War of Two Nations

This week, the pain in my chest returned. And it became worse on Wednesday night. But that was because it rained into the early hour of Thursday, and the cold was excruciating. So, throughout the night, I hugged Salton Heater. That helped, but I had already assured myself that I would see Dr. Pellissier in the morning. This pain robs me of sound sleep. At daybreak, I called to book appointment and I got 10 o’clock slot.
By 10:10am, I was already seated on a black-leather rocking chair. Dr Pellissier’s office looks spick and span. And I was grateful to realise it was warm too. It was still drizzling outside. Looking at the kind face of the old doctor, I know I was in good hands. And that feeling which makes you think you are not as ill as you think in the presence of a doctor was starting to happen. Before I started doubting my illness, however, Doctor Pellissier spoke: Hi, I am Dr. Pellissier. Is your surname Amzat? ‘Yes’, I answered. Then he ran his eyes down my file again and looked up to ask where I came from. I said, Nigeria.
“Oh, Nie-gee-rya. Do you use cocaine or sell it?”
I didn’t believe my ears. So I kept quiet. Dr. Pellissier could not have uttered such plain prejudice to a patient he is meeting for the first time.
“Go on tell me, there are quite a number of Nigerians making cool money selling cocaine here. I mean, you could have sold some cocaine to pay your way through Rhodes.” What! Dr. Pellinsier was saying all this, smiling at the same time. Insulting my nationality was his idea of joke.
Was I angry? No I was not. I was furious. Back in my house, there was some catch phrase my housemates put on the kitchen wall, “When you are angry throw glass.” But there was no glass to throw at Dr. Pellissier’s office. Instead I threw a salvo back.
“Really, you seem to have read quite a number of tabloids about Nigeria. Back home, we also have read that South Africa is a haven of crimes. And that, South African whites are the worst racists on earth.”
Under his peer of glasses, Dr. Pellisseir scrutinized the pupils of my eyes. In turn, I stared straight into his iris. For brief seconds, tension between us rose to the white ceiling of his office. He probably was jolted that I referred to his people as being the worst racist. But I was not done. “And guess what doc, I lost my expensive phone and my bicycle within two months I arrived in Grahamstown. South Africans indeed are interesting people.”
Miraculously, my sickness has taken off. I was battle ready. I wanted Dr. Pellissier to make further xenophobic comment about me and Nigeria before I relay stories that have I read in the South Africa newspapers in the last three months.
But the old doctor would not go that route. Rather he sympathized with me about my loss of phone and bicycle. After, a series of tests, he told me I was fit as fiddle. I thought I had pneumonia or something. “No, you do not have anything close to pneumonia. If you do, you will be as sick as dog before you came here.”
He said I probably was reacting to the new environment. He advised me to eat well and exercise regularly. Finally, he prescribed a painkiller drug, and on a friendly note, we parted at the door of his office.
Sincerely, I think Dr. Pellisier is a nice man. But he is a victim of media representations, that kind of signifying practice that tar every black person, a criminal; every white person ,a racist; and every woman, a weaker sex. It is all in the politics of meanings.