30 Reasons To Read

Episode 12: Ogiri Letti (The walls have ears)

Martha was her name. Martha Gracious.

She was one of the most unforgettable patients our hospital had ever seen. Coming from a life of opulence, Martha had only known luxury before she was admitted here. The seventeen-year-old had a younger brother named Mike and why her parents abandoned her remained a mystery.

"She’s gone mad!" her mother had sobbed the day she left Martha with us. "Save my daughter and bring her back to me." That was the last time any of us saw her mother. Two years passed, and her parents never once visited. Every patient had visitors except Martha. Every visitor's day, she sat by her window, hopeful, expecting to see her parents. But they never came.

We felt awful for her and many times we tried to call her parents. But no one ever answered. Eventually, we tried to convince her to move on, that her parents weren’t coming back. But Martha refused to believe it. She waited, always, by that window.

There was something unique about her, something that made her stand out beyond her tragic abandonment. She used to say that the walls had ears. "Ogiri letti," she called it. She claimed to know everything that happened within the hospital just by sitting in her room, as if the walls whispered secrets only to her. If you asked her how she knew, she'd simply say, “The walls told me.”

Some found it amusing, others unsettling. A few believed she had paranormal abilities, while others mocked her for it. But the staff, us doctors and nurses, came to admire her unusual ability.

In fact, it became a game sometimes. During our evening shifts, we’d ask her about conversations or events happening in other parts of the hospital, just to see if she really knew. And she always did. When our phones failed, we even sought her help. Once, she alerted us to a burglar who had broken into the hospital at night. Another time, she helped stop a patient from committing suicide. There were so many instances where she had done us a favor.

We all loved Martha. She had a kind heart and a beautiful voice, often entertaining us with her songs in the evenings. Despite her sadness, she always managed to spread warmth with her smile. Her gentle spirit made her loved by both patients and staff alike. It was hard to believe someone like her had been abandoned. We wondered constantly why her parents had forsaken such a sweet girl.

But for all our efforts to protect her from heartbreak, one evening, we found her sitting by the window as always, her lifeless body slumped against the wall.

That day was the darkest our hospital had ever known. Everyone- staff, patients, even visitors grieved for Martha. We arranged her funeral with as much love and care as we could, planting her favorite flowers over her grave. But they never bloomed.

Even after she was gone, her presence lingered in her room. Every evening, we would sit there, feeling her spirit, restless, as if she hadn’t found peace.

Three months after her death, an old man appeared at the hospital. His clothes were worn, his appearance disheveled. He approached the reception desk, his eyes filled with sorrow.

"May I visit Martha Gracious?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Before that, may I know who you are?" the receptionist replied.

His eyes welled up. "I am her father."

We were stunned. This was not the same man we had seen years ago when Martha had first been admitted, her father had been young, well-dressed, and confident. But time had weathered him and the grief etched in his face was undeniable.

We led him, in silence, to her grave.

"She passed away three months ago, Mr. Wilson," I said, my voice trembling as I fought back tears. "She died of depression, though she spent her final days trying to keep everyone around her happy. She waited for you every single day, sitting by the window for two years, hoping you’d come. You should have visited her, at least once."

He didn’t reply, his gaze fixed on her grave. Silent sobs shook his shoulders as the weight of regret settled over him.

Later, we sat in Martha’s room, sharing a quiet cup of tea. The room felt hollow without her presence.

"Martha had a gift," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "She said the walls could speak to her. 'Ogiri letti,' she called it - the walls have ears. Three years ago, before we admitted her here, my wife was insistent that Martha needed help, that something was wrong with her. I didn’t agree, but she pushed me. I had no choice but to listen."

His eyes clouded with guilt as he continued. "The day I left her here, she asked me why. I told her it was her mother’s decision, that we were doing what was best for her. She just smiled and said, 'She’s scared, Dad,' and nothing more."

He paused, taking a deep breath as tears welled up again. "My wife never let me visit her. She said she couldn’t bear to see our daughter in that state. I tried to convince her, but she always refused. Then, just a week ago, I discovered the truth... my wife has been having an affair. Suddenly, everything made sense."

He looked at me, as if asking if I could make out the rest of the story. I did and nodded gently.

"Martha knew," I said softly. "She found out and warned your wife. Your wife was afraid Martha would tell you, so she convinced you she was unstable. That’s why she pushed for Martha to be admitted here. But Martha never said a word to you, did she?"

Tears streamed down his face and he let out a shuddering breath. "I killed my own daughter," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I abandoned her when she needed me the most. Please, tell her... tell her her daddy is sorry. I always wanted to visit but her mother wouldn’t let me. She didn’t deserve this. None of it."

He left soon after, broken and defeated.

I stood by her grave, my heart heavy with sorrow. I wanted to tell her everything, to let her know the truth of what had happened. And then, as I stood there, I noticed something, her favorite plant had bloomed.

I smiled through my tears. She could still hear her walls.

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