What Goes Around

"Nurse. Nurse. Somebody help me. Banange, munyambe. Nurse."

The Samaritan held my tattered body in his hands. Unable to speak or move, I was still oddly conscious. The adrenaline coursing through my body must’ve temporarily suspended my pain receptors, for I felt nothing but weightlessness. Even with this, two things were clear; I'm in bad shape, and I can't speak.

Black.

"Hello doctor, the patient has just been rushed in by a boda boda man. Apparently, there was a huge accident along the main road. The potholes on that road are terrible; it seems a car coming from the opposite side was attempting to skirt the huge potholes when it collided with this gentleman’s car. I don’t know why these people don’t fix these roads, the accidents are too many. We still don’t have any idea of who he is. But judging from his clothes, he must be a wealthy man. The police have been alerted. His condition is now stable, although he has been in and out of consciousness since he got here. Vocal cords ruptured, we fear he might have sustained some brain injuries. He also has a serious fracture in his leg."

"Hello, Sir. Sorry, this is going to sting a little. Nurse… umm… Betty? Yes, please check if Doctor Balikudembe is on call, and if not, get him here as soon as possible."

"Yes, Sir. But Sir? The CT machine hasn’t been fixed yet. They were supposed to send a technician from Kampala last week, but up to now, he hasn’t come."

"Damn it. How are we supposed to treat patients without knowing the full extent of their condition?" Doctor Byarugamba asked, as though expecting an answer from the nurse. She looked away, having learned long ago to avoid those 'philosophical questions' from doctors. What did any of that have to do with her? This job was a means to an end, and if all went according to plan, she planned to relocate to Dubai or one of those Arab countries. Places where nurses were actually appreciated.

"Okay, all the same, get Doctor Balikudembe here so we can see what to do for this man. Also, get someone to work with the police so we can find a way to I.D. him."

"Yes, Doctor, but also, in case we can’t I.D. him, how shall we organize his treatment? At the staff meeting, we were instructed not to work on a patient until we have at least 40% deposit. This man has extensive injuries; we might even need to send the ambulance to Kampala. Who will foot the bill?"

Doctor Byarugamba let out a loud sigh. Years of wasted potential in a local clinic were already showing through the fault lines on his face. "Betty, I also don’t know. Let’s handle one problem at a time." As Nurse Betty walked away, Doctor Byarugamba wondered what demonic interference had curved the trajectory of his life to this extent. Top of his medical class at Makerere, he’d been one of the smart ones whose work was recognized by a visiting physician from Johns Hopkins. Wasn’t it to him that the illustrious Doctor McCarthy had said, 'We’d be lucky to have a brain like yours at Johns Hopkins?' Why had he stubbornly believed he could stay back and ‘change the country'? Which Africans have been rewarded for this foolery? Name one. Even Nelson Mandela spent the majority of his life staring at a blank wall and shitting in a bucket.

"Doctor. Doctor." I tried to speak, unable to get the man’s attention. He seemed lost in a deep train of thought. I tried to move my fingers, my toes. Nothing worked. Panic. Oh my God. Oh my Lord. Where am I even? What happened? My mind started to painfully replay the events of the day. I remembered waking up to sweet kisses from Kemi and hearing her pleas that I should come back after the event. These young girls really know how to make an old man feel like a king. They whisper things you haven’t heard from your wife since Museveni came to power, turning you into the gullible fool we all end up being. But not me, I knew how to keep Kemi in line, I knew what was what. I am a minister with vast resources and the ability to change her life; she’s the nymph with the patience to handle a dying libido. Yes, so I left Kemi and went to oversee the borehole project. I hate it when ministry work takes me to these tiny villages. The roads are terrible, the people press on you like you’re Jesus resurrected, there are barely any notable hotels to stay at. The best thing to do then is to drive to the place and back, never stay over. The only advantage I get is being able to see Kemi without all the hiding. But now here I am, in a dingy little medical center. How do I inform these people about who I am? God, please don’t let me die here.

Black.

Running footsteps. Inaudible yelling.

"Patient is losing consciousness. Lay him on the table right there. Nurse, where is Doctor Balikudembe?"

"Sir, he had driven to Kampala for an emergency today. We just called, and he said he will try to rush back as soon as possible."

"Damn it. Okay, I think I might have to go in blind. I need to relieve the pressure before he goes into a coma. Gloves. Scalpel. Okay, let’s get started."

Lights out.

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it to hell. Did you guys forget to refill the generator again? Who was assigned this duty this week? One of you go quickly and get the generator working. Now nurse, scrub out and get my phone on the counter. I’ve already opened him up."

"Yes, Doctor." Nurse Betty frantically ran out. How could this happen in just my first week? And this Doctor, why is he so rude? Anyway, Betty, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Just think of Dubai. You’ll soon be out of here. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

"Offphh, my head hurts. God, I still cannot move, and I’m still in this damned clinic. Can’t these people identify me? Can’t they recognize me? I am literally on the bloody news every other day. They literally elected me. There was a time my campaign posters were peppered all over this damn village. I literally have the president of this country on speed dial. That’s it, my phone. If they could just get my phone, then I will be airlifted out of here. Urrgggh. My head hurts so much. God, am I really going to die in this hospital? Your humble servant? My God."

Black.

"Time of death?"

"7:45, Sir."

"What’s the Ugandan equivalent of John Doe?"

"Sir?"

Sigh. "Never mind. Start the paperwork. Hopefully, at some point, his relatives will come looking for him. Please bring me a cup of really strong coffee."

The End.