It’s 5:15 am, somewhere deep in Kiambu County. I am in a Super Metro. The mission: get to the hospital by 7 am for a 7:30 am appointment. It’s not my first time making this trip. The last 3 times, I’ve been trying to secure a bed for admission.
When I get in, it’s totally dark inside. A couple of people have already secured their window seats. I manage to find one too. This one was late. Naturally, by this time we are usually already making our way towards the highway. Today, I have to ride it to the start of the line first. After the driver makes that U-turn, he decides it’s time to start the ride officially. DJ Boat comes blasting through the speakers, followed by the infamous matatu lights. They are blue today. He shuffles through different playlists, reggae, hip-hop, some Bien, until he lands on the Christian worship songs. He’s satisfied.
Not a fan of the music. I’ve deconstructed Christianity, and I happen to agree with most who’ve been on a similar journey: it doesn’t add up. The thing is, the people in this matatu don’t seem to mind. Some are probably grateful they get to throw in some morning devotion. Others are even singing along. What bothers me the most is how loud it is. I can’t be the only one aware that it’s 5 fucking AM!
People are standing now. It’s only been a couple of minutes, and we haven’t even hit the tarmac yet. We are supposed to be okay with it; after all, they will be alighting in the next small town before the rest of us journey into Nairobi. The windows are fogging up, and still at every stop, people are being asked to make room for new passengers. These guys have an income target. It must to be met as early as possible.
Overstimulating.
That’s the word I’d use right now. But like most of the people in this matatu, I can’t afford to be overstimulated. It all has to stay internal. If anyone mentioned it, they would be ridiculed and advised to get their own private means. Mashida za kibarbie would become the topic of conversation for the rest of the ride.
Overwhelmed.
That’s how I’d describe the last couple of months. But again, as the eldest daughter in a lower middle-class household, I’m not allowed to be. That’s just another fucking Tuesday. The issue is never the feeling; it’s showing it. You can be overwhelmed all you want, but don’t let us see it.
Ideations.
Wueh… They have found a home here over the years, and, like that guy on the clock app asks, ‘Is this the life I was protecting with a mask in 2020?’ But for real though, the last couple of weeks have been heavier. I was making plans. At first I worried about my cats, but most of all my baby bro. He’s only 13. I fear it would be too much for him to handle. He’s also one of the few people who see me as a person. To most, I’m a means to an end. I cannot do that to him right now. So, here we are, for now.
Typical.
An African woman and self-sacrifice. A match definitely made in hell because what the fuck! Like, for real!
Did I overestimate how important it is to see each other in this matatu? The lights are off again. The music is still playing. I can’t tell if they have lowered the volume or the bodies in here are absorbing most of the sound. Like most things, we adjust and move on.
I’ve started sweating a little. I am wearing this heavy maroon trench coat over a black hoodie. Why, you ask? Because one, that’s what you wear when you have to leave the house at 4:45 a.m., and two, that’s what you wear to the hospital. That place has its own ecosystem. Trying to remove it would be useless. Most of this warmth is about to disappear. The 2303 steps I’ve already taken this morning did nothing to warm me up, but these bodies… magnificent, to say the least.
Finally, the highway. This is the make-or-break moment. The more people alight, the more stops we’ll make before we get to CBD. No one is left standing. A few seats are open. Not bad. I’ve seen worse. Three more passengers get in and off we go.
We hit a bit of traffic. I look outside my window to see a boda carrying two 3-seater couches. I have questions. It’s 6:11 a.m… I have several questions.
Slow-moving traffic as we approach the CBD. This is what being 5 minutes late comes to—the difference between getting admitted or waiting another week.
One week is a lot for someone going through chemo. From losing weight to depleted blood levels. From eligible to ineligible for treatment in a flash. Oh, did I mention infections? Every single day counts.
Pambazuka na Yesu…
Amka kabla ya ndege…
Pastor Joan Wairimu’s voice rings through the speakers as we creep up to our final destination. I can’t help but wonder, ‘for what, though?’ It doesn’t seem fair that the same birds we are being asked to rise before are always provided for, yet we have to tarmac. That thought is quickly interrupted,
‘mwisho! Miwsho!’.
Oh, 6:39 a.m. Not too bad.
I can make this work.
Time to catch the next ride.
At 6:58 a.m., I finally alight at the hospital stage. I am on track. It’s the final stretch.
Walking toward the Oncology clinic, I bump into a young girl being held by who I assume are her parents. She can’t walk. I offer to carry her, but they say they want her to exercise. I can tell we are going to the same place. There’s a look patients there have. Sadness written on their faces, a hopelessness to how they speak. It’s hard to unsee. She’s a child. Younger, if not the same age as my brother. What a cruel existence this is.
