A single glance from across the room sends me searching the
floor for pennies. I cannot meet her gaze. And yet she does not relent.
Unease hangs in the air- as does a sickly bitter scent. The
gold sun pours into the room from a window at the end of the hall washing over
the floor in a fiery flood of gilded light. Except for the goings-in and
comings-out of the hefty white-dressed and blue-sweatered nurses (I think they
call them matrons) with their endless lamentations, the hallway is shrouded in
silence. There are four of us seated there. And I cannot meet her gaze.
‘Panua miguu Mama’. I wince. In my head I cannot help but
think that maybe the doctors should exercise a little bit more decorum. Or that
maybe the walls should be a little bit thicker. But then it strikes me that
here, in this secluded part of the hospital, in Clinic 66, I am the stranger.
Two of the ladies continue their animated conversation in not-so-hushed tones.
I cannot tell what they are talking about. My mind is probably still struggling
to come to terms with this new place and the experience of it. Her curious
stare still seemingly struggles to pierce my intentions. And I cannot meet her
gaze.
The floor offers up no pennies. Instead, dark islands the
colour of spilled and dried black sugarless tea dot the golden sea of light. The
‘Mama’ walks out of the examination room accompanied by one of the hefty
nurses. My eyes unconsciously track her footsteps. Actually, what my eyes watch
is the floor where her last step was as she walks. It is dry, and so my guess
is that she is here for a follow-up visit. Clinic 66 caters for women with
vesico-vaginal fistulae, a condition where a hole forms between the urinary bladder
and the vagina. That explains the sickly bitter scent and the spilled and dried
sugarless black tea islands.
I briefly attempt to look in her direction. I am still
evasive of her gaze though. I am convinced that if our eyes met, her curiosity
about what a lad my age is doing in this secluded and exclusive part of the
hospital would be met only by an empty stare. Or perhaps pity. And I do not
think it is pity she hopes to see. I do not think pity is what any of the women
sitting in the hallway with me wishes to see. They have no doubt suffered it
all. I read somewhere that sometimes affected women would rather desert their
husbands than let them in on their suffering. And with good reason I suppose.
Shame can drive one mad. One cannot help but imagine what embarrassment a
problem so obvious about something so private and taboo to the African would
bring to the sufferer. Women will talk. Men will whisper as they sit under
trees at evening discussing as neighbourhood news what the women relished as gossip. Children will eagerly gather the crumbs and
leftovers of the tall tales and the gossip. They will munch on them heartily…
And what pain it will bring when the insults are hurled from the mouths of
babes. So I cannot return her gaze. I cannot return it if all I have to offer
is pity.
Her son walks in. Her face brightens. He’s probably in his
late twenties. Her face barely betrays the years she has faced though. Quickly,
their conversation evolves from customary greeting (I guess) to a very animated
discussion. I cannot tell what they are saying. But the melody in the words as
they utter them is bewitching. Suddenly the golden sea washes over the spilled
and dried black sugarless tea islands and a gentle breeze clears the sickly
bitter smell. She is smiling. Her hands are waving as she describes what is
probably the wonder of being in so large a hospital. Or maybe she is just
painting a vivid picture of the hefty white-dressed and blue-sweatered nurses.
I will never tell. And perhaps I hope I never do. The language may lose its
music and mystique. As a clueless observer, at least I can fill in the blanks
with my romantic ideals. All I know is that she is smiling. There is life in
her.
This article was written in response to a challenge from the World's Loudest Library. This event is organised by pmbc/library (www.pmbc.co.ke; fb: pmbc/library; blog: freshmanure.wordpress.com) and is a monthly book-swap party with assignments to boot. The challenge was: 'Observe'.
