable case. Hauwa’s mother began to cry, pleading with them to let her daughter see the doctor before she goes blind. She admitted her mistake and begged them for mercy.
But one of the nurses didn’t care—she placed her foot over her knee and swore by her Jesus that she wouldn’t allow the doctor’s time to be wasted on eyes already beyond saving.
“What’s going on here? Why all this noise? Maria, what are you doing? Is this how a nurse behaves? Sister Saratu, isn’t this woman older than you?”
Dr. Sarham’s low voice, weakened by a recent cold, cut through the air. He coughed slightly as he spoke, having caught a chill the previous day.
He stood at his office door, both hands in the pockets of his black jacket, his expression weary and hungry. He had been working since morning without a break. Now it was 2 PM—lunchtime and time for afternoon prayers.
He wore a black suit with a long jacket reaching his knees, giving him the look of a classic, stylish doctor. Though he had a Fulani build—slim and tall—his complexion and features revealed his Kanoan roots. Despite being 28, he looked younger.
Sister Saratu looked back and forth between Hauwa’s mother and the doctor but said nothing. Though he had only been there two weeks since his transfer from Abdullahi Wase Hospital, they already knew him to be kind and compassionate toward patients. That’s why their disrespectful behavior clashed so much with his nature.
Dr. Sarham, aware of how they mistreated patients when they thought no one was watching, finally spoke out:
“Metron Maria, Sister Saratu, Nurse Mairo—won’t you stop humiliating these innocent people? Do you even understand your job? This is not how a nurse should behave. It’s a betrayal of your duty and a disgrace to human dignity.
Where is the humanity you were trained with?”
“I’m tired of your behavior. Just yesterday, I broke up a fight between you and a patient. If this continues, I’ll report you all.”
Then he turned to Hauwa’s mother, who had lowered her head and was wiping her tears:
“Madam, what happened? Who’s sick?”
The woman felt hopeful from the gentle, caring tone in his voice, despite his fatigue and cold. She nodded and said,
“It’s my daughter. She has an eye problem, but they said I came too late and won’t let her see the doctor. That’s why I kept begging.”
He looked at the girl holding her mother’s hand—her eye was badly infected, half-destroyed by cataract. It gave him goosebumps. Her dusty, worn-out feet showed they had walked a long way.
He took the patient card from Nurse Maria and told them to follow him inside. Only then did the woman realize this was the doctor they had been denied access to.
“How did you let it get this bad?”
Dr. Sarham asked Hauwa’s mother while examining Hauwa’s eye with a bright torchlight. His concern was clear in his voice.
She couldn’t answer—guilt was written all over her face.
He completed the examination quickly, opened a file, and confirmed that Hauwa urgently needed cataract surgery. He explained everything to the mother gently and kindly.
He scheduled the surgery for two days later and informed them of the cost. Though it frightened her, she didn’t show it, despite knowing she couldn’t afford it.
At home, she was deeply worried—she didn’t have the money, and her entire grain stock couldn’t cover it. But Hauwa insisted she wanted the surgery. She begged her mother in tears to approve it, even suggesting they sell one of their goats.
Reluctantly, her mother agreed. They sold a young goat to a blind man and returned to the hospital early on the appointed day.
Before the surgery, the doctors asked her to sign a consent form. Though she signed it, she was terrified, convinced her daughter wouldn’t come out alive. She clung to Hauwa with tears.
Dr. Sarham comforted her gently:
“Don’t worry, Madam. She’ll come out healthy, God willing. Cataracts are a burden to the eyes—let’s free them. Trust in God’s mercy.”
She nodded, not fully convinced but still crying.
They wheeled Hauwa into the operating room. Just before she was put under anesthesia, Hauwa looked at Dr. Sarham’s face, wishing she could see it clearly. She liked how he spoke to her mother and wanted to match his voice with his face.
Though she could only see his shadow, something about his presence felt safe. She focused on what little she could see, desperately trying to form an image of him in her mind. His smile seemed to speak directly to her heart.
Even after the operation, she couldn’t forget the sound of that smile or the comforting words he spoke. He gave her hope that she would live and heal, by the will of God—the one who gives both disease and its cure.
As the anesthesia began to take effect, she heard him whisper:
“Relax, Hauwa. You’ll be fine, Insha Allah. You’ll heal, just calm down.”
She drifted into sleep with his imagined face in her mind, praying that even in the afterlife, she might see his real face. She believed she might never wake up.
As Dr. Sarham placed his hands on her eyes and began the surgery with “Bismillah” on his lips, a voice echoed in his head, warning him not to proceed.
He felt an overwhelming sense of doubt—this was his first cataract surgery. Fear and self-doubt consumed him, shaking his confidence.
His body trembled, his forehead dripped with sweat, and a terrible headache gripped him. Suddenly, all his knowledge and training seemed to vanish.
In that moment, he felt like the inexperienced novice the nurses had gossiped about, like someone who hadn’t even finished high school.
Perhaps it was their gossip that had wormed its way into his mind, unsettling him.
Their words had echoed in his thoughts for days…
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