Dark poop, and what happens when you Google it — a short story
It is the month of Ramadan. Over ten days into the fasting season, so in a way you’ve become accustomed to waking up by 4am to prepare the sahur — but not by a nagging bowel. It has always been either one of five alarms you set the evening before the first day of fasting or a routine call from mom. But today, long before your phone starts to buzz, it is overtaken by your belly.
Thank goodness you live in a self-containment. Though this is Abuja; it isn’t as if you can afford anything bigger. But thank goodness, because the toilet is only six or seven tiles from your mattress, so you hurry inside, grateful also that you do not wear pants to sleep. You get comfortable. Nothing unusual, at first. Just a bit watery. Nothing you’re not already used to. Your body has little tolerance for a lot of things, especially the sort of food you enjoy the most: beans, ice cream, soda, etc. etc. It is why you avoid using the toilet at the office, unless no one is in the adjoining room. Or you go about the business as slowly and gently as possible so as not to, putting it lightly, call attention to yourself.
Two minutes and a couple of delightful moans later, something pushes you to observe the crime scene, to take note of the murder weapon that killed your sleep and the previously stench-free atmosphere. What you see frightens you. ‘Who the hell poured a bottle of Pepsi into the water closet?’ you cry. Or what exactly is this you are looking at? Is the sewage faulty?
After asking a few more questions and looking a bit more closely, it finally hits you. It is your darn poop! The thing has transformed overnight like a black man who found a cure for vitiligo.
You don’t know what to make of this, but you’re certain there is absolutely nothing usual about it. Never has your anus birthed such an abominable substance. The closest you’ve seen is poop laced with poorly digested vegetables, after a gratifying meal of egusi or efo riro. So what could be wrong? You remember reading about how monitoring urine colour is a reliable way of telling when you’re sick, and immediately deduce that the same biological logic has to be applicable to faeces. Something is wrong. Terribly terribly wrong!
Last November when a scorpion sting caused you a similar shock just after midnight, it was Google, your friend, that kept you company and gave you hope of surviving till daybreak. Instinctively, you rush back to the living room/sitting room/bedroom to fetch your smartphone. First things first, you get some evidence for the doctor: a close shot of the melanic poop, sitting quietly at the toilet’s riverbank, where you placed it for inspection. For a moment, you regret not scrubbing the water closet for a long time — but there are more important matters to attend to now.
You also regret not keeping your previous appointment with the doctor. You had gone in February for a kidney test and had discovered you had almost everything in excess. The doctor had instructed you return for another test in a month’s time to observe the changes, but since the oedema in your right foot vanished you’ve decided to spend your weekends in other, more exciting, ways instead — at least till the swelling revisits.
Anyway, after taking one picture of the poop and another unrelated one (as a cover in case someone opens your gallery), you head to Google.
“Black faeces,” you type, not sure how to frame the question or what you’re looking for.
You first check the images to confirm that is the appropriate adjective. Perhaps it should have been dark? Or green? Oh! The pictures, like your poop, are disgusting. But, yes, it’s exactly what you had in mind.
Now, you go back to the general section. Google may be your friend, but he is also countless other things, including a doctor.
“Dark stools, also called melena,” he begins, “can have causes that aren’t due to underlying diseases. Examples include medications containing bismuth or iron supplements.”
That is a bit comforting, right? At least, now you know something is not necessarily wrong with you. “Bismuth”. You have no idea what that means and feel no motivation to check. Besides, it doesn’t sound like something you would find here in Africa. “Iron supplements”, now that’s more relatable. But you have no clue if you’ve taken any of those recently, or even what sort of food contains them. You flash back to the previous day. Nope. Nothing of the sort, you should think. Immediately, without even showing any websites yet, Dr Google tells you the health conditions related to your search.
“Hemorrhoids,” he starts. “This means having swollen and inflamed veins in the rectum and anus that cause discomfort and bleeding. Symptoms may include anal discomfort, pain on sitting down, and constipation.”
God forbid!
“Diverticulitis,” he continues. “This is an inflammation or infection in one or more small pouches in the digestive tract. Symptoms may include dark stool from digested blood, constipation, and cramping.”
No way! Doesn’t even sound Nigerian.
“Anal fissure,” Google adds, looking as calm as he started. “A small tear in the lining of the anus. Symptoms may include cracked skin, difficulty defecating, and itchiness around anus.”
Ha-ha! Seems like a sexually transmitted disease you get from too much anal intercourse. “When I am not gay,” you respond, with a self-righteous look.
“Alright then. There’s also stomach ulcer, oesophageal varices, colon cancer…”
Cancer?! You are too young for that, aren’t you? You’ve always felt you’ll likely not make it to what they call the “ripe old age”, but certainly not this way. Not with tumours growing inside you and giving the middle finger to endless chemotherapy sessions. Not with mom still waiting to receive her pension and gratuity from the Ogun State government, or that of dad still hanging somewhere in the accounts of Lagos. Not with friends circulating posters on the internet to raise funds from strangers, saying how you’ve achieved so much and have such huge dreams and how you urgently need N5 million for surgery at some Indian hospital to stay alive. No, certainly not.
But you read some more and start to think maybe this is it, after all. What about all those trips to the toilet? Haven’t you really been having difficulty defecating all at once? Maybe it is your weird sleeping position. Or even that road accident from many months ago in Kogi State.
The driver, drunk, reckless, selfish, but most of all stupid, had swerved away from the straight road into the surrounding swampy land and hit a tree, abruptly waking you up from your sleep. He had blamed it on an inexistent pothole that must’ve disappeared as soon as other road users approached it. It was 1am in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps that incident caused some internal damage that is only now rearing its head.
Right there, still sitting on the toilet, eyes locked on your phone screen, you even start to feel pain in your lower abdomen. The pain in your right hip you remember from the previous day, but this … this seems new. All manner of crazy thoughts continue to race through your mind, but you manage to get the session over with without a panic attack. That would only complicate an already complicated problem. You drop your phone. Fetch water. Flush. Wear your underpants. Pick your phone. And return to the living room/sitting room/bedroom.
Unable to sleep, and since it is already nearing time to have sahur, you walk towards your reading desk and open your laptop. And then you see it… lurking behind your HP computer, tucked furtively under the brown curtain, almost as though deliberately hiding from view… your gaze is fixed on it for a while, trying to connect the dots, see if this is indeed a eureka moment or it is just you desperately holding on to any excuse not to visit the hospital.
You have not had this drink in years, so… maybe. No, not maybe. Most likely, it has to be responsible. Hesitantly, you heave a sigh of relief and decide to immediately confirm your theory from friends on WhatsApp. “Happens to me all the time,” came the reply from a former course-mate. Just one response, just one line, but it is all you need.
You put on a broad grin, and could swear the empty plastic bottle, which just last night was filled with some of the tastiest zobo you’ve ever had, smiled mischievously back at you.