Eight minutes later, I walk in on a woman preaching to the patients. She’s making some claims that sound like those Jubilee debates on YouTube. She reassures them that they are sick for the glory of god. That he will heal them to show how merciful he is. I have thoughts. Loud thoughts.
I need to find a seat.
This place is full today. Two old women are asleep on the wooden benches on the left. Near the door, a woman walks in, and I can hear her breathing. Her breath is laboured and loud.
The air in here is cold. I notice some open spots on the chuma seats. These don’t have padding. Right in front of me is a poster:
‘Cancer in children is treatable…’
Again, I ask… why? Why is cancer in children in the first place?
It’s hard to hear them pray and thank this god with everything going on here. How do they reconcile the two things? I know I can’t.
The wait begins.
Group 1, ready with KES 1570… Sister Alice explains. That’s how you know the process has begun. She likes to start early so that when the doctors arrive, the patients have already paid for the consultation and vitals have already been measured. We will not be paying today. We paid last week, and we will not be seeing the doctor anyway. All we are waiting for is the admission to the ward. So the waiting continues. She goes ahead to say the group waiting for admission will be the last to be attended to. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.
Last week, after seeing the doctor and being cleared for admission, we had to go in search of medication. This public hospital never seems to have the full dose. For some reason, the search always ends up being a private institution. That hunt cost us the admission window. By the time we were getting back, no beds were available. Hoping that a bed would open up the next day, we spent the night at my dad’s aunt’s place. Nothing changed for the following few days. By Thursday, my mum had given up. We decided to wait for today, once we were sure those previously admitted had been discharged.
Sometimes I get it. It’s not their doing. These are inherited systems. Since the nurses’ strike began, things have been backlogged. I remember that day; Sister Alice wasn’t sure what to do. She was alone and kept pleading with us to be patient. She didn’t want to start the process until she was sure nurses were coming in. No one was admitted that day. We’ve all been trying to recover from that day.
They are still overwhelmed.
The numbers in the waiting area are dwindling. The number of buckets by the door is increasing. We’d left ours in the records office last week after our failed admission.
It’s 9:50 a.m.; the sun is trying to come out, but the clouds are not letting up. We’ve moved to the back of the building as we wait to hear our fate. Lucy, Ciku and I are chatting with some guys from Murang’a. Well, I’m hearing horror stories. They have been on this journey longer than us.
‘Watu wa admission from last week, kujeni tuwapost, ’ Sister Alice calls out.
All 5 of us release a sigh of relief. You’d think we had rehearsed.
***
7.02 pm
My legs are killing me standing in this queue at Odeon. We’ve checked 3 different spots for matatus, and all have long queues and no matatus in sight. This one was the shortest. The curb looks so comfortable.
We finally got a Lopha matatu at 7:52 p.m. Why the fuck is this matatu vibrating? Like, this is absolutely unnecessary! Can Cardi do her thing in peace without these speakers that aren’t even sure what they are supposed to do? That’s not what having a bass should sound like. I am no sound engineer, but I can tell you that much.
It took us 30 minutes to get out of CBD. The blue light is still doing its thing, and the guy next to me is digging his elbow into my ribs. You paid for one seat. Why are you on half of mine? He picked me on purpose.
Personal space! What a concept! Completely nonexistent in these matatus! Wait, can you stab someone with a brick game?
I want to crash out.
Actually, no. I want to sleep.
Wait, have I eaten today? I remember buying a soda. I think it’s in my mum’s bag.
Is there a word above overstimulated?
That’s the zone I’m in right now. I can feel a slight throbbing on my left temple. That’s never a good sign. American hip-hop is still going on these uncalibrated speakers. I don’t know why Lil Wayne is shouting at me. My right muthirimo sends a message to my brain every time I move my leg, and the only saving grace is that we got the admitted. I don’t have to be up at 4 am tomorrow.
We are taking a stranger home with us. She’s from Naivasha. Just like us, they didn’t get a bed last week. She met my mum on Wednesday on her third attempt to find a bed. They had a chat over lunch. It’s their first cycle. I remember how lost I was on our first too. The gang came through with recommendations, and today I did the same for her.
Those chuma seats and some time to kill often have people opening up. She’s her brother’s caregiver. He was also admitted today. The person who had promised to host her ghosted. She was scared and had nowhere to go. My Mum was like, it’s all good; you can come home with us.
That’s how we are taking Mercy home with us.
