Between LASTMA officials and an asthma patient, by Chiemelie Offor

Let me share this here.

Of this incident that happened a few hours ago.

I wasn’t supposed to stop.

But I did.

There was chaos just ahead of the supermarket gate somewhere in Surulere.

A black Toyota Corolla was surrounded by three LASTMA officials.

The driver, mid-40s, shirt soaked in sweat, kept pacing between them.

And something in his voice stopped me.

“Please. Please just look inside the car. He is not even moving anymore. That’s my son. He is sick, he is very sick. We were going to the hospital. I only stepped in to grab his medication. I was gone for just five minutes.”

One of the officials shook his head like he’d heard it a thousand times.

“You people always have stories. Why park where you’re not supposed to? You want us to lose our job?”

Another officer barked.

“Oga, if you don’t bring ₦70,000 now, this car is going to the yard. And from there? You’ll need close to ₦400,000 to bail it.”

The man reached out. Not to touch them. Just to plead.
They stepped back like he carried something contagious.

“I swear I’m not lying. Please. He has severe asthma. I forgot the nebulizer at home. I was rushing to the hospital, Faithview, just ten minutes from here. Look at him! You have a child, right? Please, have sympathy.”

That was when I looked.

The boy, maybe ten, was in the backseat, his small frame slumped against the door, eyes half-closed. His chest heaved in rapid spasms, every breath sounding like gravel grinding in a pipe.

His fingers trembled. His lips were turning dark.

So I stepped forward.

“What’s wrong with him?”

The father looked at me, disoriented.

“Asthma. It started an hour ago. He had a mild attack in the morning, but it’s worsening fast. I was going to get him treated and just stopped for a refill. Please, sir… help me talk to them.”

I tried to talk to the LASTMA officers but they ignored me so I turned back to the man.

“Try and sort this with them, let me take him to the hospital.”

His eyes widened.

“You…?”

“We don’t have another option and there is no time. He needs oxygen. Now.”

He hesitated.

“You’re a stranger.”

“I am. But your son is dying.”

He looked back at the boy.

Then at me.

He obviously saw that there was no other option left.

His lips trembled.

“Give me your number. Please.”

I gave him mine.

And he gave me his.

I opened the door and gently lifted the boy from the backseat.

He was warm. Burning. His eyes barely focused on mine.

As I placed him in my car, the father shouted behind me.

“Please, call me the moment you get there. Please don’t let anything happen to him!”

I nodded once. Then I got into the car and quickly drove off.

The hospital wasn’t crowded, I guess because it was a private one.

I rushed in carrying the boy in both arms.

“Emergency! Severe asthma attack. Ten-year-old boy!”

The receptionist stood up so fast her chair hit the wall.

She shouted.

“Treatment Room Two! Get Doctor Okafor!”

While I tried to fill the form I was given, two nurses rushed and took the boy, placed him on the oxygen tank, connected a nebulizer, and began checking vitals.

One of the nurses murmured.

“He’s tachypneic. Respiration over 40. Oxygen saturation 82%.”

The doctor said as he rushed in still zipping his scrubs.

“Get the hydrocortisone ready. Nebulize him every 20 minutes. Keep him on oxygen. If he doesn’t stabilize, we’re moving to adrenaline injection.”

I stood there.

My heart pounding.

This wasn’t my child.

But it felt like my fight.

Minutes passed.

Then the doctor came out.

“He is stable.”

He said, wiping his forehead.

“That was close. He’ll be okay, but he needs to stay a few hours for monitoring.”

I thanked him so much.

The bill came.

₦89,000.

I paid with my debit card.

I stepped outside and called the boy’s father.

He picked on the first ring.

“Hello! Sir, please, is he?”

“He is stable. He is getting oxygen and treatment.”

A pause.

Then I heard the man begin to cry. Softly.

I didn’t speak. I let him.

But he wasn’t done.

“They’ve taken the car. They refused to wait. I was still begging when the towing truck came. They said the 70K grace was over. I’m at their office in Iponri now. Sir… they’re asking for ₦385,000 to release my car.”

I looked at the hospital door behind me.

Then at the sky.

Then back to my car.

I didn’t know what to say to him.

But all I found myself saying was.

“I’m coming.”

And I meant it.

