By Wesonga Robert
Since I was a small child, I have always dreaded visits to the hospital. Two reasons explain this: Firstly, even with my very limited knowledge of matters medical, I discovered long ago that the inscription inj in my patient’s booklet meant I was going to get an injection. This was something I was not very talented in readily receiving. Another reason that invoked so much fear of the hospital in my mind was the possibility of passing near a mortuary. That was until I had an experience inside a maternity ward in Maralal District Hospital a few days ago. From that day forward, a visit to the maternity ward ranks first among my greatest fears, followed only by my the fear of a volcanic eruption, the prospect of getting a noisy wife, and hot porridge.
Beni arrived on my metal door like a thunderbolt. He was only wearing his weekend jeans short which I had long stopped suspecting he also used as his night dress. I am the only other person who knows that the short is also called MP3, a name it acquired on the occasion of one of the numerous student riots he was involved in while in campus. I opened the door wondering why he had to wake all my neighbours in his nocturnal escapades with my door. Beni is a diplomatic man so it was quite uncharacteristic when he motioned me to follow him without giving me a chance to complain.
I soon understood why Beni had not phoned me when I entered his house. His sister Moraa was writhing on the floor rubbing Beni’s phone under the table while her other hand clutched her abdomen. She appeared to be in serious labour pain. Up to this moment, I have been unable to understand the relationship between a mobile phone and labour pain. If I had imagined this surprising, I was to encounter more dramatic absurdity later that night. Within minutes of calling the man with the most reasonable pickup which he enjoys calling a taxi, we were on our way to Maralal town. All along the way, Moraa stuck onto Beni’s phone, all the while shrieking and threatened to bite him when he attempted to take it.
The atmosphere inside the ward resembled something anywhere between The Tower of Babel and a sinners’ expectation of the Judgment Day. Almost every language was represented in the cacophony. Notable among the voices was a young Somali lady who went ballistic, insulting – in unspeakable terms - everybody around including those who had brought her. She called all men sadistic dogs that caused women to suffer the pain of labour. There was yet another one who, though not abusive, made even Moraa forget her own pain. I think I even heard her giggle. This last was a Form Four girl confessing to her mother. It was the beginning of the confession that caught my attention:
“Haki mungu, hii ni madharau gani? Haki walahi mungu kwa nini dei unanifanyia madharau?”
The girl went on to say that it had occurred one evening during The Maralal International Camel Derby. She even described the shape of the acacia tree under which it had happened and proceeded to mention that she was sorry because the culprit was a Form One boy who did not have half the notes in school.
Whatever went on for the few hours we were at the hospital cannot be fully covered in the volume of this piece. However, I was able to come up with two fundamental resolutions by the time morning reached. I decided to respect all the mothers of this world. It helps to have been there to feel the tension and the pain in the air. I also resolved to avoid involvement in activities that would make me go to the maternity. The mention of some Kiswahili words is already bad enough even when it comes in the shape of Japanese names.
No comments:
Post a Comment