I’m in my bachelor pad doing dishes that had stayed in the sink for three days when Lily asks, “Ernest, if you become a really important person in this country, will you continue to write about those intimate things you go through in your private life?”
I pretend not to have heard her question. Lily nudges me. She’s the voice of reason in my head, the one that pulls out a whip when I mess up. She’s my conscience, my common sense, my intuition, my guardian angel. She’s that soul that tells me to watch my words. She says things like, “You should be accountable for the all things you say, do or write.” She reminds me to be responsible and thoughtful. Tells me to take care of myself. And when it seems like I’m leading a chic on just to see how far I can go, she pops up and says, “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I tell her, “Rango said something like…”
“Come on,” she cut me off with a dismissing voice. “Enough with your quotes from Rango.” She didn’t let me finish.
“Where are your manners, Lily?” I shot back. “I thought we agreed not to cut each other off when one of us is speaking.”
“Lol. I’m tired of you using lines from Rango all the time.”
“All the time? That’s an exaggeration.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Look, the quote brings out the point I want to make,” I say while demonstrating with my hands.
“Can’t you think of your own words and lines? I thought you were smart.”
“Lily, really? Are you calling me daft?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Lily sighs. I rinse my Krispy Kreme branded cup and place it in the dish tray.
“But Lily, what’s wrong with using lines from Rango?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that you sometimes refer to Rango even when it isn’t necessary.”
“Listen, it’s something that would’ve answered your question on whether I’ll still write about some of the things that happen in my private life. But you won’t let me.”
She rolls her eyes again and wears a smirk. Lily is so full of herself sometimes. We have arguments. Sometimes I win. Most times she wins. She isn’t pushy. She’s gentle, speaks really softly. There are times when I brush her off. She never insists on anything. “Go ahead and do whatever you want,” she’ll say when I refuse to listen to her. She’s got nothing to prove to me. You can’t fight with your conscience, can you?
I wipe my wet hands on my shirt, turn to her and say, “Rango said, ‘No man can walk out on his own story.’ I can’t walk out on the experiences of my life.”
She drops her shoulder.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Ah, Lily. You’re being difficult. The point is, the older you grow, the more experiences you have. You adapt to whatever is happening in your life and around you. You write about stuff that will show people you are no different from them. Life isn’t all ice-cream and muffins. How else will they learn from your life if you don’t share the realities? Will they judge you for being imperfect? Or for failing at something? We can’t stop writing about our experiences simply because society expects us to be a certain way. Yes, we’ve got to do it responsibly. But don’t hold back if you’ve got something to share especially if it can teach others.”
I went all motivational speaker on her. She didn’t see that coming. She got back and coiled in her seat. She let me continue.
By the way, why am I going all verbose on you?
The truth is, I was finding a way of sharing a deeply personal experience with you. I’ll just drop it here. I didn’t get a boner for three days. Yes, you read that right. For three whole days. I won’t go into how or why that happened. I’ll leave it to your mind’s imagination to process.
The first day it happened, I didn’t mind. I woke up and there was no morning wood. I said, “Fine, maybe it’ll happen during the day.” I came up short. Day two passed and my thing stayed down. It didn’t show up. I found that unusual. Maybe I was paying too much attention. Probably my focus was on the wrong thing. Maybe I was getting one while I was in my sleep.
As a guy, you want to wake up to a boner. It’s normal. It’s supposed to happen. I was worried when it didn’t show up on day two. My man was down that whole day. I got home that evening from work and stripped, looked at my manhood and cheered it on. “Come on, you can do this. You can rise, my guy. Yes you can. Yes. You. Can.” Obama’s words couldn’t have come at a better time. I asked it not to let me down. I sang praises to it. I said it was the best thing to have ever happened to my body. I became a sycophant to my own manhood, endlessly pouring praises at it for personal gain. Do you know what the thing did? It remained looking down, docile, not giving two hoots about me. I pictured this chic I have a crush on. I thought that would wake it up. Nothing worked.
So I gave it up to day three. It did not show up. That was a red flag.
I thought resurrection happened on the third day. In my case, on day three, I was on the low, eluded by the resurrection I anticipated. I managed to muster a weak one. “This is progress,” I said to myself. Then it went quiet again. I was thinking, “Sh*t, what the actual fcuk is happening to me?” You don’t want to get erectile dysfunction in your twenties or anytime in your life time. The thought of ED got me out of bed. My mind was racing. “I don’t have a child yet.” “Is this really happening to me?” Anxiety hit me like a bullet.
I picked my phone. Google has the answers, right? Yes. I Googled. And read up on what could be happening to me. At this point, I’m scared shitless that I go to twitter and get the phone contact of the WhatsApp Doc. I reach out for help.
There is no shame in reaching out for professional help when you have a medical issue.
The WhatsApp Doc is a service run by the Medical Concierge Group. This is a company that does digital healthcare really well. You don’t have to leave the comfort (or discomfort) of your house to get help, unless you must.
Here’s how it works. You send through whatever medical issue you have to the WhatsApp number. A doctor on the other end of the screen reads it and attends to you by either asking clarifying questions or advising you on what to do if your explanation was clear. I could type out my whole correspondence with the WhatsApp Doc but Lily has just told me none of you will want to read that. It’d be too much for you. You’d say, “Why is this guy undressing before us? I thought he said he’d leave some things to our imagination.”
The doc prescribes four things for me. All I wanted was to get my groove back. I was willing to do whatever he prescribed. If I was told to drink chicken urine, I would’ve looked for it without question. He prescribed everyday things like exercising and massaging the guy down there with a warm piece of cloth twice a day. The end goal was to make sure blood flows to those vessels with ease. The doc recommended a supplement that has a Chinese name. I didn’t care. Even if its name was in Twi, I was ready to eat anything or swallow whatever as long as I’d stand up again. I texted back, told him it was okay I’d have it. It was delivered to me by one of their mobile pharmacists.
The Medical Concierge Group also runs a mobile pharmacy service. Their pharmacists deliver the prescribed medication to clients who wish to use the service. It’s convenient. It saves you energy and time. It’s delivered to your door step. A handy service this is. The pharmacist carries along your medical form that’s complete with your name, diagnosis, clinical notes, prescription and name of the doc who attended to you online. It’s legit. You sign to acknowledge receipt of your delivery.
And the news you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. I’m back to standing firm again.
P.S: The Medical Concierge Group is currently hiring Doctors, Clinical Officers and Comprehensive Nurses. The deadline is 2 June 2019. Check out their social media pages for details. You could become the next WhatsApp Doc.