I had – I still do – certain reverence for toads that
bordered on superstition or plain fear for certain actions that appeared like
rituals. You see, every time a toad wandered into the kitchen, mother would
sprinkle a little flour on it and leave it where it was, not even trying as
much as ‘chase’ it away. It had a name – Tala Kogo. This act that appeared
quite random scared the shit out of me, so much that as a kid who loved killing
small animals for fun, Tala Kogo was completely left to live.
It wasn’t until a few days ago that I accidentally killed
one of these ‘sacred’ amphibians. It was not my fault for I was out and about
cutting napier grass for the cows when I slashed the creature with a razor
sharp panga. All its intestines spilled out which led me, from years of
experience, that it was beyond being rescued. I left it there, wondering
whether it had relatives that loved it who would then say nice words such as
‘she was hardworking and loving…it is a pity that we lost her to the cruelty of
humans…’ and then inter her.
As I continued cutting the grass, which I think is an
equivalent of chapatti to cows, I encountered small accidents. A bruise here
and there, which bled as though I had ruptured a vein. I thought the creature
must have actually been a little sacred, what with the sprinkling of flour.
Speaking of sacred, I nearly chopped off my left hand’s
middle finger. Not the entire finger but the nail itself. It was a Sunday. We
were cutting boma rods – I with a borrowed sickle. A cousin of mine was playing
gospel music on his techno phone to make up for the fact that he was supposed
to be in church being concerned with his spiritual needs and not cutting grass.
A while back – it’s decades actually – we decided that it was totally uncool
for us to go to church.
Although we do not go to church, Sundays are exclusively set
aside for relaxation. It is a day where each one of retreats to their
sanctuaries, ask this or that from their personal gods. As we cut the grass,
the music emanating from the cousin’s phone kind of became a detractor to the
stream of thoughts my mind churned. As I wondered why the guy played the music,
I lost concentration and the sickle cleanly chopped off my entire nail, leaving
a tiny bit near the base. There’s nothing as painful as chopping off your nail
with anything serrated. Of course it is second to knock on the testicles, but I
reserve pain rating to another time. I rushed home holding my finger to prevent
leaving a trail of blood on the way.
I washed it with salt solution but it still bled. I tried
everything, including brake fluid to no avail. I tore a piece of cloth from a
worn out t-shirt and wrapped it. It stopped bleeding, leading me to think that
I had at last arrested the bleeding. That night, a slept while flipping a
middle finger at mosquitoes and other nocturnal creatures that bayed for my
blood.
The following day, I woke up as usual, except with the
knowledge that I was excluded from any activity that involved the use of both
hands. If eating was such an activity, I definitely would have starved for I
can’t fathom being fed like a baby. As I took tea, accompanied by a distinct
whistling sound, my body grew warmer and the bloody finger began bleeding
again. I had lost a lot of blood the previous day to a point that I actually
got scared. I remember feeling a little dizzy following the loss.
It was then that I was forced to make a drastic decision –
go to the hospital. I couldn’t stand losing any more blood. And I left
immediately after breakfast, glad that the finger absolved me the strenuous
exercise of deciding whether to take a shower or not. In less than an hour, I
was the Flax Dispensary, waiting for my turn to be treated. There were many
sick people, including children who were being taken for immunization against
the various diseases I care not remember. Some wailed ceaselessly, while
mothers wore worried looks on their faces. Some adults were sprawled on the
grass, as though their only available option was death.
I neglected the part where I bought a card. It costs twenty
shillings and I wonder if that is legal. I have been to one dispensary in
Nairobi where the card is given to you free of charge. Patients buy it
unquestioningly. It is part of the treatment process, and they have accepted it
that way.
When my name was called, a nurse attended to me. She asked
me what caused the wound and I told her it was a ‘ringa.’ I don’t know if she
understood it or she just felt that it was wise to ignore it. She took out the
container containing iodine whereupon she realized that it was empty. She then
shouted to another doctor, talking about whether the supplies have been
ordered. The doctor – I don’t know why a male attendant is referred to as a
doctor – assured her that they were on their way. She leaves the room in search
for a medicine which would enable her to administer a tetanus jab on my person.
I use her absence to scan the room for any evidence of serial killers. Haha.
Actually, I just looked around the room to see the medical marvels that either
occur in the room or information that might be of particular interest to me.
What captures my attention is a hand drawn bar graph showing the number of
people under anti-retroviral drugs. Finally glad to put into good use the
numerous bar graphs I drew back in school, I read the number of people under
the drug. The highest bar read thirty on a certain month. I remember thinking
that the number was too high then the nurse came in.
She asked me to remove my shirt for her to administer the
jab. She was cute, alright, but in a motherly way. I obliged. You see, I work
out from time to time, and so my biceps are little hard. She asks me to relax
my muscles but I couldn’t. I do not fear injections. I only fear certain
species of reptiles such as snakes and slayqueens. Otherwise, injections do not
faze me.
I forget. She had already dressed the wound. After the
tetanus jab, I left for home. I did not even want to linger around the shopping
centre for while – or until darkness set in. The throbbing pain would not allow
me.
