Fuck Kenyan Hospitals: Nyahururu, Nairobi, Aga Khan Hospital…

This is not about vengeance. This is hardly about small glories, for there is no glory in what I am about to do. This is about acceptance…moving on…and most importantly, growing a pair.

Last year April 16, at the very first installation of Poets and Writers Online - POWO – I was introduced to the ever so misogynistic concept of pussy blogging. It basically refers to a form of blogging where you the blogger worries about everyone’s opinion but your own…it, quite simply put, is spineless blogging.

School Kenya

 

I am quite the fool

Stuck in a fork

Any turn I go

Is bound to blow

Chuck me a clock

Coz I don ‘twanna be cool.

For the longest time, I have been exactly that. A spineless blogger. Censoring my posts for the sake of conformity. Self-censorship, they say, is the worst kinda censorship.

The gloves, however, are fully off today. In light of Bringing Zack Back Home, celebrating my ma’s 4^th anniversary in exactly a month, my friends – Patricia, Jewels and Ann – who all lost a parent within the past 3 months in Kenyan Hospitals, I grow a spine today. I intend to retain its services for a while longer than just today. So watch this space…spiny post titles will probably tick you the fuck off. But I figure if I don't get to piss someone off, I'm probably not doing a good job blogging, and might as well shut down this site and sail off to Neverland. Just to warn you. For next time, and all.

On July 12^th 2008, something fatefully fucked up ripped through my already dysfunctional family; driving from Karatina, where my sister had been feted for being the best girl in Nyeri district’s secondary examinations (KCSE):

·   My mum and sister got involved in a car accident. My sister survived unscathed. Physically, that is.

·   10 days later, after hours and millions of shillings of Intensive Care, ma died. On my sister’s birthday, in the wee hours of July 22^nd. Yes, the same sister whose graduation it was.

·   10 more days later, after hours of agony for me and my two sisters, and countless hours of conflict with each other and others, we buried ma. August 1^st…precisely 1 week before my 21^st birthday.

Perhaps you now wonder…so why fuck all the hospitals listed?

Here’s why:

·     My mum walked herself into hospital and came out in a body bag 10 days of neglect and malpractice later. She had internal bleeding, sure. When she checked into Nyahururu Private Hospital, she was more concerned about my sister, who had fainted, unable to bear watching the gang of Matatu guys who, after hitting ma’s car had then gone on to yank her out the wreckage and ‘discipline’ her.

·     The doctor who realized ma had internal bleeding scheduled an operation. Intestinal Surgery, or something of the sort. What he forgot to do, allegedly having come from a bar to the operating table, was leave an opening for waste removal. Standard procedure, med students tell me. Cue the infection that killed my ma.

·     At this point, we decided to ambulance her to Nairobi for better treatment, and away from catatonia; a 6 hour ride, due to the state of the roads in Central Province, for it could have taken 3. We get to Nairobi Hospital, and they deny her entry. After giving her a quickie checkup at the lobby, and refusing her admission without something like 600 to 800,000 shillings on the spot. It was around 10pm, either Sunday 13^th or Monday 14^th. 

·     The Aga Khan University Hospital, gracefully admitted her, at around 1 am the following day, after some skillful negotiations by my old man – a retired Kenyan Major, my uncle – a high ranking retired CID officer, my cousins Jon and Nick – both professionals, the latter a Lecturer and Nurse at the Aga Khan University Hospital. I will be eternally grateful to these and others involved for that gesture. Giving ma a peaceful end. 

·     Fuck Aga Khan Hospital! The very next day after ma got admitted, she kept touching her chest, and I kept telling the doctors that she was trying to tell us something. Something, about her chest. The doctor said that she was complaining about the tubes. For 10 days, they operated on her twice or thrice – didn’t do the bill any ill, I'm sure – but never once did a thing about her chest.

·     Post mortem revealed that ma’s organs went into shutdown sometime around 11pm 21^st July 2008 (my sister’s birthday) and that her ribs were broken and had perforated her lungs. She died trying every day for 10 days to tell us about her broken ribs.