He couldn’t believe his ears.

I arrived at the LASTMA office just before 3PM.

The weather was warm, no sun, but the heat stuck to my skin like wet cloth.

I found him standing by a corner fence, head down, fingers digging into his scalp.

He was tired and confused.

So I said to him gently.

“Sir.”

He looked up like someone coming out of a bad dream. His eyes were red, his face streaked with dry sweat and tears.

He approached me nervously.

His voice was hoarse.

“My car… they have impounded it. Said I’ll pay ₦385,000. They even threatened to keep increasing the fine by day. That car is my only source of income. That’s my office from where I make money to take care of my son and my wife. God, please, help me.”

I told him.

“Stay calm. Nothing will happen to your car, you’ll get it back, I believe.”

He nodded slowly.

“They have been laughing at me. One said, ‘Your son is sick? Na why you go break law? You think say we be Red Cross?’”

I felt something cold stir in my chest.

Not rage.

Just sadness.

I said to him.

“Please, come with me.”

We walked into the building.

Inside, it smelled of engine oil, sweat, and indifference.

I approached the counter.

“Good afternoon. I’d like to speak with your superior officer. It’s regarding a car that was impounded a few hours ago, black Toyota Corolla.”

A thickset officer with bloodshot eyes looked up at me. “Eeyyaa who you be? Police or Army? Abeg everything you want to say, say it here. We don’t have time.”

I responded calmly but firm.

“I was the one who rushed the sick boy to the hospital, I have the hospital card and bill here. He was in the back seat of that vehicle. That child would have died today if I didn’t act.”

He scoffed.

“And so? Good for him. E mean say we no go do our job?”

“No one said that but this man was in an emergency. All he asked was a few more minutes. Instead, you people want to extort him. Now you’re billing him almost ₦400,000. This isn’t traffic enforcement. It’s cruelty.”

Another officer chimed in.

“Oga, the car don enter system. Na only Oga inside go override am. And e no dey see everybody.”

“Then let him see me.”

“As governor of Lagos State or as who?”

Silence.

I stood my ground.

“Get your superior. I’ll wait.”

The minutes crawled.

The father stood beside me like a child awaiting judgment.

Fortunately, a senior officer emerged.

Bald, tall, stern. I saw his name tag.

He sized me up before he said.

“What’s the problem?”

I stepped forward and told the story. From the moment I saw the boy wheezing in the back seat, to carrying him into the hospital, to paying the ₦89,000 hospital bill, to returning only to find the car had been towed.

The Commander listened without interruption. Then he asked a single question:

“Do you have proof the boy was sick?”

I handed him the hospital bill and the case card. He studied them for a long moment.

Then something shifted in his eyes.

He looked at the officers behind the desk.

“You towed the vehicle knowing a child was dying in it?”

“Sir, the man parked in a no-parking.”

“I didn’t ask that. I asked if you knew a child was in distress in the car.”

No one answered.

He sighed.

“Release the car. Immediately. Remove the fine. No man should suffer for saving his own son’s life. And you.”

He turned to the father.

“You’re lucky someone still has a conscience in this country. Thank this guy for stepping in.”

The man fell to his knees.

“Thank you. Thank you, sir… I swear, thank you…”

When the superior left, he turned to me.

And his voice broke.

“You didn’t know me. Yet you rushed my son to the hospital. You paid for his treatment. And now, you’re standing here fighting for me when I couldn’t even fight for myself.”

I helped him to his feet.

He opened his wallet and tried to hand me some money.

“I don’t have much. Please… even if it’s part of what you spent…”

I shook my head.

“Your son is breathing. That’s enough. Please, pick your car and go and see him. God bless you.”

He looked at me, eyes trembling.

“Why? Why would you do this for me?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

So I said the only thing I truly believed.

“Because someone should.”

As we walked out into the fading light, I handed him a folded note.

It was the hospital’s follow-up card. His son had to return in two days for further tests.

“I already booked the appointment. He’ll need more care. Don’t miss it.”

He opened it slowly, then looked back at me, his lips parted, but no words came.

Only tears.

Only silence.

And behind us, the LASTMA officers watched.

They were quiet now. Maybe even ashamed.

But I left there happy and fulfilled.

You could do the same.

And the world will be a better place.