No Cake, No Party: How a Near-Death Experience Changed Her Birthday Forever.

Amina and Bolu 

Amina lay still, the bruises on her skin darker than any filter could ever make them beautiful. Today was her birthday. Bolu sat beside the bed, clutching a gift she suddenly felt embarrassed to give. “Birthdays used to mean noise,” Amina said quietly. “Cake. Money alerts. ‘Repost my pictures or you don’t love me.’ I was that person.” 

Bolu swallowed. “No celebration this year?”

 Amina’s eyes moved to the ceiling. “Five people died in that accident. Only two of us survived. You think I want a party?" she paused, breathing through the pain. “All I want today is to call my mother. Text my siblings. Send the little money left in my account to the nurse who bathed me when I couldn’t move. Tell everyone who ever made me laugh that they were the real gift,” 

Amina turned her head slowly and said. “Bolu, please give me my phone.” Bolu unplugged it and handed it over.

“Happy birthday to me,” Amina whispered, already scrolling through her contacts—calling, texting, transferring small amounts, sending voice notes of gratitude. No cake. No photoshoot. Just a woman in a hospital gown spending her birthday giving instead of receiving. That day, Bolu understood what adding one year truly means.

Another Version (Slightly Pidgin)

Amina and the nurse

Amina’s bruises looked like countries on a map nobody wanted to visit. Today she added one year—on a hospital bed, not a dance floor. Bolu sat beside her, gift bag now feeling stupid in her hands. “People go beg for money on their birthday,” Amina said, voice dry. “Post fine pictures: ‘If you love me, repost and send something.’ I used to do that rubbish. Amina concluded. 

Bolu shifted saying; “So no party this year?”

Amina gave a small laugh that ended in a wince. “Party? I watched as five people kpai for that bus. Only me and one other person commout with breath. You think say I wan cake?". Amina paused as silence sprang round the hospital ward.

”Silence na wetin I wan do today,” Amina continued, “ na to call my mama, chat my brother. Send the small 8k wey dey my account to the nurse wey bath me yesterday way I no fit to move. Tell everybody wey ever make me smile say thank you. Say na them be the GOAT.”

She turned her head slowly and said “Bolu, abeg give me my phone. ”Bolu handed it over. Her eyes were wet but tears never dey drop yet. “Happy birthday to me,” Amina whispered, already dialing.

Bolu watched her friend’s cracked fingers scroll through contacts, pressing call, voice note, small transfers—one by one. No cake. No photos. Just a woman in hospital gown doing the one thing that now made sense: giving instead of collecting. That day, Bolu learned birthday without noise.

The original version: https://roywritezblog.blogspot.com/2024/03/birthday-on-bed-by-roy-oc-chukwu.html