Cool Kenya sucks,

Cool Kenya ducks,

Cool Kenya fucks,

And yes; Cool Kenya…

Can suck and fuck a duck.

·     Then the reception has the audacity to simply include procedures going to hundreds of thousands of shillings that were not performed on ma, and lumping them onto the carpet size receipt they prepared along with her body bag.

The first time I walked into the Nairobi Hospital, ma had exhausted all her options trying to prove to herself that what I had, which led me to convulse ever so vigorously and pass out, was not epilepsy. In a fit of last grasp straws, she took me to the Nairobi Hospital for a CT scan, MRI and all that brilliant med techno gizmo stuff. Eventually it proved only what I told her after the first fall…what the doctor at a Nakuru Hospital after one of the most comprehensive blood work in the history of comprehensive blood works corroborated…what the Sister at the Starehe Boys’ Centre and School clinic told her on our first consultation, when I fell rather dramatically during Roll Call…what my uncle at Kenyatta Hospital suspected before he suggested a brilliant Neurologist at Kenyatta…what the neurologist said after a coupla physical tests…

The last time I walked out of the Nairobi Hospital, my mum’s organs were essentially ticking time bombs waiting to explode her to Shangri-La.

The last time I walked past the Nairobi Hospital, last week Tuesday, was almost exactly 4 years to the day I last walked out. Feet dragged me past the Silver Springs Hotel, all the way down past the entrance to what is now to me but a mere symbol of Kenyan pomposity, and the ludicrous lethargy of common thoughtless thought. I walked a mile in those shoes, to a business meeting, and for the first time in four years, felt my mum’s presence in me.

I can hardly say any more right now. Just 3 things. FUCK YOU all!!! Fuck Aga Khan, Fuck Nairobi Hospital, and FuckFuckFuck Nyahururu Private Hospital. 

But mostly fuck me to darned hell and never back. Fuck us all. 

Fuck us for paying you, Kenya, every day - to kill us. Fuck us for donating blood to your blood banks, Kenya, only to never receive it in time; when we need it. Despite needing it. In spite and pure malice of the fucked fact that it is available and goes to waste in 72 hours anyways. 


Fuck us for being too scared to come out and say we were angry for these gross atrocities masquerading as Health Services. And Fuck Kenya…

Because matter-of-factly, if ma were important (read rich) enough – somehow – these same hospitals would have found a way to keep her alive.

In a more objective piece of relativity, I now do not accept exploitation in any way. And neither should you. Argue, like I do, when the matatu guy insists that you should sit in fours on a 3 seater. That is what art and protest means to me. At least it did when I walked off a jav yesterday and refused to pay the conductor when he tried to pull that stunt. Argue, like I just did, when the shopkeeper charges you, this morning, 14 shillings for the same egg you bought at 12 shillings yesterday. The same egg you can buy at 10 shillings elsewhere. If you don’t fight for your rights, however puny they seem, who will? Do not ever expect me to help you exploit me…or others, for that matter.

To conclude, I will quote a certain gentleman, who in chairing his last meeting as president of a Rotary club in Nairobi, said ‘I thank you for reaching within to embrace humanity this past year, and wish you, for the next year, peace through service.’

                                                                    

Let's School Kenya

So we no more fool Kenya

Pull Kenya

Outta pointless Kenyan drool

Full Kenya

Only then will we get Kenya outta stool

I am me by Flora Rudolf Kimie

This post was put up by my 18-year old sister on Saturday, 12 February 2011 at 02:44...it is almost totally unedited, and to me, quite impressive. Going places sis...

 

Many a times we hide from us... I; 4 instance, hide from me in the spirit of tryna make society fit in me instead of me blendin in it as i am...

Truth b told, our heterogeneous society has many dimensions, faces n edges... N we cant always blend in in it... N neither can we camouflage in it, b'litl ourselves as a defense mechanism n expect to survive... Maybe for a while only...

NOW, BACK TO ME.

Not al who knw about me knw me but al thos hu know me def hav an idea of a lil bit of this n that about me.
My name, my tribe, my 'u name it' n al those atha minute details are jus but a preview of me...

Being brought up in a humble and humbling environment like 'Nyahururu'... #pause, that's a town in kenya... play#, appalled by the poor conditions ruling the region, hard life is al i knw...

Mum brought us up in pain and agony. Not that we were an itch-that she cud easily scratch- or a pain in the neck; but because life squashed, squeezed n smashed al of her efforts to giv us a lavish life, frustratin n even depressing her.

In case u r wondering who 'us' refers to, that's Fred, Pauline n Flora. Yaani, us.

I rem spendin several days and even nights without food... And watchin my neighbours with those big yet inwardly compressed tiny teary eyes, hopin they wud invite me for lunch or sth...

If we were lucky enaf, then that wud mean githeri for breakfast, lunch and supper... So if u are feelin me kiasi, u can imagin hw simple foods like chapo, chipo, chico wud make me 'us' feel... I was that kid that once saw jam and wandad wetha that was blood... I was that kid that saw a carpet and stared in amazement, hopin that it wud fly or sth... And yeah, i was that kid that rejoiced wen mamma gamme a coin coz i knew she had always wanted to do that bt couldnt...

We watched mamma as she added up coins to ensure that she had enaf for our school fees. And therefore we knw that we had to work hard to make her proud... And we did just that; taking up all first positions... In mamma's arms we wept, n even questioned God's undying luv. But we didnt giv up... And believe you me, we were a happy family.

With those few coins,,, we managed to squeeze our humble selves in lavish xuls... And that's wea it al began.
For the 1st time it was clear that some 'towns' declined to associate with one that aint even recognized much in our maps. In atha wadz, i dint fit in....

Many constituted themselves into classes quite distinct from mine... N my 'chopnes' din min a thing...
So to make me feel better, i had to remind them n me too -dadi ni sonko-... Blah blah blah... Long story short, that's how i choz to liv in xul... Feel rich inwardly... Maybe tell some so. N that way i convinced me that I was...

Then one day,,, death rudely budged in and took mamma away from me'us. My bestfriend. My only source of motivation. My shield. My shoulder. My lover... Jus like that... For many nights i peered into the dark night blankly. And i sneered. And almost made air gasp for air. Life made no sense at al... For she was my life...

But later on i thot... Mamma wasnt ashamed of being her. Never... So y should i be afraid of being me!!!
Y should i run away from all the beautiful things she taught me???

So here i am... I proudly admit that hard life is stil the only friend i know... As i write this i am in a two-bedroomed apartment; tiny n warmed up by the love of my family...

I don give a damn about my surroundings n how intimidatin they may be coz mark my wads

#TMORO THEY WIL HAV MY NAME STAMPED ON THEM.

I 'WE' am'ARE' me'US'.

The Pawns of Reality

 

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. It’s a part of growing up, learning things the hard way if you like. It’s a lesson for which you may need to endure endless hours of boring lectures, with no real measurable degree of finality to its insanity. Even then, only a working knowledge of this phenomenon can be hoped for, and hardly any expertise.

Many a times have I gone for the easier common course of classic denial, but ironically, that many a times I have come to realize the very same lesson I so tried to evade. Reality: that in-your-face cold-bloodedness of fact which you can only succeed in trying in vain to escape. I remember sitting up all night that cruel morning, labouring to convince myself that it hadn’t really happened. Busy trying to force my mind to disregard the plain logic my eyes had unmistakably witnessed; what my ears had infallibly heard; the insurmountable pain that had riddled my every fibre long before the truth was finally shoved down my throat, ripping my gut apart.

Despite all the evidence having been registered somewhere within my being, I still would not allow myself to believe that she was gone. I found myself conversing reclusively with my own psyche. Like a Machiavellian lawyer, I was ready to turn my back on all the proof of my loss, relentless in my effort to let her live on in my saddened intellect’s deception. The only problem though, was that this – unlike many little lies I have told myself before – was one lie everyone else could see right through. A lie that only I could fall victim to, and do so willingly, if only for a day or two more of her presence, a lack thereof that I could not even begin to fathom.

To everyone who was abreast with my forlorn figure and the knowledge of her sudden progression to non-existence, my headstrong commitment to forge on without ever flinching met mixed reaction. Within the week or two before her epitaph on her headstone was finally inscribed and cast - for all intents and purposes - into a wilderness, some thought my apparent nonchalance improper. Others yet commended my display of bravery for the sake of my siblings. But when you don’t have too much in the way of options, you tend to stick to your guns. I refused to conform, refused to do what I ‘should’ have been doing. Only much later did I come to understand that there was no should  , no script, to grieving a mother.

One thing remained as sure as the very death that had robbed me of her; sooner or later reality would hit home...and hit it did. In fact, it didn’t quite hit home, much as it tore it down and blew every bit of it away. I’ve heard it said that grief looks different on everybody, and I certainly didn’t make it look too good. I know, it shouldn’t have, but in my effort to stand firm, I actually pushed beyond my limits, zooming past the stages of acceptance in an inebriated blur, only to awake to the buzz of sober defiance every next dawn.

It’s hard to understand why it’s always the good ones that seem to go first, and to a great degree, the harsh reality of reality itself drove me to justify doing the wrong thing. After all, the villain always ends up smiling doesn’t he? That’s the sad thing with justifications – their repercussions do not ever occur to us beforehand, and in the off chance that they do, we tend to be at the ready, bat in hand, itching to go down swinging at them.

Friends, however, can be a timely lifeline in the most abyssal of oceanic trenches we find ourselves drowning in when fate turns a deaf ear to our pleas. I came to learn that even the youngest – in some cases even the most immature – of friendships can be what little resource our existence requires to cope with the darkness of reality. I now see that whereas all the hope I could ever grasp at could only really bring me as close to her as a photo could allow, the one resort that keeps me coming back to life is her virtue; the personality she managed to lend me in fortification of my own.

Days when I loaded my gun and cocked it ready to blow my despairing inexistence away, her hand would jam on the trigger; her memory would jilt me awake when I tried to fade away in sleep; and every moment I felt like taking leave from the drones of life, her own determination for it would shame me into taking that extra step. Now I have finally found the will to move on, dug myself out of my own grave; for her memory points out who I am, who she always meant for me to become. I choose to be here, for this – unlike the series of coincidences and plans, sorrows and tragedies, skill and luck my life has borne – this I can actually control. This is, after all, my reality.

And while there are ephemeral moments when I feel the urge to summon my life’s chess-master and question him on the absurdities of it all – and by question I mean torture to the point of death – this realization has helped restore an aspect of feigned sanity back into my life. Eventually, there is wisdom in avoiding a quarrel between our past and our present, lest we lose the bearing on our future. I very nearly did, having had to deal with irritatingly incessant clichés in the way of emotional acumen from my unwitting hearties.

I found myself thinking, every time one of those was bandied around towards me in what I can only imagine was empathy:

Everything happens for a reason...

'Gimme one good one that applies here...'

She’s in a better place...

'Really? What better place could you possibly have in mind?'

Thing is, everyone who believes in an afterlife hopes to be headed towards Shangri-La, yet not one of them wants to hear that their date with the hereafter has been brought forward to, say, next week. So, she’s in a better place? Spare me the brouhaha, because frankly you’d be at pains akin to childbirth just trying to imagine the peculiarities of the extent to which such sentiments lack meaning to me. The ironic beauty of being barely on the other side of this battered bridge is that my relation with others in similar fate in my later years will be guided by hindsight, and the insight that we share only a grand plan – a theorem – of reality. Its practical applications and implications in our lives, however, are pretty much situational.

Life is only 10 percent what we make it. The other 90 is all about how we take it.


RIP Ma,